I'm sure that it's rather obvious that there's much talk about the iPhone. Some people are talking about how great it is. Some are talking about how it's changed their lives. Some have said it's the best consumer technology product in decades. Then again, some people are just mad as fuck. It seems that Apple has made yet another attempt to "secure" their technology using an ingenious (insidious) "software update" that has rendered a good deal of iPhones useless. That means that a ton of creative types (their target demographic for oh, I don't know--everything) is understandably pissed off about the whole thing.
There's even talk now of a class-action lawsuit because people are not happy with the fact their phones suddenly stopped working. On one hand, I understand Apple's claim. They want to not only ensure the functionality of the phone, but they also want to honor their agreement with AT&T. I get that. I think it's fucking retarded, but hey, I get it. On the other hand, there's the user community. These are people who shelled out anywhere from $400-$800 on a phone, who figure they're entitled to do whatever the fuck they want. That part I get too. There's nothing worse than having someone tell what you can do with something that you paid for. (I'm looking at you, RIAA.)
The thing that's going to be interesting in the coming months is what comes of this whole thing. Will Apple relent due to consumer pressure and just back off their harsh stance toward hackers? Or will the customers chalk it up as another inconvenience that routinely comes as part of the "cost of doing business?" Then again, based on some of the developments in the EU, there's a good chance that Apple could face litigation from across the pond. Those European governments refuse to be bullied by corporate interests. They've even pulled Microsoft's punk card a time or two. This is one instance where it really wouldn't be a surprise.
The one thing that keeps running through my mind as I ponder all of this is that we're talking about technology here. We're not talking about the pharmaceutical sector, where drug interactions could lead to severe side-effects in some cases and death in others. We're talking about devices that plug into the wall. We're talking about things that are supposed to foster communication and increase individual productivity. The whole line about "protecting consumers" is bullshit. I think the public at large can be fooled about many things, but they start to take notice when companies hamstring their hardware for their own benefit. It's getting old. Microsoft is slowly coming to that realization, as well as many others. It's becoming glaringly apparent to everyone else except Apple and Sony it seems. It's about time for you and your peeps to get it together, Steve. The world is watching.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Fantasy football is for nerds.
Fantasy football is currently undergoing a huge surge in play over recent years. It has become the default activity for groups of men that would traditionally just sit around and talk about football. By talking “about football,” what I mean is the game itself. They would discuss legacy of different franchises, the difficulty of their respective divisions. They would discuss how a particular offense/defense triumphed under certain conditions, and an unfortunate (and sometimes immediate) reversal of fate could spell their own ruin. Now, they spend inordinate amounts of time discussing the minutiae of each player, and how it affects their chances in a fictitious championship that they created in MS Excel. Let’s keep it real, fantasy football is no different that Dungeons & Dragons, but these self-confessed “sports junkies” tend to claim otherwise. They think that because their “game” is tied to actual players and the statistical activity tracks the events of an actual game, they are somehow beyond scrutiny. They are sadly mistaken. There are striking similarities in not only the gameplay, but in the behavior of these people who were probably once thought of as cool, but now have descended into a world of playing and trading hypothetical matchups for virtual victories.
You’re not buying into my theory that fantasy sports are for geeks? Just take a look at the list of similarities between fantasy football and Dungeons and Dragons:
You’re not buying into my theory that fantasy sports are for geeks? Just take a look at the list of similarities between fantasy football and Dungeons and Dragons:
• Random selection of the draft order...Rolling a 20 sided dieI think the evidence speaks for itself.
• The draft...Creating new characters
• The NFL ...The “realm”
• Your players ...Your characters
• Your fantasy league ...Your characters’ “world”
• Your league’s “commissioner”...The “dungeon master”
• The “smack talk’ message board ...“Flaming n00bs”
• Obsessively viewing player stats ...Fighting battles to earn "experience points"
• Watching every game, even teams you hate...Sitting through all night RPG sessions
• Talking smack about your player's huge weekend ...Bragging that you just “leveled up”
• Assigning players in preparation for Sunday ...Buying weapons and supplies to prepare for a raid
• “You picked Oakland’s defense? Idiot.” ...“You’re gonna be a dwarf? Pwn3d.”
• “Yo, I’m playing Corey Dillon this week!” ...“I’m arming my +22 Hammer of Thor!”
• The apparent lack of women who play ...The apparent lack of women who play
Monday, June 11, 2007
No nuts, no glory
This weekend was fucking sweet. We (me, my girl, and some of her fam) all head down to Annapolis for a wedding. The bride is her little cousin, so it's a pretty big deal to everyone on her mom's side of the family. All things considered, the wedding was as good as any wedding can be. The weather was hot but not unbearable, the ceremony was awesome, and the drinking began almost immediately. My girlfriends family is from the islands, which means heavy drinking all around. ALWAYS a good time. Almost. Following the ceremony and the better part of the reception, the time comes for the bride to throw the bouquet. We all know how THAT scenario goes. There's a ton of women throwing bows like they're in the low post, and some lucky (or unlucky) girl comes up with the bouquet. Whatever. I was about half way through an extra-strong Vodka tonic, enjoying life. That's when I realize that the chick catching the bouquet is none other than my girlfriend.
