1/25/2003
1/23/2003
I am driven this morning to write after another academic anomaly I’ve encountered, though not directly.
A friend of mine in grad school is currently taking a general marketing course which, thankfully enough for me, I managed to get waived due to my prior studies at Skidmore. The professor of this class is… how shall I put this delicately?
A lunatic.
Or at least what passes for one in the course of a three-year degeneration following an apparently messy divorce. Basically this guy has lost more than just money, I think there might’ve been something in the divorce papers that claimed ownership of 50 percent of his mind.
On the first day of class, according to my colleague, there were a large number of international students in the class, particularly from Asia. Makes sense, UNH has a huge population for international students. But apparently, this professor, who incidentally, was once quite a brilliant man, and deep down still may be, went out of his way to insult these people.
He said something to the effect of, “Wow, we have half the population of China in here tonight,” and went so far as to go up to one student and say (insert your best Chris Tucker voice here), “Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?” Now if that’s not grounds for immediate dismissal, I don’t know what is. It’s unfortunate that many of these international students are on the shy side due to an obvious language and cultural barrier, otherwise someone might’ve said something.
(An interesting aside: My largest class this trimester also happens to contain the most group work. The professor decided to let us pick the groups, and one international student complained that she had a problem with groups, because the American students always gravitate towards one another, leaving the international students to form their default cliques. She argued that she’d want more cultural diversity in a group to allow for a greater breadth of perspective. A valid argument, I’ll give her that. And then it comes time to pick groups, and she gravitates to whom? A quadrant of international students. File this one under “Pot Calling Kettle Black.” We now return to this regularly scheduled entry, already in progress.)
This professor (let’s call him Kotter for carpal tunnel’s sake) informs the students that to easily secure an A in the class, all they must do is write down twenty things they’ve learned per class. Sounds fair enough. Until he proceeds to go into the messy details of his divorce for the next two and a half hours, not once even gracing the topic of marketing. And then he asks each student what he or she learned (in a class of 40+, that takes up a good portion of the time). For every item a student writes down, Kotter will stop class and ask for a show of hands corresponding to how many other people learned said item during that period.
Sound bizarre? You bet. Moreover, we’re now going into our fourth week of classes, and Kotter has yet to cover anything in the text. The more I hear about this situation, the more I’m certain that a half-baked hunk of Hollywood crap like The Faculty can become a reality. But it goes deeper. Oh, yes friends, it goes deeper.
As it turns out, my colleague (let’s call him Rufus (for the sheer reason that no one knows anyone named Rufus (and if you do, I’m not sure I want you reading this blog))) has found out somehow that the entire class is part of some sort of statistical study. The twenty items, the corresponding hand check, the rambling on, etc., etc., ad infinitum.
Kotter doesn’t want a class full of students; he prefers a lab full of guinea pigs. Full-sized guinea pigs in pursuit of their MBAs.
Now I ask you, what is keeping this man from being terminated immediately? And I answer my own question with one simple, evil word: tenure.
When a professor accrues a certain amount of years at a particular institution, they get this thing called tenure. Long story short, tenure allows them to fuck up as much as they want and still keep their job. At least that’s been my experience at the undergraduate level, and it would appear to be no different at the next academic rung. I find this to be incredibly unfortunate, because I’m sure there are a lot of ways that professors such as Kotter can hold down a steady job at any given institution while completely neglecting their professorial duties. If they can do that for long enough, they get tenure, and they’re home free, leaving the students to sit with sore colons from the tremendous administrative butt fucking they receive.
Now I will give Kotter credit, having met him years ago. He wasn’t always like this. To the contrary, he was once a very strong professor whose work was appreciated by many. Since his divorce, though, he’s gone almost completely off the deep end. In that case, should tenure really be an issue here? If someone is neglecting their duties, should they be kept along for the ride just because they’ve memorized the architectural layout of the entire campus? To me, that’s back asswards thinking. This guy is obviously in no condition to be teaching kindergarten let alone a graduate level course, and because of that he should be excused from his duties. Because he’s a special case, maybe they can work out some sort of an arrangement where he could return upon receiving professional help and pulling himself back together. I’m sure that sort of thing isn’t unheard of.
In the meantime, Rufus is sitting in the back of class week after week, doodling, taking down random items he’s learned in class such as the fact that every other James Bond movie seems to involve Russia, and wondering when they’re ever going to crack that book. And he and the other forty some odd students in class will continue to be deprived of the education they’re paying for until April, when they take their final and procure their “easy A.”
