On Nesting

I've found that most people tend to get skeeved out by having to sit on a public toilet. This is entirely reasonable, for women because they have to sit, but even more so for men because we know the horrible things we've done to public restrooms by not sitting down, and no matter what you do there is always the presence of Ass to deal with, that warm-ed over feeling that you are not the only person to have been there recently.

The Japanese developed squat-based toilet technology so they never even have to touch porcelain. Many places now feature those little tissue paper covers which look suspiciously like a cutout of a man's head. My mother once even told me of a high-tech restroom where each toilet seat was wrapped in a thin sheath of cellophane which circled the bowl and receded into the wall after each use. (If you think about it, the seat underneath the wrapper is probably the cleanest toilet seat ever. Pity no one could ever use it.)

Personally, I find I can manage incredibly well by simply laying down a few long strips of toilet tissue. This, I have learned, is called "nesting," due to its similarity to birds building nests of component twigs so they can lay their eggs, which incidentally are birthed through the cloaca that simultaneously functions as an anus. They are literally pooping eggs.

Sadly, I have also learned that nesting is almost exclusively a feminine endeavor, making me once again the strange gay penguin couple of the avian lavatory world. Great.

On Diurnalism

HURR I'M A BURRT. HEY, GUYS. HOW'S IT HANGIN'?
*AHURR HURR HURR!*









After four days of it, I feel it's safe to say I am now officially nocturnal. I keep Vampire Hours, going to bed only when the sun rises and remaining in my darkened room with blotted out light until dusk.

I expect the sparkles to set in soon. Hopefully I can stave off The Hunger for human blood and glitter until a cure can be developed.

On Digit Dexterity

I was looking at a pinball machine next to a touch- screen + thumbstick device and it got me thinking. There's a pretty straight-forward transition: knob to button to stick to insanely complicated device with rumble feature and more actions locations than you can reach. (Radio, pinball, Atari, XBox/Playstation.)

I think it's safe to say that if you account for how much time guys actually spend playing with these last controllers, there has to be a pretty strong upturn in the skill and dexterity of men's breast-based foreplay ability. "Playing with your nipples like they're tuning a radio" isn't even an apt description of tuning a radio anymore. Better to start with a standard UP, UP, DOWN, DOWN, LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT, B, A SELECT, START Konami cheat code to get things off the ground, then play moving both thumbs in wavering arcs independent of each other while using your index and middle fingers to depress when appropriate, but remember to do so slowly and smoothly to avoid a jerking motion.

Speaking of a jerking motion, thank God the Atari nob went out of style. That's just painful. Hopefully they'll release Wii Super Milk Maid Butter Churn for Girls! soon.

On Thanksgiving

I'm going to keep this short as I am, much like most of you probably are right now, still fending off the tale end of a food coma.

But I'm still surprised I never realized it before. In addition to a shopping clusterfuck, the day after Thanksgiving is probably also the biggest pooping day of the year. Oh, Black Friday….

On Career Choices

So obviously today was Thanksgiving. (Obvious if you live in the U.S. and are reading this within a week or so of the post date. After that the obviosity of the situation drops significantly.)

Anyway, my mom's apparently been getting some flack for allowing me to sit around the house a sa post-grad seemingly doing nothing productive. Since I was definitely going to be asked what I'm up to in my life by at least every member of my family, I came up with a good answer.

Currently, I am writing a book.

Now this is true, but it will never satisfy anyone, as the immediate next question will be "Oh, about what?" Well I thought hard and came up with a great answer, sure to shut up any person smart enough to realize they have no idea or interest in what I am saying. Also, it is an accurate description of my book.

"Oh, what's it about?"

Answer: "Oh, pop culture and post-post-modern America."

So there's your out. Come up with a life project so academic-sounding from your field that no one you're related to can understand it. It's the same as titling your research paper.

On Barbershop Etiquette

I was getting a haircut today, that I might look neat and well groomed for Thanksgiving but have thick and luxurious locks come Christmas/Hanukah/Dick Clark Day.

And as my barber's sheers darted gracefully about my earlobe, a thought occurred to me: how does one come back from having one's earlobe partially cut off by one's barber?

I don't mean to ask how one copes with that. I cursory simulation in my head yielded a surprising amount of restraint in my cursing, though much more blood than you would expect from a wound that isn't gushing. I believe I would freak out quite a bit, but likely I'd have to calm my barber down and thus keep from getting too mad myself. Long term? The hospital is only a few blocks away and I'd have a fairly cool scar after they reattach it, giving me ample time to develop a cover story involving ninjas and epic swordplay.

No, my real question was "How do you repair that relationship?" Honestly, I can't imagine finding an other barber. I don't just go down to Cost Cutters and say, "Yeah, same basic style just half the length please?" I have had my hair cut once in maybe the last ten years by a person other than Frank, my trusted and amiable old Italian barber. Before that there was an awkward period, an other Italian named John, and before him two Austrians, one of whom was also named John. That's it. You can maybe count my Mother and a few one-timers, but that's the entire history of my hair cutting experience. I am faithful, chiefly because I'm terrified of change, but also because the Franks and Johns of the follicle industries know their shit.

So yes, if Frank were to absently lop off a piece of my ear I would scream and be very upset and, obviously, I'd make him drive me down and pay the hospital to reattach it, but seriously? Think about it. I'm not going to leave that guy. I'm going to get like free haircuts for life after that.

I thought about asking Frank if he'd ever cut someone. It makes sense, so many people and so many menial tasks over the course of thirty years in the business. Especially when one's starting out as a young and inexperienced stylist, accidents are likely to happen. It's expected even.

But it seems to me asking a wise old barber if he's ever cut a man is like asking a Renaissance master if he ever painted boobs just for the hell of it. Yeah, it's probably happened but that's something pretty embarrassing and personal to ask a man who's holding sharp scissors to your face.

Carbon Footprints In the Sand

A throw-away line at the start of Chapter 8 in Arthur C. Clarke's 3001: The Final Odyssey reads "Global warming, and the Little Ice Age [were] truncated by miracles of heroic technology."

Leela, in an episode of Futurama responded to the happy sentiment that global warming never happened with "Oh, it did, but luckily nuclear winter canceled it out."

And wonderfully now, science is finding bits and pieces of evidence that may indicate any global climate shift would actually be in the cold direction a la "The Day After tomorrow."

Wonderful.