I think to myself "this is so dumb," and continue to consume my booze until it hits me. The dude that catches the garter does that whole garter routine with the chick that caught the bouquet. Fuck. This means that some grubby drunk fuck is going to be pawing (and probably have his mouth on) my girl. I'm not feeling that. So I run up there, and put forth a real effort at trying to catch the damned thing. Normally, I'm off to the side laughing at the suckers that are lost in this crazy frenzy. This time, it just happens to be me. I get there and assume the position with the rest of these yo-yos, and the groom does his thing. The garter flies in the air, and my cat-like reflexes get the best of the would-be suitors. I snatch it out of the air, realizing that in front of the rest of her family and everyone assembled, that I'm doomed. Mentally, I prepare myself for the onslaught of jokes that are sure to follow.
The MC pulls us both back to the center of the dance floor once everything has died down, and we go through the motions. After that, we dance to some love song. I don't remember the song, but it's really irrelevant. What I do remember is the weird moment of eye contact that I shared with my girls' mom AFTER the garter placement. I think she secretly hates me.
One thing I distinctly remembered was someone running up to us and handing us these chocolate covered strawberries, which they gave to my girlfriend. She takes a bite, and proceeds to feed me in the middle of the dance floor. Normally this would be a bit weird. Then again, I had just placed my hands inches away from her crotch in plain view of the rest of her family. The strawberry thing begins to pale in comparison. Or at least I thought so.
Fast forward about 20 minutes or so, after the dance, and my girlfriend is heading down to the bathroom. I didn't think much of it, her being potty trained and all, so I kept dancing. I stopped to check a few voicemails, grab another drink, then I head back to the dance floor. She wasn't back yet. I thought to myself "She must be dropping one hell of a deuce." I chuckled to myself because the fact that she's doing this at a wedding was really funny for some reason. I talk to a few people and realize that she still isn't back yet. Something is wrong.
She comes back up the stairs, and tells me that her lips are swelling, and she feels a few hives forming. I ask her if she can still breathe, or if there's any tightening of her throat. Thankfully, she replied no. This automatically launches me into a recollection of all the food we consumed that night, hoping that none of which will have triggered an allergic reaction. I can't think of anything. Every course was prepared with these things in mind of course, because her cousin wanted the wedding to be PERFECT. Or so she thought. What no one seemed to realize was that those chocolate covered strawberries also had a liberal amount of hazelnut mixed into the chocolate. Motherfucker. My girlfriend is allergic to nuts. We're going to need either Benadryl, an epi pen, or a hospital, very soon.
So here I am, wondering what the fuck to do. You see, my girlfriend is a daredevil of sorts. She routinely talks about her allergy when the subject of food comes up, but "preventive maintenance" doesn't seem to be a part of a woman's vocabulary. She didn't have benadryl, she didn't have her epi pen, and we're at a country club that's at least 20 minutes from ANYTHING. We hop in the van, and I'm frantically racing to find an open CVS, corner store, or anything that would have some form of benadryl that she could take.
The only problem with this is that we're in Maryland. It's not the bible belt, but you'd think so. Every place that we passed was already closed, and it was barely 11:00pm. My only recourse at this point is to get back to the hotel, where she has her epi pen in her "real" purse. (For those that don't know, women don't just carry one purse all the time. They feel the need to
"accessorize," which basically means taking all their shit from one purse, and dumping it into another. The shit that doesn't fit gets left behind. None of this makes any sense to me. But that's another story.)
So we drive the 30-40 minutes that it takes to get back to the hotel, she runs upstairs. Her brother is a couple steps behind, and he runs in while I park the van. By the time I get upstairs, she's sitting on the bed and her hands are shaking. If you've ever seen an alcoholic with the DTs, you know what I'm talking about. She tells me that her brother gave her the shot, and one of the side effects is that she can't stop shaking. It's pure adrenaline, so this comes as no surprise.
In a matter of minutes, she starts to regain her composure, but her dress is covered with spatters of blood. One thing that her brother didn't do following the shot was to put pressure on the wound. That means that immediately following the ordeal, blood squirted out of her leg and covered the bottom of the dress. I asked if she was alright, and she said that she was. We sat for a few minutes, just kind of reflecting on the whole situation. It was at that point that she said she was really tired, and just wanted to sleep. I asked whether she felt any tightening in her throat again, and she said no. Her mom came up and took watch, while I accompanied her brother and her sister to the hotel bar.
They told me not to worry and to calm down. This was easy for them to say. Prior to this, I had only seen food allergies once in my life. One of my cousins is allergic to shellfish. We found out about it early, (she was five or six) and acted accordingly. She's not allowed in the house when we're preparing seafood. Then again, what I've seen was also NOT this severe.
It took at least three shots of Jameson and four Sam Adams for me to "calm down."