Easy A or not, I’m glad I got this one waived.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
A friend of mine in grad school is currently taking a general marketing course which, thankfully enough for me, I managed to get waived due to my prior studies at Skidmore. The professor of this class is… how shall I put this delicately?
A lunatic.
Or at least what passes for one in the course of a three-year degeneration following an apparently messy divorce. Basically this guy has lost more than just money, I think there might’ve been something in the divorce papers that claimed ownership of 50 percent of his mind.
On the first day of class, according to my colleague, there were a large number of international students in the class, particularly from Asia. Makes sense, UNH has a huge population for international students. But apparently, this professor, who incidentally, was once quite a brilliant man, and deep down still may be, went out of his way to insult these people.
He said something to the effect of, “Wow, we have half the population of China in here tonight,” and went so far as to go up to one student and say (insert your best Chris Tucker voice here), “Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?” Now if that’s not grounds for immediate dismissal, I don’t know what is. It’s unfortunate that many of these international students are on the shy side due to an obvious language and cultural barrier, otherwise someone might’ve said something.
(An interesting aside: My largest class this trimester also happens to contain the most group work. The professor decided to let us pick the groups, and one international student complained that she had a problem with groups, because the American students always gravitate towards one another, leaving the international students to form their default cliques. She argued that she’d want more cultural diversity in a group to allow for a greater breadth of perspective. A valid argument, I’ll give her that. And then it comes time to pick groups, and she gravitates to whom? A quadrant of international students. File this one under “Pot Calling Kettle Black.” We now return to this regularly scheduled entry, already in progress.)
This professor (let’s call him Kotter for carpal tunnel’s sake) informs the students that to easily secure an A in the class, all they must do is write down twenty things they’ve learned per class. Sounds fair enough. Until he proceeds to go into the messy details of his divorce for the next two and a half hours, not once even gracing the topic of marketing. And then he asks each student what he or she learned (in a class of 40+, that takes up a good portion of the time). For every item a student writes down, Kotter will stop class and ask for a show of hands corresponding to how many other people learned said item during that period.
Sound bizarre? You bet. Moreover, we’re now going into our fourth week of classes, and Kotter has yet to cover anything in the text. The more I hear about this situation, the more I’m certain that a half-baked hunk of Hollywood crap like The Faculty can become a reality. But it goes deeper. Oh, yes friends, it goes deeper.
As it turns out, my colleague (let’s call him Rufus (for the sheer reason that no one knows anyone named Rufus (and if you do, I’m not sure I want you reading this blog))) has found out somehow that the entire class is part of some sort of statistical study. The twenty items, the corresponding hand check, the rambling on, etc., etc., ad infinitum.
Kotter doesn’t want a class full of students; he prefers a lab full of guinea pigs. Full-sized guinea pigs in pursuit of their MBAs.
Now I ask you, what is keeping this man from being terminated immediately? And I answer my own question with one simple, evil word: tenure.
When a professor accrues a certain amount of years at a particular institution, they get this thing called tenure. Long story short, tenure allows them to fuck up as much as they want and still keep their job. At least that’s been my experience at the undergraduate level, and it would appear to be no different at the next academic rung. I find this to be incredibly unfortunate, because I’m sure there are a lot of ways that professors such as Kotter can hold down a steady job at any given institution while completely neglecting their professorial duties. If they can do that for long enough, they get tenure, and they’re home free, leaving the students to sit with sore colons from the tremendous administrative butt fucking they receive.
Now I will give Kotter credit, having met him years ago. He wasn’t always like this. To the contrary, he was once a very strong professor whose work was appreciated by many. Since his divorce, though, he’s gone almost completely off the deep end. In that case, should tenure really be an issue here? If someone is neglecting their duties, should they be kept along for the ride just because they’ve memorized the architectural layout of the entire campus? To me, that’s back asswards thinking. This guy is obviously in no condition to be teaching kindergarten let alone a graduate level course, and because of that he should be excused from his duties. Because he’s a special case, maybe they can work out some sort of an arrangement where he could return upon receiving professional help and pulling himself back together. I’m sure that sort of thing isn’t unheard of.
In the meantime, Rufus is sitting in the back of class week after week, doodling, taking down random items he’s learned in class such as the fact that every other James Bond movie seems to involve Russia, and wondering when they’re ever going to crack that book. And he and the other forty some odd students in class will continue to be deprived of the education they’re paying for until April, when they take their final and procure their “easy A.”