Well it was a joke until now, but here's what I honestly believe:

1. Mankind has a noticeable impact on global climates, chiefly due to the depletion of resources/other alterations to local biomes
   
2. Any resulting climate shift will probably cool the planet significantly in response, and
3. The danger of global warming is not the planet getting too hot, it's the temperatures fluctuating too much causing massive, cataclysmic natural disasters that will destroy most coastal regions and alter the climates of both developed and food-producing regions.

So, sadly, I have to actually encourage people to add heat to the planet. Honestly, I don't care what you do so long as you don't feed money into the oil companies. Get a solar-powered house and a Prius and for all I fucking care you can ride to work on an aerosol jet pack.

At this point we can really just hope that whatever way we fuck up the planet happens to be precisely equal but opposite to how biology is stacked against us.

Because how many times has The Daily Show made a simple, valid point that made you say, "Hey, wait. Yeah…?"

On Unemploymath

Here are some equations one might find useful in unemployment.

Christmas Budget = [($20 max)(number people) + coupons/employee discounts/regift value] - Beer Money

Income = Birthday check from Grandma + loose change - Beer Money

Travel Budget = $[5(gas money)/20 minutes]/[3(Beer Money)/day]

Beer Money = what's in your pocket - keys and the condom you won't be using any time soon

On Nerd Humor 1

Sometimes I like to start an argument by shouting, "Oh yeah? Well your mom's an ontological paradox!"

Reader Abuse Post #2

Comic courtesy of xkcd.com as part of their not-for-profit reproduction allowance, an open-source comic, if you will.
*Note: This comic predates YouTube's actual comment 'Audio Preview' option by several weeks. SHOCKING!*


A few of you, though not many and certainly not likely, may remember way back when I started this blog and had a brief post talking about the planet Pluto.

Yes a planet. Not to open old wounds, but the premise of the post was that it seems insane to stop calling Pluto a planet when it's new classification is "dwarf planet" and the second half of that term happens to still be "planet." We just created a junior class of planet and named it that. Big deal.

Still, I received a long and rambling post gratuitously sucking off the theoretical johnson of some specific astrophysicist who was waging a veritable war against the tyrannical minority who won the majority vote of reclassifying Pluto. More to the point, this response went on to talk about blatantly wrong understandings of both science and English grammar, arguing against me but supporting my exact point, but less funnily.


That said, I now bring you a new entry into what I am officially dubbing the "Reader Abuse Series." This past week I wrote an entry called "On Sloth" which for two of eleven paragraphs I describe very poorly what little I remember about the animal whose name is also "Sloth":

"The one I always liked best was Sloth, because it's the only sin that is generally frowned upon while maintaining a presence in the animal kingdom. Cats are notoriously slothful, but there are actual animals called sloths. There is the three-toed sloth and the four-toed sloth and I am fairly sure they both have five toes and the name is representative of lengthy claws or some such thing.

"But guys.

"Sloths can actually move really fast. And they can shred you with those claws, however many in number they are. These critters just sleep like 20 hours a day. They hang upside-down just chillin'. They are downright lackadaisical."

I then went on to mock myself, Quentin Tarantino, Twilight, My Best Friend Is A Vampire, and Kiefer Sutherand.

Apparently, I merely glossed over a major issue, because I have received some kind of fan mail that, though only partially signed, is evidently from a member of a watch group dedicated to preventing lies and libel from hurting our poor, defenseless friends the sloths.

Mathew writes:

I really do love how you got nearly everything about the sloth wrong. There are in fact a two-toed and a three-toed variety of sloth, named after the number of fingers they have (both species have three-toes on their rear limbs). They are actually very, very slow, and so absolutely harmless they don't even kill the moss that grows on their backs. Also, they are quite free of the sin Sloth, as they are very active, just not at all quick.

Still, you're description of them as 'lackadaisical' is quite appropriate.

With friend's like this, who needs haters?

Apparently Matt loves how I got everything wrong. I added +1 to toes, though this one should have been obvious since everybody knows that all sloths come standard equipped with +1 boots of slomotion and a shiny, silver dagger.

Apparently they also behave just as I describe, except way slower. Matt just wants to point out that even though their claws, which he mentions, are razor sharp for tree climbing these are not at all harmful to people unless you try to, say, hold a sloth. Additionally, despite being incredibly slow moving, a sloth is not actually slothful.

Well of course they're not, you asshole, because sin requires forethought. Sloths by nature do not possess a frontal lobe large enough to for evil intent. They will not gain that until mankind has been wiped from the Earth and our weak Eloi descendants are mere food for them and the Morlocks who dwell deep beneath the surface world.

To end I would like to point out three things. Firstly, Matt seems to have missed the point of this blog as a place of humor and intellectual silliness. For shame, Matt. That was a bad thing. You can't see it, but I'm tsk-tsk-ing with my fingers.

Secondly, Matt's closing line is hilarious because it professes that A) sloths have friends and enemies upon whom their self image is based, like Chris Brown; B) Matt is a "friend," despite him taking ten minutes out of his life just to publish a blog post "hating" on me and my unimportant and admittedly nonscientific tirade about sloths; and C) completely fails to correctly utilize the English language or rhetorical logic to make any valid point.

Also, I've been singing Dave Chappelle's R. Kelly "Piss On You" song all morning and I keep playing over in my head:

"Haters wanna hate, Lovers wanna love. I don't even want none of the above. I want to pee on you."


This concludes the second installment of the "Reader Abuse Series." If you liked this and wish to read more I suggest also the first in the series, dated March 5th of this year. I also suggest more people post absolutely insane comments on blog entries in the hopes of getting publicly mocked on the internet like so many gag contestants on American Idol.

If you found any of this offensive, please fuck off to either my blog's privacy policy or its "About" section located at the bottom and right of the page, respectively, where I reserve the right to mock anyone I see fit. I would like to thank Matthew for his comments, as without them I would have had nothing to write about this weekend. From the bottom of my heart, next to the cockles, thank you, Matt.

On Alcohol

The worst part about drinking is getting into an honest to god argument with one of your friends over something stupid, like whether being physically capable of seeing something is the same as being "in sight" of it.

One of the best parts about drinking is winning that argument because after said friend leaves the vicinity he begins gagging and drunk texting you.

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Some Place Very Far Away

The quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach.

The quickest way to a woman's heart is through the cartilage of the sternum, making sure to avoid the clavicle and left lung.