I think to myself "this is so dumb," and continue to consume my booze until it hits me. The dude that catches the garter does that whole garter routine with the chick that caught the bouquet. Fuck. This means that some grubby drunk fuck is going to be pawing (and probably have his mouth on) my girl. I'm not feeling that. So I run up there, and put forth a real effort at trying to catch the damned thing. Normally, I'm off to the side laughing at the suckers that are lost in this crazy frenzy. This time, it just happens to be me. I get there and assume the position with the rest of these yo-yos, and the groom does his thing. The garter flies in the air, and my cat-like reflexes get the best of the would-be suitors. I snatch it out of the air, realizing that in front of the rest of her family and everyone assembled, that I'm doomed. Mentally, I prepare myself for the onslaught of jokes that are sure to follow.
The MC pulls us both back to the center of the dance floor once everything has died down, and we go through the motions. After that, we dance to some love song. I don't remember the song, but it's really irrelevant. What I do remember is the weird moment of eye contact that I shared with my girls' mom AFTER the garter placement. I think she secretly hates me.
One thing I distinctly remembered was someone running up to us and handing us these chocolate covered strawberries, which they gave to my girlfriend. She takes a bite, and proceeds to feed me in the middle of the dance floor. Normally this would be a bit weird. Then again, I had just placed my hands inches away from her crotch in plain view of the rest of her family. The strawberry thing begins to pale in comparison. Or at least I thought so.
Fast forward about 20 minutes or so, after the dance, and my girlfriend is heading down to the bathroom. I didn't think much of it, her being potty trained and all, so I kept dancing. I stopped to check a few voicemails, grab another drink, then I head back to the dance floor. She wasn't back yet. I thought to myself "She must be dropping one hell of a deuce." I chuckled to myself because the fact that she's doing this at a wedding was really funny for some reason. I talk to a few people and realize that she still isn't back yet. Something is wrong.
She comes back up the stairs, and tells me that her lips are swelling, and she feels a few hives forming. I ask her if she can still breathe, or if there's any tightening of her throat. Thankfully, she replied no. This automatically launches me into a recollection of all the food we consumed that night, hoping that none of which will have triggered an allergic reaction. I can't think of anything. Every course was prepared with these things in mind of course, because her cousin wanted the wedding to be PERFECT. Or so she thought. What no one seemed to realize was that those chocolate covered strawberries also had a liberal amount of hazelnut mixed into the chocolate. Motherfucker. My girlfriend is allergic to nuts. We're going to need either Benadryl, an epi pen, or a hospital, very soon.
So here I am, wondering what the fuck to do. You see, my girlfriend is a daredevil of sorts. She routinely talks about her allergy when the subject of food comes up, but "preventive maintenance" doesn't seem to be a part of a woman's vocabulary. She didn't have benadryl, she didn't have her epi pen, and we're at a country club that's at least 20 minutes from ANYTHING. We hop in the van, and I'm frantically racing to find an open CVS, corner store, or anything that would have some form of benadryl that she could take.
The only problem with this is that we're in Maryland. It's not the bible belt, but you'd think so. Every place that we passed was already closed, and it was barely 11:00pm. My only recourse at this point is to get back to the hotel, where she has her epi pen in her "real" purse. (For those that don't know, women don't just carry one purse all the time. They feel the need to
"accessorize," which basically means taking all their shit from one purse, and dumping it into another. The shit that doesn't fit gets left behind. None of this makes any sense to me. But that's another story.)
So we drive the 30-40 minutes that it takes to get back to the hotel, she runs upstairs. Her brother is a couple steps behind, and he runs in while I park the van. By the time I get upstairs, she's sitting on the bed and her hands are shaking. If you've ever seen an alcoholic with the DTs, you know what I'm talking about. She tells me that her brother gave her the shot, and one of the side effects is that she can't stop shaking. It's pure adrenaline, so this comes as no surprise.
In a matter of minutes, she starts to regain her composure, but her dress is covered with spatters of blood. One thing that her brother didn't do following the shot was to put pressure on the wound. That means that immediately following the ordeal, blood squirted out of her leg and covered the bottom of the dress. I asked if she was alright, and she said that she was. We sat for a few minutes, just kind of reflecting on the whole situation. It was at that point that she said she was really tired, and just wanted to sleep. I asked whether she felt any tightening in her throat again, and she said no. Her mom came up and took watch, while I accompanied her brother and her sister to the hotel bar.
They told me not to worry and to calm down. This was easy for them to say. Prior to this, I had only seen food allergies once in my life. One of my cousins is allergic to shellfish. We found out about it early, (she was five or six) and acted accordingly. She's not allowed in the house when we're preparing seafood. Then again, what I've seen was also NOT this severe.
It took at least three shots of Jameson and four Sam Adams for me to "calm down."
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Summer fun
So I wake up Monday morning, which is never fun in the first place. First of all, it was raining. Rain is never good. New Jersey roads are fairly treacherous on their own; the introduction of precipitation just makes things infinitely worse. You think that Jersey drivers couldn't get any worse? Wait until it rains. You'll hate everyone and everything, and all you wanted to do was get to Wegman's. Bastards.
After looking out the window, the first thing that I do when I wake up in the morning is turn on the news to see what traffic is going to be like and how much I’m going to hate my life. From the sounds of things this morning—I’m going to hate it a lot.