Easy A or not, I’m glad I got this one waived.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
1/22/2003
1/21/2003
It doesn’t happen often, but I was inspired today. Inspired by one Craig MacTavish.
For those of you unfamiliar with the name and/or the world of hockey, I suggest you go here first.
While watching this graphic display unfold on SportsCenter at the gym today, I began to wonder about poor Harvey’s reaction. Having just had his tongue ripped out, I’d have thought he’d be showing some signs of pain or suffering. To the contrary, he continued to go about his merry way, regardless of the fact that he would no longer be able to lick his genitalia.
As I got off the treadmill, it struck me. Maybe dogs can shed their tongues, just as they shed their fur. When I left the gym this morning, I was determined to find out.
I went to the local pet store and purchased a cute Scottish terrier. I named him Maxwell after my favorite brand of coffee, Foldgers notwithstanding. Taking li’l Maxwell home, I played fetch with him for about an hour when I realized I had purchased this creature for a purpose; a scientific experiment. I went over to him and attempted to manually remove his tongue. Upon trying to do so, he nipped me good. I yelped and backed up a few steps, tears rolling down my eyes as I realized that li’l Maxwell didn’t trust me quite yet.
I decided to do just as the almighty Craig MacTavish did, and wait to surprise the little stinker.
I apologized to Maxwell for trying to yank out his tongue. We hugged, kissed, and made up. Following the emotional ordeal, we resumed our game of fetch. After a good fifteen minutes, I hummed the stick far across our yard. Maxwell retrieved the stick and began to head back toward me. I knelt down, praising his actions. As he neared me, I went for the stick with one hand, and used the other to try and remove his tongue. Once again, the little bastard bit me. Now I was just frustrated. I dropped the stick and headed back into the house, Maxwell yipping as he followed me inside.
I rewound the footage from Monday night’s game as I petted little Maxwell, trying to figure out where I was going wrong. As I observed the tape in slow motion, I noticed something; an egregious error in my plot.
I looked at Harvey’s size. Then I looked at Maxwell’s. It hit me. I didn’t need just any dog. I needed a giant dog.
I leapt to my feet and put li’l Maxwell in my sweater drawer for safekeeping as I bolted out the door and started my car. I needed to find a giant dog. And I knew just where to look.
Downtown Waterbury.
Some time later, I was walking the streets of Waterbury after narrowly avoiding three drive-by shootings. This, coupled with the fact that I was able to resist the temptations of the various drug dealers had me in good spirits, so I knew that I would get my answers this day.
Then I saw him. Coming down the sidewalk. The biggest canine I had ever seen. He easily stood around 6’6”, and I guesstimated his weight at around 325 lbs. I swallowed hard, perspiration crossing my face as he drew near. I was nervous, yet not afraid. This animal was equal to Harvey’s size, yet I was far larger in stature than the omnipotent Craig MacTavish, so an air of confidence washed over me as our paths drew closer.
Just as I stepped aside to make room for the huge dog on his way, I quickly reached up for his mouth and grabbed his tongue. He drew back in surprise and tried to fight me off. Through his open jaw, I heard him mutter something along the lines of, “What the hell are you doing, kid? Let go of my tongue!” Funny, I had no idea giant dogs could talk.
We danced for a good two or three minutes as I tried to get my right foot on his left hind leg in an attempt to give some added force to my pull. But the enormous beast sucker punched me in the gut with his right paw, and then kicked me in the ribs once I’d hit the ground.
I groaned, nursing my wounds and ego as the creature lumbered off. That’s the last time I try to rip Ron Perlman's tongue out of his mouth.
Coming soon, a real story that actually happened.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
For those of you unfamiliar with the name and/or the world of hockey, I suggest you go here first.
While watching this graphic display unfold on SportsCenter at the gym today, I began to wonder about poor Harvey’s reaction. Having just had his tongue ripped out, I’d have thought he’d be showing some signs of pain or suffering. To the contrary, he continued to go about his merry way, regardless of the fact that he would no longer be able to lick his genitalia.
As I got off the treadmill, it struck me. Maybe dogs can shed their tongues, just as they shed their fur. When I left the gym this morning, I was determined to find out.
I went to the local pet store and purchased a cute Scottish terrier. I named him Maxwell after my favorite brand of coffee, Foldgers notwithstanding. Taking li’l Maxwell home, I played fetch with him for about an hour when I realized I had purchased this creature for a purpose; a scientific experiment. I went over to him and attempted to manually remove his tongue. Upon trying to do so, he nipped me good. I yelped and backed up a few steps, tears rolling down my eyes as I realized that li’l Maxwell didn’t trust me quite yet.