On Tax Shelters

My friend Dean says he was just told that if he's ever strapped for cash he could sell one of his five guitars. He has an acoustic, a base, and three electrics, one of which might have materialized out of the ether (and thus totally be worth more money, right?).

I said if I'm ever strapped for cash, I can always got to PokerStars.net and cash in that last $7.58 I haven't lost yet.

One step closer to living in a box, like all good English students. (English degree, not scholars from the rainy island.)

On Sloth

I can name all the 7 Dwarfs, the 50 States, maybe 35% of the state capitals and all the U.S. presidents in order but I've never been able to name all 7 deadly sins.

I'm Jewish. Sue me. (No, actually don't. Surprisingly I don't know any lawyers. Oh, wait, yeah, I totally do. He's corporate law but he's too cool for school. Ok. Yeah. bring it.)

But yes, there's Avarice (Greed), Gluttony, Sloth, Lust, Envy, Wrath, and Pride. Somehow pride is the one I always leave out. Weird.

Anyway, the one I always liked best was Sloth, because it's the only sin that is generally frowned upon while maintaining a presence in the animal kingdom. Cats are notoriously slothful, but there are actual animals called sloths. There is the three-toed sloth and the four-toed sloth and I am fairly sure they both have five toes and the name is representative of lengthy claws or some such thing.

But guy.

Sloths can actually move really fast. And they can shred you with those claws, however many in number they are. These critters just sleep like 20 hours a day. They hang upside-down just chillin'. They are downright lackadaisical.

And that's pretty much where I am in my life, right now.

I woke up at 4:30 p.m. today. I slept for 10.5 hours from mid-dawn to earliest dusk. I am the opposite of a Quentin Tarentino film starring himself and George Clooney that changes gears halfway through and spawned two awful sequels and an abortion of a prequel.

I am living inside a Twilight book. (I will not call it a novel as my life has far better writing. Also, fewer pale teenagers which is actually just a bonus.) I am reminded of the movie I Was A Teenage Vampire and how much more awesome it was than what I'm doing right now. Years and years ago I would have monster comedy weekends in which I would rent IWATV and Teenwolf and sadly I am doing less with my life now than I was then. [Note: I'm doing so little as to fact check that title. The reason I can't find it is apparently that my old Blockbuster Video apparently stocked the Australian version of My Best Friend Is A Vampire. Oh, Australia.]

As it turns out I now need to find a reason to get up in the mornings. Literally. I need to cash a check, guys. Banks close at 4 and it's just really, really inconvenient to not be awake before that. I should start doing my banking online via Swiss accounts, but I'm not sure you can open a Swiss bank account for the $50 birthday check your grandmother sent you. (I feel like there'd be fees attached.)

So there it is, an open casting call for a web designer/Tech Guy Steve to build and moderate a professional blog site for me and perhaps an other special user who shall remain nameless because surprise collaborations are more fun.

We also seek a business person capable of setting up all the legal tiddlywinks so that we can maintain ads and get paid whilst still using the words "dick," "fuck," and "Queefer Sutherland."

We can pay you $50 or so in cash, beer and candy now, and a percentage of ad revenue to follow. So, yeah, business guys got incentive, there.

*This blog may be monitored for customer service.*

On Post-Colonial Theory and Orientalism By LEGO

Many of you secretly watch shows like Miranda Cosgrove's iCarly on Nickelodeon. This is not up for debate, this is a fact of life. Whether it's iCarly or True Jackson: VP or the guilty pleasure of searching late episodes of Zoey 101 for Jamie Lynn Spears' baby bump, some of you are doing this.

As such, several of you will have come across the following two commercials.



and



Now a handful of you might even be reminded of good old LEGO sets from yesteryear. Of course there was Ice Planet explorers with their laser chainsaws and snowmobiles and bio domes, and there was even Space Colony Miner Dudez with their rockets and shiny, shiny crystals. Oh, and cops I guess. But now space cops! This is entirely new and original, you guys!

But what's this? Let's take a closer look at those evil aliens.



















You'll notice rather easily that they are for the most part humanoid, in that they are all bipedal, utilizing the basic LEGO body and legs pieces. However they are also distinctly alien, featuring rather sinister head pieces. From top left clockwise we see a four-armed snarling insect, a uniquely alien snarl, an amphibious thief who appears capable of 360˚ vision and who enjoys capes and a Cthulhu/skull-faced biker of sorts.

Now let us look at the Space Police members.














That would be two ("white") humans and a repaint of an android body from 1995.

Now ostensibly all this takes place in outer space. Since humans are not native to the vacuum of space they have to wear helmets which we see here. The aliens, mind you, do not have helmets and in both commercials are actually seen floating through open space rather comfortably (though understandably bit miffed at being apprehended).

The logical extension of this, in astrobiological terms, is that these creatures are evolutionarily suited for surviving in empty space, at least for short periods of time. This implies that they are native to a thin-atmosphere environment, possibly the asteroids/small inhospitable CGI moons which appear in the commercials. From this we can assume that either A) they are the rightful inhabitants of the rocks the Space Patrol is based on, or B) they certainly have a more biologically valid right to be there. Sort of an evolutionarily manifest destiny.

So how familiar is that? A bunch of pale humans get together and go somewhere new and set up shop there with all their pretty toys and enforce their laws irrespective of the local natives. Hurray colonialism!

Now Edward Said was the preeminent authority on Post-Colonial theory. Is main points were that after a while white people felt bad about the whole conquering everybody thing and began to lavish praise upon native cultures for their difference, which inevitably became ultra-chique and resulted in a corruption of actual foreign culture in the minds of Westerners. Essentially, Said described a fetishization by Western society of The Other, he who is not like the rest of us, in his papers of Orientalism and Post-Colonial theory..

Said saw Western literature and experts over-grouping Eastern cultures and traditions for the sake of discourse, but misclassification, oversimplification and improper definition inevitably yielded biased views of these peoples, which when put to paper in literature and textual studies becomes thought of as canon and cyclically reinforced wrongful grouping and further stereotyped absent members of global culture. He saw the rise of The Other as a theoretical binary, defined not as something vaguely different but still entirely human, but rather defined in opposition to everything considered "Western;" "They are that which we are not."