So I resolve to beat the traffic gods at their own game, and go in early. This usually means that I’ll beat most of the idiots onto the highway, which tends to make life suck just a little bit less. I’m off. The first thing that I do before I hit the shower is take out the trash. I figure if anything spills, drips, or leaks, I’d rather have a one-shower buffer between me and a wardrobe malfunction. (props to Janet)
So I head downstairs, throw on some kicks and head to the back door. The fact that I was up at 6:00am and going to take out the trash already should have been my first clue. This after all is Monday. Mondays just don’t flow that smoothly. Ever.
My fears are confirmed as I hit the back patio. I open the blinds and I see my trash can, covered in a white mess. Not having had my morning coffee, it takes a few seconds for me to (a) focus, and (b) put two and two together. It’s at this point that I should probably backtrack.
Last week was Memorial Day Weekend. It’s a fairly large holiday that marks the beginning of Summer, and is usually filled with fairs, barbecues and beach travel. This is where my saga begins. Memorial Day is also a huge day for cookouts. This means that most people in the free world are engaged in some type of communal dining experience, usually prompted by a potluck gathering which really has no “luck” involved. There are a couple of staples in the summertime food fare. They include:
• Barbecued chicken
• Potato Salad
• Ribs
• Potato chips
• Soda
This is of course what happens unless someone decides to get creative, which is what I did—much to my dismay. I was feeling a little homesick that day, which tends to happen from time to time. Maintaining a good thousand miles between what you once called home will do that to you. When this occurs I usually cook up something from home, which generally takes me out of my funk. This is what I decided to do on this fateful Memorial Day.
My food of choice? Crawfish pie. To someone that isn’t from the “Cajun Cockpit” (props to L’il Weezy), this dish sounds nothing short of strange. It really isn’t. It’s actually one of the greatest delicacies known within the realm of Creole cuisine. A simple comparison would be to liken the dish to a Pot Pie of sorts, with a substitution of crawfish tails as opposed to chicken or turkey. Anyone that’s raised anywhere near the Mississippi Delta knows that it’s so much more than that. It’s a plethora of flavors that combine to form what can only be described as “the best thing you’ve never tasted before.” It’s that good.
But I digress.
The pie and it’s preparation could comprise an entire story on its’ own. The pertinent thing to remember here is that I had prepared a seafood dish. And that it was Monday. Coincidentally, Monday is also one of the days that trash gets picked up in my neighborhood. This is relevant because the day that I prepared the pie was a Monday. This meant that it was going to be another week until the trash guy came back around. (He comes back on Thursday, but that’s only for recyclables. I know, I know, it’s dumb. That’s just what they do.) So I knew going in that I was going to have those remnants stewing in what amounted to 90 degree heat for about a week.
Knowing that, I did what anyone in my situation would do. I double-bagged the trash, and threw it in the can. I made sure the lid was secure. I figured that double-bagging would keep the smells to a minimum as well as prevent ants or any other pests from getting to the garbage. Boy was I wrong.
About a few days in, I realized that there was a hole at the top of the can. I don’t know if this was for venting, or to prevent gas buildup within the can or what. What I did know is that there were a couple of flies hovering near that hole. I found this troubling, but didn’t think much more of it.
That was until that following Monday. There was about a minute of looking at the can before the light bulb came on. Let's do the math here: take some seafood, add a few flies, maybe 10 or so. Then just for kicks, throw in a steady temperature of about 90 degrees for about a week or so. Yes, I had a lovely new maggot infestation to call my very own. I realized that not only had the rain roused the new inhabitants of my can, but they were everywhere. Taking out the trash has never sucked so badly.
“Happy Monday motherfucker.” I’m sure that’s what those little bastards were thinking.
It wasn't even 6:30. I hate Mondays.
After looking out the window, the first thing that I do when I wake up in the morning is turn on the news to see what traffic is going to be like and how much I’m going to hate my life. From the sounds of things this morning—I’m going to hate it a lot.
So I resolve to beat the traffic gods at their own game, and go in early. This usually means that I’ll beat most of the idiots onto the highway, which tends to make life suck just a little bit less. I’m off. The first thing that I do before I hit the shower is take out the trash. I figure if anything spills, drips, or leaks, I’d rather have a one-shower buffer between me and a wardrobe malfunction. (props to Janet)
So I head downstairs, throw on some kicks and head to the back door. The fact that I was up at 6:00am and going to take out the trash already should have been my first clue. This after all is Monday. Mondays just don’t flow that smoothly. Ever.
My fears are confirmed as I hit the back patio. I open the blinds and I see my trash can, covered in a white mess. Not having had my morning coffee, it takes a few seconds for me to (a) focus, and (b) put two and two together. It’s at this point that I should probably backtrack.