I decided to do just as the almighty Craig MacTavish did, and wait to surprise the little stinker.
I apologized to Maxwell for trying to yank out his tongue. We hugged, kissed, and made up. Following the emotional ordeal, we resumed our game of fetch. After a good fifteen minutes, I hummed the stick far across our yard. Maxwell retrieved the stick and began to head back toward me. I knelt down, praising his actions. As he neared me, I went for the stick with one hand, and used the other to try and remove his tongue. Once again, the little bastard bit me. Now I was just frustrated. I dropped the stick and headed back into the house, Maxwell yipping as he followed me inside.
I rewound the footage from Monday night’s game as I petted little Maxwell, trying to figure out where I was going wrong. As I observed the tape in slow motion, I noticed something; an egregious error in my plot.
I looked at Harvey’s size. Then I looked at Maxwell’s. It hit me. I didn’t need just any dog. I needed a giant dog.
I leapt to my feet and put li’l Maxwell in my sweater drawer for safekeeping as I bolted out the door and started my car. I needed to find a giant dog. And I knew just where to look.
Downtown Waterbury.
Some time later, I was walking the streets of Waterbury after narrowly avoiding three drive-by shootings. This, coupled with the fact that I was able to resist the temptations of the various drug dealers had me in good spirits, so I knew that I would get my answers this day.
Then I saw him. Coming down the sidewalk. The biggest canine I had ever seen. He easily stood around 6’6”, and I guesstimated his weight at around 325 lbs. I swallowed hard, perspiration crossing my face as he drew near. I was nervous, yet not afraid. This animal was equal to Harvey’s size, yet I was far larger in stature than the omnipotent Craig MacTavish, so an air of confidence washed over me as our paths drew closer.
Just as I stepped aside to make room for the huge dog on his way, I quickly reached up for his mouth and grabbed his tongue. He drew back in surprise and tried to fight me off. Through his open jaw, I heard him mutter something along the lines of, “What the hell are you doing, kid? Let go of my tongue!” Funny, I had no idea giant dogs could talk.
We danced for a good two or three minutes as I tried to get my right foot on his left hind leg in an attempt to give some added force to my pull. But the enormous beast sucker punched me in the gut with his right paw, and then kicked me in the ribs once I’d hit the ground.
I groaned, nursing my wounds and ego as the creature lumbered off. That’s the last time I try to rip Ron Perlman's tongue out of his mouth.
Coming soon, a real story that actually happened.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
1/14/2003
I'd like to quote the late, great Kurt Cobain here:
"I hope I die before I become Pete Townshend."
What in the world was Pete thinking? Even if his explanation, that he was researching for an upcoming book he'd planned to write, were legitimate, what made him think that the means of research he was pursuing would go unnoticed? Especially in Britain where such crime is rigidly enforced, no less.
Another dent in the legend known as the Who.
Do aging rock stars actually feel the need to go out of their way to tarnish their own legends? The Who were a great band, no lie. I think albums like Tommy, Quadrophenia, and Who's Next are among the greatest works in the realm of classic rock, right up there with Sgt. Pepper and Dark Side Of The Moon in terms of creativity and innovation. And there's no doubt about it, Pete Townshend is one of the greatest songwriters ever, and his growth can be heard in the chronology of the band. It takes a very versatile writer to go from the likes of "My Generation" and "Substitute" to "Baba O'Riley" and "Won't Get Fooled Again."
But let's be honest here, folks, this band should've ended when Keith Moon bit it. Even following the passing of John Entwistle just this past year, it's just not the Who without those two guys. Thank the good lord that Zeppelin didn't make the same mistake when Jon Bonham died. They knew it was the end of an era, time to call it quits and pursue other venues. But, to get back to my point about the tainting of legends, even those guys couldn't avoid boners.
Did Jimmy Page really need to do the score to Death Wish? For that matter, did he have to team with David Coverversion? And Robert Plant, while musically sound in his solo career, is such a huge prick that he's been practically blackballed by all the rock magazines that used to be hot for the lowdown on the ever-mysterious Led Zeppelin. Hey, Robert, they just released Fellowship Of The Rings in a four-disc DVD set, and The Two Towers is still in theaters everywhere. Why don't you do us all a favor and just devote yourselves to those films and don't bother us again until Return Of The King is released on DVD?