This type of binary thought is what gave a very specific feel to many images that you would easily recognize today. Disney's Aladdin was an incredible movie adaptation of a great legendary tale, featuring wonderful musical numbers and the rapid-fire voice acting of Robin Williams. However, observed carefully we see that the title character is a suave and witty character possessing an American accent and rather Caucasian facial features for a logically Middle Eastern person. His nemesis Jafar, meanwhile, has a lean, lanky frame and pencil-thin mustache reminiscent of Flash Gordon's Ming the Merciless. Additionally an evil wizard who employs talking animal familiars and a serpent motif, Jafar is imbued with distinctly anti-Christian symbolismif for no other reason to make sure a Western audience hates him.

Conversely, Agrabah's royal guards are comically shaped, inept and violent scimitar wavers, brutal in their execution of execution. The Sultan, meanwhile, is politically and literally tiny and insignificant, easily distracted or coerced and oblivious to the vile machinations of his grand vizier. His daughter on the other hand is essentially a testament to the wonder and civility of the British Colonial system and the kindness, intelligence, and class equality it immediately bestows on brown people.

Now let's look back at our aliens: a grimacing mantis, a violent thing with dreadlocks and big lips, a greedy serpent and a slant-eyed barbarian. It is actually a commodification of The Other, literally selling to Westerners a fetishized version of what he sees as the opposite of himself, some snarling, dehumanized beast uncaring and unfettered by puny human legal systems. In space.

Edward Said postulated a more hopeful literary theory, Modernism, as a time when Western modes of thought are forced to recognize the validity of The Other not as a binary but as an equal, and that neither's mode of thought encompasses the entirety or even the correct view of human experience.

I dream of a world in which little LEGO boys and little LEGO alien girls can bathe in the same spring of little blue bricks. I dream of a world where there is no need for a LEGO Space Police force, because every LEGO being is imbued with love for the sacred gift of basic living dignity.

Also, they get laser chainsaws.

Gaga Redux!

You guys may remember my own breakdown of Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" last week but this, this really takes the cake and wears it like a hat to keep the bad bad radio waves out.

INSANITY.

On Eating Chinese

I believe that if my girlfriend was Asian I would be greatly tempted to cover her hooha with duck sauce.

I do not believe she would like this. If she does all the better, but I think I should start small, perhaps referring to her as my little tofu or some such pet name.

Then come the sushi jokes.

On New Beds

A few days ago the new bed I ordered arrived and last night was my first real night sleeping in it.

I had picked out a good one. Soft top but the firmest model in the store; when I lay down I don't sink in, I just lay flat and cushioned. (This is actually terrible for your back, but I sleep on my stomach so I seem to reverse everything. At least that's how I've decided it works.) Basically, I got a bed exactly like the one I had in college but newer and nicer.

I seem to have forgotten, however, that in college I routinely slept hours later than normal because my bed was so wonderful. Last night I rolled over maybe four times in total and didn't wake up until 3:40 p.m.

Honestly, if I weren't unemployed this would be a serious blow to my ability to actually work.

On Superpowers

Ask a person what superpower they want the most and odds are better than 50-50 they'll say to fly. Good contenders are also "Superman" and "Wolverine," but these people don't really understand the concept. "Telekinesis" is also popular.

But for years I've said that I would much prefer Kitty Pryde's power, and it's not just because she's an adorable auburn-haired child prodigy who celebrates Chanukah. No, Shadowcat's power is the ability to phase her molecules through the empty space in other molecules. She can walk through solid matter.

More interestingly, by phasing only most of her atoms and leaving a few on the bottom where they are she can effectively walk up and down through matter without falling to the center of the Earth like one would naturally conclude she should.

And yet suddenly I find myself being more creative. Mind reading seems increasingly handy, if not bothersome. Perhaps if it were scaled back to something relatively inconsequential.

If you could have any superpower that has never before appeared in any fiction you are remotely aware of, what would it be?

Personally, I think I would go with some kind of specific psychometry like the guy from Stephen King's Dead Zone, except instead of seeing stuff about any item I touch I would exclusively see, at will mind you, whatever the person I'm touching was thinking about the last time they masturbated.

Honestly, I can see a lot of places where that goes wrong but I can also see a bunh of places where that could go horribly right.

The Vaginot Line

The Vaginot Line -n. The boundary usually demarcated by the upper elastic band of your new girlfriend's underwear which, much like the French fortifications did the Germans, prevents you from easily crossing over into enemy territory. Though hopefully she doesn't give up as easily as the French.


Note: This entry is not to be confused with a Vaginaut, which is a breed of man blessed with the courage and tenacity to done protective helmets, explore the darkest, occasionally fowl-smelling crevices and touch the face of God.

On Gaga: A Second-By-Second Breakdown

I have to be honest, I avoided this Lady Gaga creature for a good bit.

I watched the "Poker Face" video once or twice when a friend referenced the lyrics and I wasn't getting the jokes. I agree she seems eccentric and do not believe the jokes that she is in fact a hermaphrodite.

Aaaand then I was linked to the following music video. If you care to press play, I will begin a timed breakdown of my thoughts on the subject.



00:00 - Okay, so it's A Clockwork Orange.
00:09 - … with '80s sunglasses.
00:22 - Vampires?
00:34 - Oh, no, they're Pan's Labyrinth rejects with a vinyl fetish.
00:38 - She's an anime version of a John Hughes extra?
01:03 - And now she's a goth prom queen with a Burger King crown. Excellent.
01:30 - So it's like if Anthony Burgess wrote the screenplay for Repo! The Genetic Opera.
01:46 - … starring Lady Gaga, who is apparently the lesbian love child of Madonna and Cher, raised by David Bowie and furiously masturbating beneath the sheets of her childhood bed to wall posters of Gwen Stefani.
02:02 - And she has issues with success and high fashion. SURPRISING, LADY GAGA.
02:04 - Oh, and now the psychedelic milk bar is actually a white slavery burlesque club for cyborgs and body-mod aficionados.
02:10 - But now she's okay with that
02:14 - … when she's not in the shower being all skeletal and junk.
02:22 - She covers her junk a lot here. Maybe she is a man. I think I'd still put it in her, though.
02:25 - Now she's doing the Hand Give.
02:30 - HEY LOOK UNDERBOOB! The Japanese call that oppai.
02:42 - Aaand hairless cat is upset at Gaga. This is very understandable.
02:48 - Everyone takes tiny steps.
03:04 - Now Gaga is a hologram. How futuristic.
03:08 - She does the chicken dance.
03:12 - Or maybe it's the "Thriller" dance. It's kind of hard to tell.
03:20 - Gaga takes a few seconds to sing about herself, Roma (either the people or tomato, very hard to tell) and wear a gyroscope that can't possibly work correctly.
03:30 - Here you see the bead suit.
03:42 - More anime babe in flashes.
03:44 - OH A BEAR.
03:52 - Now she sings in French while her bear version seduces a bond villain.
04:03 - Throws a tantrum.
04:09 - She looks like Cher some more.
04:16 - Alright, we're getting to the thematic end, now. This is clearly the Pan's Labyrinth producer fronting an Anthony Burgess rewrite of The Fifth Element by the Repo! director.
04:30 - … definitely with "Thriller"'s choreographer.
04:33 - … and White Snake's pryotechnician.
04:58 - Oh, and a little taste of female-empowerment by immolating her gilded mandible friend with her femininity that in no way rips off Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery.
05:02 - No, she's not a slut. God, no.
05:06 - Oh, hey look, antelope. Awesome.