Last week was Memorial Day Weekend. It’s a fairly large holiday that marks the beginning of Summer, and is usually filled with fairs, barbecues and beach travel. This is where my saga begins. Memorial Day is also a huge day for cookouts. This means that most people in the free world are engaged in some type of communal dining experience, usually prompted by a potluck gathering which really has no “luck” involved. There are a couple of staples in the summertime food fare. They include:
• Barbecued chicken
• Potato Salad
• Ribs
• Potato chips
• Soda
This is of course what happens unless someone decides to get creative, which is what I did—much to my dismay. I was feeling a little homesick that day, which tends to happen from time to time. Maintaining a good thousand miles between what you once called home will do that to you. When this occurs I usually cook up something from home, which generally takes me out of my funk. This is what I decided to do on this fateful Memorial Day.
My food of choice? Crawfish pie. To someone that isn’t from the “Cajun Cockpit” (props to L’il Weezy), this dish sounds nothing short of strange. It really isn’t. It’s actually one of the greatest delicacies known within the realm of Creole cuisine. A simple comparison would be to liken the dish to a Pot Pie of sorts, with a substitution of crawfish tails as opposed to chicken or turkey. Anyone that’s raised anywhere near the Mississippi Delta knows that it’s so much more than that. It’s a plethora of flavors that combine to form what can only be described as “the best thing you’ve never tasted before.” It’s that good.
But I digress.
The pie and it’s preparation could comprise an entire story on its’ own. The pertinent thing to remember here is that I had prepared a seafood dish. And that it was Monday. Coincidentally, Monday is also one of the days that trash gets picked up in my neighborhood. This is relevant because the day that I prepared the pie was a Monday. This meant that it was going to be another week until the trash guy came back around. (He comes back on Thursday, but that’s only for recyclables. I know, I know, it’s dumb. That’s just what they do.) So I knew going in that I was going to have those remnants stewing in what amounted to 90 degree heat for about a week.
Knowing that, I did what anyone in my situation would do. I double-bagged the trash, and threw it in the can. I made sure the lid was secure. I figured that double-bagging would keep the smells to a minimum as well as prevent ants or any other pests from getting to the garbage. Boy was I wrong.
About a few days in, I realized that there was a hole at the top of the can. I don’t know if this was for venting, or to prevent gas buildup within the can or what. What I did know is that there were a couple of flies hovering near that hole. I found this troubling, but didn’t think much more of it.
That was until that following Monday. There was about a minute of looking at the can before the light bulb came on. Let's do the math here: take some seafood, add a few flies, maybe 10 or so. Then just for kicks, throw in a steady temperature of about 90 degrees for about a week or so. Yes, I had a lovely new maggot infestation to call my very own. I realized that not only had the rain roused the new inhabitants of my can, but they were everywhere. Taking out the trash has never sucked so badly.
“Happy Monday motherfucker.” I’m sure that’s what those little bastards were thinking.
It wasn't even 6:30. I hate Mondays.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
File this in triplicate, or lose your lunch
Today for the first time of my life, I sat in mediation. If you've had no previous involvement with the legal system, you're probably wondering the same thing that I did. What the hell is mediation? Mediation is the name for a little room that they send you to right before you go back into the courtroom to see the judge. Apparently in small claims court (to which I was also a virgin, thankfully), they always give both parties one last chance to reconcile before they see the judge.
I happened to be one of those parties today. The whole "case" revolved around my last two months of tenancy in what I thought was a fairly decent apartment complex. They claimed that I had stiffed them on two months' rent, and that I was somehow a terrible, terrible person. Initially, I found the whole thing ridiculous. I followed all the necessary steps (or so I thought) to make a clean break with the landlord, and hightail it out of there. I thought to myself, "There's no way that my landlord is going to sue me for a month that the place wasn't even occupied. They have better things to do with their time." I was wrong.
When I received the first notificiation, I thought that this was some form letter that the sent out to everyone, much like those security deposit breakdowns that they send you. This one was different. First off, when you receive this notification, there's an exclamation point in the opening of the letter. I guess this is to inspire awe, or maybe excitement. I'm not sure. What I can say is that receiving a letter in the mail that reads "You are being sued!" is a surprise alright, and not in a good way. It's much like realizing that you're going to shit your pants if you don't get to a bathroom in five minutes. The only problem is that you're driving down a highway with about 10 minutes of road left. Sounds fun, doesn't it? Exactly.
The sleazy lawyer for the plaintiff (a.k.a. the old landlord) was what you would expect in these situations. He was a shady-looking gentleman in an ill-fitting suit with all the class of a really mean meth addict. He didn't scare me, but he really made me want to take a shower. Crazy coincidence, I guess. I googled the dude to see if he had any press worth merit. The first major hits on his name yielded a sex scandal, hookers, and blackmail. Shocking.
I had gathered all my information and played it as cool as I could, given the situation. I was going for the "indignant, yet collected" look during the entire meeting. I pulled off indignant alright, but collected was another matter. Just looking at that chick from the rental office made my blood boil. She was the one that gave me all these assurances that I'd have nothing to worry about when I left. Now she was feigning ignorance about any of my intentions. I guess if you're going to be a heartless landlord, your acting game has to be on point.