And now to return to the matter at hand, let's all be realistic, there's no legitimate excuse for child pornography. I don't care if you're in the process of writing a four-volume desk reference set chronicling every disgusting Internet web site to warn parents. Your credit card number shows up on a scan of said sites, you go to jail, I don't care who you are, rock legend notwithstanding.
There's no rhyme, no reason, and no logic to Townshend's arguments. Admitting that his actions were "foolish" now isn't going to do him any good, because we can now officially put rock legend Pete Townshend on the same level as one-hit wonder and godfather of the stadium fight song, Gary Glitter.
And Pete, don't try to bullshit us. We won't get fooled again.
Goodnight, and have a pedophilia-free tomorrow.
"I hope I die before I become Pete Townshend."
What in the world was Pete thinking? Even if his explanation, that he was researching for an upcoming book he'd planned to write, were legitimate, what made him think that the means of research he was pursuing would go unnoticed? Especially in Britain where such crime is rigidly enforced, no less.
Another dent in the legend known as the Who.
Do aging rock stars actually feel the need to go out of their way to tarnish their own legends? The Who were a great band, no lie. I think albums like Tommy, Quadrophenia, and Who's Next are among the greatest works in the realm of classic rock, right up there with Sgt. Pepper and Dark Side Of The Moon in terms of creativity and innovation. And there's no doubt about it, Pete Townshend is one of the greatest songwriters ever, and his growth can be heard in the chronology of the band. It takes a very versatile writer to go from the likes of "My Generation" and "Substitute" to "Baba O'Riley" and "Won't Get Fooled Again."
But let's be honest here, folks, this band should've ended when Keith Moon bit it. Even following the passing of John Entwistle just this past year, it's just not the Who without those two guys. Thank the good lord that Zeppelin didn't make the same mistake when Jon Bonham died. They knew it was the end of an era, time to call it quits and pursue other venues. But, to get back to my point about the tainting of legends, even those guys couldn't avoid boners.
Did Jimmy Page really need to do the score to Death Wish? For that matter, did he have to team with David Coverversion? And Robert Plant, while musically sound in his solo career, is such a huge prick that he's been practically blackballed by all the rock magazines that used to be hot for the lowdown on the ever-mysterious Led Zeppelin. Hey, Robert, they just released Fellowship Of The Rings in a four-disc DVD set, and The Two Towers is still in theaters everywhere. Why don't you do us all a favor and just devote yourselves to those films and don't bother us again until Return Of The King is released on DVD?
And now to return to the matter at hand, let's all be realistic, there's no legitimate excuse for child pornography. I don't care if you're in the process of writing a four-volume desk reference set chronicling every disgusting Internet web site to warn parents. Your credit card number shows up on a scan of said sites, you go to jail, I don't care who you are, rock legend notwithstanding.
There's no rhyme, no reason, and no logic to Townshend's arguments. Admitting that his actions were "foolish" now isn't going to do him any good, because we can now officially put rock legend Pete Townshend on the same level as one-hit wonder and godfather of the stadium fight song, Gary Glitter.
And Pete, don't try to bullshit us. We won't get fooled again.
Goodnight, and have a pedophilia-free tomorrow.
1/13/2003
1/09/2003
PHONE CONVERSATION WITH MY FATHER ONE NIGHT IN COLLEGE
(Based on a True Story)
“Oh, by the way, Dad, when you guys come up next weekend, I could use a few more roles of quarters for the laundry machines.”
“Now wait a minute, how much money do you have on you?”
“A hundred dollars, but—“
“And how much is in your bank account?”
“I still have over thirteen hundred, but—“
“And you’ve got the balls to ask me for quarters when you could go down to the change machine and put in a few dollars worth? You cheap little prick.”
“Me cheap little prick? You stingy old bastard. You just won two-hundred and twenty dollars playing cards Monday night, and you’re not willing to take one eleventh of that to help your only son have clean clothes?”
“No, because you have more than enough money up there to take care of it yourself, you tight little fuck.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t have a regular cash flow like you, you pretentious old fart.”
“Waste of sperm.”
“Jackass.”
“Schmuck.”
“Cocksucker.”
“Rotten prick.”
“Pigfucker.”
“You really miss me, don’t you?”
(Based on a True Story)
“Oh, by the way, Dad, when you guys come up next weekend, I could use a few more roles of quarters for the laundry machines.”
“Now wait a minute, how much money do you have on you?”
“A hundred dollars, but—“
“And how much is in your bank account?”