Well that was fun. In the end, from only this slight experience, I'm willing to say I could definitely be romantically linked via tabloid with Lady Gaga, but break up before we had to adopt any brown kids.

Of Heroes and Promises

I promised my friend Dean that I would not blog tonight about my claim that I could write a kick-ass essay comparing The Boondock Saints to Ferris Bueller's Day Off. This was after he claimed that "every coolest guy ever" looked directly into the camera.

I said no, as the parallels between TBS and FB are an overt awareness that they are each a movie, TBS in that all characters behave and dialogue in the manner of real people placed into fabricated situations, often invoking movie scenarios and the viability of such, while Ferris Bueller breaks the fourth wall to address the audience directly. (Please note that I will not be discussing this. At all.)

More importantly, I responded to his assertion that every coolest guy ever looked into the camera with the name John Wayne. We fought briefly over whether John Wayne had done so, if Dean had ever actually seen a John Wayne film, and whether John Wayne was in fact "cool." In case there was any doubt, I won all three arguments in the course of about 4 seconds. The results were, in order, no, no, and yes. Obviously.

To further cement my victory I whipped out Harrison Ford, who was totally cool as Han Solo three times, as a young version of Han Solo except with a car in American Graffiti, as Indiana Jones approximately 3.5 times and as the President, a fugitive and somehow even wearing an oversized diamond stud earring while fucking Calista Flockhart.

That's when Dean threw a hail Mary and completely missed anyone even remotely associated with football and the NFL. The XFL didn't even catch it. Maybe Bon Jovi and his failed arena team saw it pass by them briefly.

Dean said every coolest person "of our generation" looked at the camera.

Dean: "Ferris Bueller … "

Me: "Matthew Broderick? Who was 26 playing an 18 year old high school student in the early '80s? Before you were born? No. He is not in our generation."

Dean: "John Cusack in Hi Fidelity … "

Me: "When he was in his thirties … "

Dean: "Zack Morris … "

Now this one I actually gave Dean, though not at first. Mark Paul Gosselaar was in fact far older than us and playing a high schooler when we were definitively in elementary school. [I hate dating myself online, though it would have saved some time and money come prom time.]

But in reality Zack Morris was probably the biggest influence on Dean's formative years next to Corey Matthews and Mr. Feeny. Since Zack Morris as a character was reasonably close to our age, airing just after school with life lessons and characterization on par with our incredibly childish mental development, I accept Zack Morris as a suitable "cool guy" for our generation.

Personally, I always thought Zack and Corey were kind of dumb for their ages, but on the other hand I was also a smartass and had no social skills because I thought everyone my age was dumb and childish too.

You know who is the "cool guy" for our generation?

Michael Cera.

And he's only cool because he is so glamorously and visibly uncool.

Let's all get together and be awkward with better dialogue. Our James Dean has arrived, and he keeps his leather jacket in the back of his mom's old Volvo.

Of Lapsed Judaism

It's occurred to me that Sarah Silverman is really the only one attempting to make being Jewish sexy, and I'm pretty sure she's only doing it by accident. (There's just something to saying you're meshuga for anal sex that drives a rabbi wild.)

Today in the car I decided to make an effort to bring thick locks of glistening chest hair back into style. Open polyester and gold chains can come back even if disco never should.

But how to do this? Frankly, it's far funnier to make fun of Judaism than to praise it. So I figure we start small. Like our penises. Work our way up from there. Like to boobs or some shit.

First step is to create a desire. I don't mean make us alluring, I mean literally naming and popularizing the idea of wanting to bang a Jew.

First there was Jungle Fever, then Yellow Fever which is much hotter (shut up not a pun Asian girls are just ridiculously hotter. Proven fact: a girl who's a 6 but Asian becomes a 7. It's a +1 to +2 system of weight based on a propensity for uniformly clear skin, high cheek bones and frail, demure forms trained to please their men through elaborate meals.)

And now I introduce to you the Jew Flu.

OH MAN, do I want to hit that Sarah Silverman chick. I've got such a serious case of the Jew Flu for her. I'm gonna need some matzah ball soup STAT, bro. Can I afford the cure? Should I get a roth IRA or invest my savings in long-term equity bonds for a guaranteed return later down the road? OH GOD, BABY I'M GOING MESHUGA FOR YOUR SHUGA.

See how great that goes? I almost went with "the Jewties" but I thought that was a little schoolyard for trying to bang chicks.

Although the idea of a "Jewtie shot" was pretty intriguing. Hey, baby? Have you been inoculated? No? Well then I've got a little prick for you.

Priceless.

(Actually valued at $39.95.)

[Plus tax.]

On Meeting New People

So last night I spent the hours leading up to and just following my birthday at our group's little bar.

For once I am going to skip much of the mood-building.

An older man came in around 11:15 p.m. and asked us to change the channel. We were pissed at having to switch to the football game from a new episode of Family Guy but none of us said anything because a) we are men who drink beer and eat meat and watch sports and HUAH! and b) this man sauntered in flashing a medium-sized wad of cash and professing, "First day on the job! Spread the wealth! Buy votes!" He then proceeded to buy shots of SoCo for half of us. (I abstained as I was feeling a bit ill and was waiting for the burger in my stomach to settle, a decision I only partially regret now.)

Almost idly I left the conversation I was in and wandered past this man's.