We discussed the merits of my case, and looked at all the presented evidence. The whole "disagreement" stemmed from the assertion that I notified them by phone, and not by mail before I left. I actually sent them a letter, but this was only after I was told that I had to notify them in writing. Needless to say, they didn't "get" that letter. Looking back, I probably should have sent it certified mail, which is still a dumb concept if you ask me. I mean, this all happened in 2006. Why couldn't I E-mail them an Acrobat file, with my personal certificate? What is this snail mail nonsense? Fucking dinosaurs. But I digress. I had never broken a lease, so I didn't know that this was a very formal (and legal) process. They produced the usual items, the lease, my addendum, and monies paid. I basically produced the same information minus the one fucking thing that I really needed--the letter.
The slawyer went into his tirade beginning with the all-too-common "If I may." We weren't even in the courtroom. The one thing worse than sleaze is pretense, and already he was testing my patience. He basically blathered on about the evidence that they had, which was essentially the same as mine. He then said that there was always the chance that they could pursue additional fees (they had since instituted painting fees which were about $300, the break lease fee, and something else that I can't remember.) and that there was a good chance that they could get it. I knew this, but I wanted to see what my chances were. Things weren't looking good. We were looking at things from two entirely different perspectives. From his side of the table, I was legally bound. Since they didn't have the letter, there was nothing I could prove. My intentions (while noble) had no merit here. Forget giving one's word, verbal agreements, or integrity. These people were out to milk me for every dime they could until the very end. This made me very angry. Then again, so did showing up to court.
...to be continued.
I happened to be one of those parties today. The whole "case" revolved around my last two months of tenancy in what I thought was a fairly decent apartment complex. They claimed that I had stiffed them on two months' rent, and that I was somehow a terrible, terrible person. Initially, I found the whole thing ridiculous. I followed all the necessary steps (or so I thought) to make a clean break with the landlord, and hightail it out of there. I thought to myself, "There's no way that my landlord is going to sue me for a month that the place wasn't even occupied. They have better things to do with their time." I was wrong.
When I received the first notificiation, I thought that this was some form letter that the sent out to everyone, much like those security deposit breakdowns that they send you. This one was different. First off, when you receive this notification, there's an exclamation point in the opening of the letter. I guess this is to inspire awe, or maybe excitement. I'm not sure. What I can say is that receiving a letter in the mail that reads "You are being sued!" is a surprise alright, and not in a good way. It's much like realizing that you're going to shit your pants if you don't get to a bathroom in five minutes. The only problem is that you're driving down a highway with about 10 minutes of road left. Sounds fun, doesn't it? Exactly.
The sleazy lawyer for the plaintiff (a.k.a. the old landlord) was what you would expect in these situations. He was a shady-looking gentleman in an ill-fitting suit with all the class of a really mean meth addict. He didn't scare me, but he really made me want to take a shower. Crazy coincidence, I guess. I googled the dude to see if he had any press worth merit. The first major hits on his name yielded a sex scandal, hookers, and blackmail. Shocking.
I had gathered all my information and played it as cool as I could, given the situation. I was going for the "indignant, yet collected" look during the entire meeting. I pulled off indignant alright, but collected was another matter. Just looking at that chick from the rental office made my blood boil. She was the one that gave me all these assurances that I'd have nothing to worry about when I left. Now she was feigning ignorance about any of my intentions. I guess if you're going to be a heartless landlord, your acting game has to be on point.
We discussed the merits of my case, and looked at all the presented evidence. The whole "disagreement" stemmed from the assertion that I notified them by phone, and not by mail before I left. I actually sent them a letter, but this was only after I was told that I had to notify them in writing. Needless to say, they didn't "get" that letter. Looking back, I probably should have sent it certified mail, which is still a dumb concept if you ask me. I mean, this all happened in 2006. Why couldn't I E-mail them an Acrobat file, with my personal certificate? What is this snail mail nonsense? Fucking dinosaurs. But I digress. I had never broken a lease, so I didn't know that this was a very formal (and legal) process. They produced the usual items, the lease, my addendum, and monies paid. I basically produced the same information minus the one fucking thing that I really needed--the letter.
The slawyer went into his tirade beginning with the all-too-common "If I may." We weren't even in the courtroom. The one thing worse than sleaze is pretense, and already he was testing my patience. He basically blathered on about the evidence that they had, which was essentially the same as mine. He then said that there was always the chance that they could pursue additional fees (they had since instituted painting fees which were about $300, the break lease fee, and something else that I can't remember.) and that there was a good chance that they could get it. I knew this, but I wanted to see what my chances were. Things weren't looking good. We were looking at things from two entirely different perspectives. From his side of the table, I was legally bound. Since they didn't have the letter, there was nothing I could prove. My intentions (while noble) had no merit here. Forget giving one's word, verbal agreements, or integrity. These people were out to milk me for every dime they could until the very end. This made me very angry. Then again, so did showing up to court.
...to be continued.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Belly is the black Scarface
I know that most people hate both of these movies. I don't care. Those people aren't really my audience here anyway.
My audience generally consists of the people who know me, and those who have stumbled upon this blog by whatever means that may have been. As a fellow keyboard cowboy, I understand that sometimes, you just FIND SHIT. It happens. Someone may send you a link, you may resort to the plethora of tools that are available, such as Digg, StumbleUpon, etc. The point is, I feel you.
Back to business. I was going to explain the title, wasn't I?
I was sitting here, listening to Fela Kuti (learn about him if you're sleeping) on a full glass of shiraz, and the thought occurred to me. Belly is the black version of Scarface. Some people would say I'm crazy.
They'd look at me, and say "You're trippin' fool. Belly don't have nothing to do with no fucking Scarface." Or something like that. Let me explain.
Scarface was a crime drama, set in the early eighties, based upon a 1932 film of the same name. The original film dealt with the mafia as it existed back then, and the 1983 version of the movie built upon this premise. While the orignal "profiled" the Italian mafia in America, the remake dealt with the Cuban incarnation of that same theme. Tony Montana was a "refugee," part of the Mariel boatlift of the 1980's. It was during this time (thanks largely in part to a downturn in the Cuban economy) that Fidel Castro allowed anyone who wanted to leave Cuba the ability to do so. What Castro also did, much to the chagrin of Jimmy Carter, was release criminals and mental patients as part of the package. I know, right? Sweet. As if the US needed any more crooks. Isn't that what the state of Georgia was allegedly housing anyway? But I digress.
So anyway, that's the story behind (what many people think is the original) Scarface. Back to Belly. It was also a crime story, not necessarily based upon immigrants of any sort of course, but then again that depends on who you ask. Belly centered around two small-time crooks, hustling here and there within New York City. Their big break was a huge shipment of heroin, which was supposed to change the entire drug trade. That, and the criminal landscape of New York City. These two friends, Sincere and Tommy Bundy (or "Buns") agreed to get into the game and make some real money. The only problem was that their actions would soon mean their doom, and the audience would see how living on the edge would ultimately be their undoing.
The similarities in the two films are striking: a man who is driven among all else to arrive at "success," and a much more mild-mannered lieutenant who sought a way to something better with his life. Through various run-ins with crooked cops, rival dealers, and various miscreants, they would wind up trapped in the life that they were determined to escape. There is of course the prized wife/love interest, the cop that proves that he neither serves nor protects, and of course--drugs.
There is a large contingent of society that hates this movie. They think for some strange reason both films are a glamorization of the drug trade. These people are fucking stupid. They're no better than the idiots who tend to focus on the drug-dealing aspects of the films, and by doing so, miss the entire point the director is attempting to make. There is no prosperity or longevity in the sale of narcotics, and never has been. That is, unless you are a government agency, in which case you can do so with reckless abandon. Then again, the latter group of individuals are prohibited from such a lifestyle. They usually have criminal records already. That must fall somewhere under that whole "pursuit of happiness" thing, I guess.
In any case, both movies are a must-see for the movie buff. They will illustrate why choosing to walk on the wrong side of the law is a bad idea. Unless of course you are an idiot, in which case they will show you that you too can become a drug lord.
My audience generally consists of the people who know me, and those who have stumbled upon this blog by whatever means that may have been. As a fellow keyboard cowboy, I understand that sometimes, you just FIND SHIT. It happens. Someone may send you a link, you may resort to the plethora of tools that are available, such as Digg, StumbleUpon, etc. The point is, I feel you.
Back to business. I was going to explain the title, wasn't I?
I was sitting here, listening to Fela Kuti (learn about him if you're sleeping) on a full glass of shiraz, and the thought occurred to me. Belly is the black version of Scarface. Some people would say I'm crazy.
They'd look at me, and say "You're trippin' fool. Belly don't have nothing to do with no fucking Scarface." Or something like that. Let me explain.
Scarface was a crime drama, set in the early eighties, based upon a 1932 film of the same name. The original film dealt with the mafia as it existed back then, and the 1983 version of the movie built upon this premise. While the orignal "profiled" the Italian mafia in America, the remake dealt with the Cuban incarnation of that same theme. Tony Montana was a "refugee," part of the Mariel boatlift of the 1980's. It was during this time (thanks largely in part to a downturn in the Cuban economy) that Fidel Castro allowed anyone who wanted to leave Cuba the ability to do so. What Castro also did, much to the chagrin of Jimmy Carter, was release criminals and mental patients as part of the package. I know, right? Sweet. As if the US needed any more crooks. Isn't that what the state of Georgia was allegedly housing anyway? But I digress.
So anyway, that's the story behind (what many people think is the original) Scarface. Back to Belly. It was also a crime story, not necessarily based upon immigrants of any sort of course, but then again that depends on who you ask. Belly centered around two small-time crooks, hustling here and there within New York City. Their big break was a huge shipment of heroin, which was supposed to change the entire drug trade. That, and the criminal landscape of New York City. These two friends, Sincere and Tommy Bundy (or "Buns") agreed to get into the game and make some real money. The only problem was that their actions would soon mean their doom, and the audience would see how living on the edge would ultimately be their undoing.
The similarities in the two films are striking: a man who is driven among all else to arrive at "success," and a much more mild-mannered lieutenant who sought a way to something better with his life. Through various run-ins with crooked cops, rival dealers, and various miscreants, they would wind up trapped in the life that they were determined to escape. There is of course the prized wife/love interest, the cop that proves that he neither serves nor protects, and of course--drugs.