He, Eli, was lecturing my dear friends, the bar's only other patrons, on the pitfalls of the new health care reform bill.

Never one to let a good argument or a good dumb jerk go to waste I jumped in, defending the bill as a necessary alteration to a dying system.

Long story short, we went back-and-forth for over and hour enjoying each a worthy and intelligent, well-informed foe arguing theory versus practical expectation and social contract governance through taxation. Thomas Paine and Ben Franklin were mentioned. Not by me.

This was the smartest 50 year-old Italian pawn shop owner from Peekskill I've ever met, and to be frank the only reason I know he wasn't hitting on me is because he bought further rounds for all of us because he assumed we were all dumb kids and was pleasantly surprised.

He did invite me to see Zappa Plays Zappa in December, though.

Dude loves Zappa. Had a ZPZ sweatshirt. Played ZPZ over the bar jukebox. Lectured us on the merits of Both Frank and Dweezle. (Apparently Moon Unit wasn't worth mentioning, though he seemed overjoyed when I volunteered her in the conversation.)

Eli ended up staying until almost 4 in the morning and left a tip weighing it over $17. The advice he left us with was "Keep it simple. Keep everything simple."

Very zen dude. Bat shit crazy, but very interesting. When his wife called he said he was getting hammered at the bar, arguing with some "punk-ass liberal college kids." Her response then seemed to be something akin to "they slaughtering you?" He claimed to hold his own.

On the Robespierre

Robespierre - n. or v. To receive analingus from a mustachioed French woman.

"Xxxxx and her mustache can eat me."
"Would that be a mustache ride?" What's the Parisian equivalent to a dirty sanchez? A reasonably clean Jacque? The Robespierre!"

As in,

"Hey, did you get a tug-job from that Swedish chick at the bar last night?"
"No, but I got a Robespierre from her French friend."
"I … think it was a girl?"

I am still working out what kind of table-turning trifecta of maneuvers would be required to hit a full "French Revolution." Ideally it would involve class difference, monetary exchange and sans culottes.

On Tempting Fate, Yet Again

Lou's Corner Store via Google Maps Street View.


This past evening I spent with many friends, sitting around a card table gambling money over poker, C-Low and the occasional game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. Also, there was some GTA IV and a butt load of booze.

Now when I say a butt load of booze, I in fact mean just that two or three of us brought a 12-pack or less for themselves and others and one of us, who shall remain nameless for obvious reasons to follow, brought a full bottle of rum. Granted, it was $11 rum, but it was still a liter of 70-proof rum.

And amazingly this person lost $5 playing cards, won that back and more in dice and thoroughly marveled us by drinking single-handedly a good 90% of his rum. Of course the other 10% was given away to the needy.

We were proud of him. This was copious consumption from a man who usually passes out after a few beers because he often pregames too hard on top of exhaustion.

He was fine. He was coherent, sensical, even articulate. Barring some understandable issues with equilibrium, this kid was on his game.

So we decided to head down to Lou's Corner Store. (You may remember Lou's from my recent post about the Yankees where I attempted to alienate myself from all of New York at once.)

The car ride started to show some where on the guy, though. Mumbling slightly, becoming less coherent, but that could have easily been simple sleep setting in. This is a boy who will sleep anywhere any time for however long he can. We were unworried.

Then we got to the deli, which has stood in that same spot for the last 84 years and has withstood the entire gentrification sand urbanization of our town, as well as a car crashing through it's front wall some years back.

We got there and my oldest friend in the world got kicked out within five minutes for pulling his balls out in the back of the (ridiculously tiny) store and attempting to pee in the isle.


We thought the old man (not Lou) was yelling at a hobo who wandered in through the back. That hobo turned out to be his employee, who thought our friend was black which is both odd in itself and oddly racist. We yelled at our friend to get out of the way of the guy chasing the hobo. Then they herded our guy out of the store. We through him out ourselves once we learned what he had tried to do.

We laughed uncontrollably in the parking lot while we enjoyed our sandwiches, which most likely had not been spit in because the guys at Lou's are not monsters.

They simply don't like people pissing in their deli.

Which is totally understandable.

On Barroom Humor

A few nights ago I had the privilege of watching the Yankees win there eight-billionth word series from the comfort of our new favorite dive bar. Quite frankly, we are coopting a bar that has stood for 80-some-odd years and served the likes of Prohibition era boozers and Babe Ruth in his Sunday best. It closed, reopened, and even now that they have a liquor license again there are few customers beyond friends of the owner and bartenders. We are the young people talking the cool old hangout and free drinks away from old alcoholics and brawlers who have grown too old and saggy to properly defend against our youth and indiscriminate indiscrimination.

So allow me to give a brief description of the bar's patrons this particular evening.

There was me. Real threatening, I know. There was Anthony and Dean. There was the bartender, let's call him Tony because I can't remember his name and he was definitively an Italian New Yorker.

Then there was the trifecta of failed comedians. Yes, I spent a night hanging out with doppelgangers of Maria Bamford, a skinny Artie Lange and a slightly whiter Carlos Mencia. Maria had the same demeanor and propensity for self-deprecating wit, minus the cute pink hair she sported recently. Artie was just as obnoxious but less funny than those around him, while his raucous, repetitive laugh went on far longer than it takes you to come to the belief it is mocking and devoid of human empathy, even though he's probably just stalling until the conversation can come back to him through awkward silence. Oh, and then there was Italian-Dominican-Puerto Rican George Lopez, who basically was older and sadder and drunker sitting in the corner not being funny.

It was uncanny, no?

That said, the night was actually quite entertaining, if nothing else heightened by the fact that I've always kind of wanted to bang Maria Bamford, despite her lack of either make-up or self-assurance.

These were the jokes we told that I can remember:

Q: "Where's the one place in New York you can never find a cold beer in October?"
A: Shea Stadium.


So this guy walks into a bar and he hears music but he can't seem to find any speakers. He walks up to the bar and orders a drink and when the bartender brings it over her says the guy, "Hey," he points up, "I can hear music but I don't see speakers anywhere."

The bartender says, "Oh, yeah, I've got a foot-tall midget behind the counter." The guy looks at the bartender and doesn't believe him, but the bartender says, "No, look," and as the guy looks over the bar he sees a tiny man playing a children's piano.

"That's amazing!" the guy says. "Where'd you ever find him?" and the bartender says, "Oh, I got a magic lamp." The guy looks at him like he's crazy but the bartender immediately jumps on it. "Hey," he says, "Did I lie about the midget?" So they guy believes him and asks to see the lamp.

The bartender goes off and is gone for a really long time, but when he comes back he has this little lamp in his hands. The guy takes the lamp and says "I wish for a million bucks!"

He turns around and sees the bar now filled with a bunch of ducks. "What gives?" he says to the barman. "This thing can't hear for crap!"

"I know," says the bartender, "You really think I asked for a twelve-inch pianist?"

wah wah waaaahhh….


Much later I was asked why all the girls love Jesus and was informed it's because he's hung like this (and Horatio spread his arms as wide as if he were being crucified.)

Badum chhh.

Since I was tired of Artie thinking he was funny and being fairly certain he was going to bang Maria that night, I offered up an on-the-spot retort I am now keeping forever:

Q: "Why do all the girls hate Jesus?"
A: "Because it takes him three days to come again."

FUCK YEAH ME. YOU SHOW ARTIE LANGE. WHO CAN'T BE FUNNY WITHOUT NORM MACDONALD NOW? HUH?

On Equality

I watched an hour of the show Cheaters the other night and for the frist time I was proud of the show. I know, scary.

But actually it was quite good. They did one of their "Cheaters Updates" by interviewing the cheater from an old episode.

This particular incident involved three men.

1. I am so proud of us for making trash T.V. with gay people that has nothing to do with the fact that they're gay. At best it's a novelty addition. At worst it's big, gay affirmative action.
2. I am so proud of men in general for proving that we are even in the most betraying moments the more rational of the sexes. To a fault.

This guy in a Nike hat cheated on his business-suit-wearing boyfriend named Brock because he thought his boyfriend had already cheated on him. He took the abuse rightfully and appologized, and then very calmly said that he would pack up his stuff and be gone before his boyfriend got home. They would talk about it in the morning when the cameras were gone. Politely and honestly apologetic, "I owe you that," he said.

"Tell me here, now. You owe me that," the cheetee said.

"Not with the cameras I don't," the cheater replied, and calmly drove away.


In his return interview the cheeter explained that he had thought he had been cheated on and thus started messing around with this other guy. Brock turned out to be innocent of this and so Mr. Nike Cheeter apologized for his actions and said Brock "deserved better than I gave him." As it turns out, neither man has left their group of bar-hopping chums and are actually still friends. Really, only the third guy is disliked in any way.

Once again, men cannot be mad at each other if there is a reasonable explanation for their actions. SCIENCE BE PRAISED! ALL HAIL THE PENIS-BEQUEATHED FUNDAMENTAL FORCES!

On 6 Flags: Lost Tales of Woe

I hadn't mentioned this story because, frankly, the entire time we were at 6 Flags a couple weeks back was amazing, barring the last 20 minutes when the skies opened, lightning crashed and the rides closed down, forcing us to meander back to the car whilst simultaneously learning exactly how waterproof each of our shoes were in order of person.

And that was still pretty cool in its own way.



Well, there was also one moment that wasn't so great.

There is this ride. It's a wooden coaster. It's called "Rolling Thunder."

Now there are two wooden roller coasters at 6 Flags, New Jersey. One is called El Toro. El Toro is amazing. Go on it in the day. Go on it in the dark. It will frighten and amaze you. It will make you want to go home and make babies with your sig-oth. It makes you want to live as fast as you rode. We were warned of this beforehand and we were not disappointed. It is everything you ever hope a wooden coaster could be, and that's coming from a guy who grew up near the historic PlayLand Amusement Park and its ancient, decrepit wooden Dragon Coaster that actually has its own list of confirmed kills.

Sadly, as awesome as El Toro is, Rolling Thunder is just as bad.

I cannot stress this enough. Rolling thunder will make you believe there is no God.

Which is really inconvenient as you'd really really like someone to pray to to get you off the ride.

To begin: I was aptly warned. However we were also told everyone needs to experience it. I agreed and after another two rides on El Toro to cleanse the palate I was dissuaded from warning away other potential passengers. Waiting on line you see a car leave with smiling faces, but on return there are only two or three, and they're laughing at those around them who can only manage grimaces of rage and pain and atheism.

The car: Just awful. For one thing, the roll bar does not actually touch you in any way. It is simply there in front of you to stop you from being hurled forward by punching you directly in the stomach every half second or so. This would be less of a problem if the seat belts could be tightened to securely secure anyone with smaller than a 36" waist (women, children, me, etc.). Additionally, the seat is a two-person plastic bucket seat with a little bump to divide your legs, just in case you were preparing to brace against anything. I mean there's no back to the seat ahead of you at foot-level, so there isn't much hope for bracing, but just in case you tried, no. In fact, this bump is harder and just slightly farther back on the seat than any other leg-divider-bump, ostensibly so that that my balls rest comfortably on the bump and not the safety of the seat or my legs or something.

Oh, and as I pointed out to my seatmate Jay, I could physically tighten and loosen one of the car's screws with my fingers as we waited for launch. This was the first time Jay believed we were going to die.

The second time Jay thought we were going to die, more genuinely this time, was the moment our car lifted very briefly off the track and we were legitimately airborne.

However I did not notice this, because if you will recall I mentioned a slack seat belt, an angry safety bar and a ball-based leg divider that has personal space boundary issues.

Yes, on the very first bump I was launched into the air, around the roll bar because I am not overweight and caught by the exceedingly slack seat belt as the car dropped a solid few feet downhill before rising back up, slamming me down and crushing my testicles between my body mass and an entire roller coaster.

Honestly, my eyes closed mostly and I leaned out the side of the car in case I threw up from the pain. In fact all I recall was that intense fear of the pain that you know is going to come, then doesn't come because you're so hopped up on adrenaline so you relax for a second and exhale and then hits you full on like, well, a kick in the balls. Women, try to imagine having a spontaneous miscarriage in the middle of your mensies after getting food poisoning at an Indian-Mexican-Thai restaurant.

And then I had to deal with the entire rest of the ride.

Which, yeah, was not nearly as bad, but it's quite difficult to brace oneself against body blows and guy punches from all sides while one is simply trying not to cry or pass out from a brutal ball crushing.

In the last few seconds of torment it also started raining again, so that we were whipped in the eyes by the first few drops of water as we careened through the same space, aching and whimpering.