There is a large contingent of society that hates this movie. They think for some strange reason both films are a glamorization of the drug trade. These people are fucking stupid. They're no better than the idiots who tend to focus on the drug-dealing aspects of the films, and by doing so, miss the entire point the director is attempting to make. There is no prosperity or longevity in the sale of narcotics, and never has been. That is, unless you are a government agency, in which case you can do so with reckless abandon. Then again, the latter group of individuals are prohibited from such a lifestyle. They usually have criminal records already. That must fall somewhere under that whole "pursuit of happiness" thing, I guess.
In any case, both movies are a must-see for the movie buff. They will illustrate why choosing to walk on the wrong side of the law is a bad idea. Unless of course you are an idiot, in which case they will show you that you too can become a drug lord.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Plausible stupidity
Britney Spears has shaved her head. Anna Nicole's remains are still up for debate.
In times where we spend most of our waking hours concerned about (or at least I hope so) things that matter, these are the stories that flood our airwaves. Sure, there's a child involved. There is the debate as to whether she's an unfit mother. My question is this: Who gives a fuck? There are at least a couple thousand questionable parents running around at any given time. I'm made painfully aware of this every time I enter any public establishment. There are women that turn tricks in their living rooms. Some of them have even sold their children. They fucking sold them! These are issues that should be addressed as opposed to Britney's new haircut, as dumb as it may look.
Why are we constantly bombarded with shit that really has no bearing on life as we know it?
I spend at least an hour of each day fielding questions about stupid shit that doesn't matter. Sometimes, I seriously think I'm in the Twilight Zone. I mean, I get it, I really do. I understand the need to get away sometimes. The pressures of everyday life have definitely driven people to far worse. There are constant threats from enemies of the state. Our current social security system seems to be crumbling under the weight of increased life expectancy. We're unsure about our nation's foreign policy. That shit is stressful as a motherfucker.
My only question is why can't people deal with that shit in normal ways? What ever happened to listening to music? Aromatherapy? Green Tea? Anything. Just don't start mindless chatter about Britney motherfucking Spears.
I watch the news these days, and it is nothing short of pure comedy. It really is. I remember back when my grandma was alive. She used to read shit like the Weekly World News and the Sun. I used to continually chide her about reading such drivel. She found it amusing for some reason that I'll never know. I used to wonder what she could possibly find interesting about talks of alien abductions, sideshow freaks, and fortune tellers. Then again, I wasn't responsible for raising seven children. She was allowed some leverage.
The rest of the general public however, is not. These clowns spend hours poring over celebrity gossip. They can tell you every intimate detail of the recent Angelina Jolie adoption. There are some that can provide a running documentary of Lindsay Lohan's substance abuse. I fucking hate it.
I hate the fact that this shit occupies so much of people's thoughts. I hate the fact that a random bar conversation in Alexanderplatz can yield a more thorough examination of American politics than it can in the states.
People are fucking retarded.
In times where we spend most of our waking hours concerned about (or at least I hope so) things that matter, these are the stories that flood our airwaves. Sure, there's a child involved. There is the debate as to whether she's an unfit mother. My question is this: Who gives a fuck? There are at least a couple thousand questionable parents running around at any given time. I'm made painfully aware of this every time I enter any public establishment. There are women that turn tricks in their living rooms. Some of them have even sold their children. They fucking sold them! These are issues that should be addressed as opposed to Britney's new haircut, as dumb as it may look.
Why are we constantly bombarded with shit that really has no bearing on life as we know it?
I spend at least an hour of each day fielding questions about stupid shit that doesn't matter. Sometimes, I seriously think I'm in the Twilight Zone. I mean, I get it, I really do. I understand the need to get away sometimes. The pressures of everyday life have definitely driven people to far worse. There are constant threats from enemies of the state. Our current social security system seems to be crumbling under the weight of increased life expectancy. We're unsure about our nation's foreign policy. That shit is stressful as a motherfucker.
My only question is why can't people deal with that shit in normal ways? What ever happened to listening to music? Aromatherapy? Green Tea? Anything. Just don't start mindless chatter about Britney motherfucking Spears.
I watch the news these days, and it is nothing short of pure comedy. It really is. I remember back when my grandma was alive. She used to read shit like the Weekly World News and the Sun. I used to continually chide her about reading such drivel. She found it amusing for some reason that I'll never know. I used to wonder what she could possibly find interesting about talks of alien abductions, sideshow freaks, and fortune tellers. Then again, I wasn't responsible for raising seven children. She was allowed some leverage.
The rest of the general public however, is not. These clowns spend hours poring over celebrity gossip. They can tell you every intimate detail of the recent Angelina Jolie adoption. There are some that can provide a running documentary of Lindsay Lohan's substance abuse. I fucking hate it.
I hate the fact that this shit occupies so much of people's thoughts. I hate the fact that a random bar conversation in Alexanderplatz can yield a more thorough examination of American politics than it can in the states.
People are fucking retarded.
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