I recall pulling up to the car house and hearing a woman just to my right question her willingness to take the ride. "Oh they're wet. I don't know if I want to get rained on!" she lamented.

I'm surprised now I could get it out, but cold, wet, and utterly tragic I managed to let out, "Rain is the least of your worries."

This last bit completely confounded her, leading to such a wonderful question, "What does he mean? What does he mean by that?" I vaguely recall wiping what I hoped was only rainwater from my eyes and then managing to pull myself out of that wretched car and shamble away in the general direction of the exit. If there was any doubt as to whether or not I took my agony like a true man, I wiped at what could not have exclusively been rain water at least once more.

But eyes watering at an excruciating nut shot is actually an acceptable male response. If it ain't running down your cheek it ain't crying.

Still, I kinda just wanted someone to hug and cradle me for a while after that. I settled for gently caressing my spleen until it returned to its natural, upright position. My testicles meanwhile have re-descended, but have threatened me with a 100-yard order or protection if I ever bring them back to the horror that is Rolling Thunder.

Honestly, the rain and lightning were a blessing after that.

On Choices

I happened to wander out to Lou's Corner Store tonight with my friend Dean, where the above image was taped to a display case of sausages and deli meats. Dean mentioned that he always liked this photo.

I said I was confused. I asked who the man on the left, number 21 was.

Paul O'Neill, I was told. The right fielder.

I asked why he was climbing over other people.

I was told that that's basically every member of the team. Usually the catcher runs out to the pitcher, then the infield runs in, then the dugout and the outfield is last simply by virtue of being farthest away at the moment of triumph.

And I said, "No."

"I mean why is he climbing over people, literally walking all over his teammates?" Why was this Paul O'Neil character such a dick all of a sudden? I played little league. I don't care if you made it to the majors, if you're playing right field you're the "slow" kid on the team. Paul could have just as easily jumped and crowd surfed across the dogpile. I'm sure he didn't have to step on three guys to be a part of that big gay scrum.

Seriously, Paul O'Neill. What was up with you?

On Productivity

It's a little upsetting that I can feel so bored but uncreative simultaneously.

It's more upsetting that when I feel a sudden burst of creativity it's for something completely unrelated to the novel I'm kind of supposed to be writing.

Even worse is the idea that after hours my bed is now littered with history backstory and character designs for Nikola Tesla, his niece, and an incredibly evil William Howard Taft next to his exceedingly evil steampunk monorail.

What is infuriating is realizing that a steampunk monorail is basically just a train.


Fuck trains.

On Poking the Bear

I was hanging out with a few friends at the bar last, and as a bunch of us were standing around, preparing to leave or otherwise sobering up that little extra bit from BAC .05 to .04.

And we discussed the following:

Apparently, one of us had received two speeding tickets that day. From the same cop. As it happens, there was copious drinking the night before and the decision was made – poorly – to avoid sleep entirely. This obviously failed, resulting in driving very quickly to make it home for work the next morning. So he got pulled over going 95 in a 55. (Beating the record I accidentally set trying to visit him and listen to rock music simultaneously.) He did not talk his way out of it, then he left because he still needed to get home soon.

Yes, he then almost immediately got pulled over by the exact same state trooper for going 72 in a 55. To quote the officer, "Are you retarded?"


Well we told this story as a local sheriff drove by. "He's probably ignoring the four guys standing outside a bar sobering up because he thinks, 'Yeah, I can snag one of them drunk in five minutes.'" A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. Ha. Ha. That was Steve, I believe.

Well I was the third to drive off of four and what do you know? Four miles down the road is the sheriff with his strobes on and sure enough, Steve.

AND WHAT HAVE WE LEARNED CHILDREN??

THAT'S RIGHT. DON'T PUSH THE FUCKING ENVELOPE.

For the record, the 4 phrases you never want to say, except to mention in this list, are:

1. "At least it can't get any worse."
2. "Well at least it's not raining."
3. "I've got a baaaaad feeling about this."
4. "I'm sure it's perfectly safe."

And to that list I would like to propose the addition of

5. "Oh, hey!" as said with a smile to any law enforcement official.

God help you, Steve.

On iPhone Apps

This image actually appeared as the Fun Page title header in a Spring 2009 issue of Binghamton University's Pipe Dream student newspaper and was the specific image that got me banned from using staff members' photos in my titles ever again. Sad really, because Lee Winkler really has some killer legs in this shot.


Today's blog has been left in its original IM format because if I wrote it out like this was all my own idea you would not believe any of it ever happened the way it did.

AIM IM with Bryan Haas 10/31/09 9:54 PM

Me: So it turns out some Germans beat me to a photosensitive light meter iPhone app.
Bryan Haas: haha They are an efficient bunch.
Me: But after owning an iPhone for a week now, I've come up with a new app idea. Basically, it's a little animated dude and he walks onto the screen. And he's a little hipster in plaid and a vest and funny hair and shit. And then all he does is say "I'm not a douchebag. Promise," and walks off.
Bryan: haha I'd be all over that
Me: I'll call it the "I'm Not A DoucheBag" app. It'll be for people who get iPhones but want everyone to know it's not just because they're pheromone-level status symbols.
Bryan: haha This sounds like a blog idea Dave. Except then people could steal it.
Me: It does, doesn't it?
Bryan: Go ahead.
Me: I hid my light meter idea for 6 months and then gauged professional interest secretly on Facebook. Then this kid I know found it so interesting he went out and found the Germans. I searched that shit up and down. The closest anyone had was a conversion process, but this kid made some quantum observations or something and suddenly the Germans had had a light-detecting one for like a year.
Bryan: Wow. That's all I can say
Me: Yuuup.
Bryan: You've left me dumbfounded
Me: America was dumbfounded. Columbus was all HURR DURR HEY GUYS I FOUND A PASSAGE TO INDIA YOU CAN TELL CUZ ALL THE PEOPLE ARE BROWN AND TALK FUNNY. And then Amerigo Vespucci was like A DURR HURR HURR UR RONG DAT'S A NUDDER CONTNINANT! and Columbus was all HUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!
Bryan: You are a master of your craft sir.
Me: This is all going in that blog now.
Bryan: It should.

GO AHEAD AND STEAL MY IDEA NOW, BITCHES! INTELlECTUAL COPYRIGHT INFRINGE ME AND I'LL SUE YOUR ASS LIKE THEM FINNS OVER AT NOKIA.