“I still have over thirteen hundred, but—“
“And you’ve got the balls to ask me for quarters when you could go down to the change machine and put in a few dollars worth? You cheap little prick.”
“Me cheap little prick? You stingy old bastard. You just won two-hundred and twenty dollars playing cards Monday night, and you’re not willing to take one eleventh of that to help your only son have clean clothes?”
“No, because you have more than enough money up there to take care of it yourself, you tight little fuck.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t have a regular cash flow like you, you pretentious old fart.”
“Waste of sperm.”
“Jackass.”
“Schmuck.”
“Cocksucker.”
“Rotten prick.”
“Pigfucker.”
“You really miss me, don’t you?”
1/08/2003
OK, OK, so I couldn’t get off that easily. Allow me to go further into the belly of the beast.
There’s this radio ad—perhaps you’ve heard it yourself—for the “Coors Original Bar Network.” Allow me to relay the key dialogue for you:
Woman: (Sounding like a hybrid of Carmela Soprano and Fran Drescher) Why is this place such a mess?!
Man: (Obviously disinterested) Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Woman: My favorite show Friends is going to be on in a few minutes and I want you to rub my feet while I watch it!
Professional Superhero, Radio Voiceover Man: Sound like a typical Thursday night? You need a guy’s night out with the Coors Original Bar Network.
Woman: Look at this, the toilet seat’s up again!
Radio Voiceover Man: The Coors Original Bar Network is a secretive group of real guys who don’t want to sit at home and watch “Must Be TV.” Who wants to watch some show about two fruit loops and a girl, or a bunch of friends getting paid $70 million an episode to think they're funny?
Looking back, the only flaw I can find is that if the Coors Original Bar Network is a “secretive group,” why are they advertising on 106.9 WCCC?
Aside from that, this entire ad smacks of the truth.
Look, Friends was cute when it first came out. It was entertaining, but in no way massively creative. If you really think about it, Friends is just Three’s Company plus three main characters minus one landlord.
But nowadays, the writers seem to be mixing in equal parts sitcom cliché and sloppy, haphazard plotlines. They’ve already milked the show of every possible relationship between the six characters (unless they really get down and dirty and go for an incestuous relationship between Ross and Monica… which, if Vince Russo were writing, I wouldn’t doubt for a second that such a storyline would have been already considered), two of them are married, two of them have had babies. How much further can you go? When you start throwing tired sitcom mainstays like weddings and babies into the mix, you’re just hammering the nails into the coffin faster. These kind of shows half a fixed half-life, and for all intents and purposes, Friends should have been done and buried two seasons ago.
But no. Oh, no. That would be far too easy.
Y’see, there’s a reason they granted this show one more season. It’s because the cast members are such whiny prima donnas, they don’t want to let go of their sacred cow.
Having said that, I’ll give them this much: they’re smart whiny prima donnas, because they know they won’t have a career after this wreck is over. Seriously, who here has managed to cultivate a successful film career? No one. OK, so Courtney Cox was in the Scream series, but do you really think people were flocking because her name was on the marquis? No, they were flocking for the exact same reasons that people watch Friends: bad writing and bad acting. You know, the things that appeal to the masses. And Lisa Kudrow doesn’t count either. She had a bit part in the Analyze This movies, but c’mon. If didn’t go to that movie because of Bobby De Niro, you’re in need of a chainsaw to the gut, my friend (damn straight I’m addicted to Vice City).
Folks, the modern sitcom died when Seinfeld ended its successful, and immensely groundbreaking run. Everything since then has just been one big mile-high pile of fluff. This is why game shows and reality shows have taken over the once domineering spot of the sitcom, leaving for a very desolate teenage wasteland in the country known as network television. Save The Simpsons, SNL, American Dreams, and The West Wing, there’s really nothing on network TV anymore, leaving some (like myself) thanking God for cable programming like South Park and premium cable shows like The Sopranos.
‘Cause Friends just ain’t funny. These people are not worth the money they’re making, end of story. Of course, you couldn’t convince the folks at NBC of that all too obvious fact. Anything they can do to remain America’s sweetheart network will be done in half a heartbeat.
And tell me there’s not an E! True Hollywood Story already in the works. C’mon, between Courtney Cox getting married to David Arquette, Matthew Perry going in and out of rehab, Jennifer Aniston’s rivalry with her mom and her marriage to Brad Pitt, and the constant salary battles, there’s at least a two hour show to be had. And I know, you’re wondering, “If he hates the show, how does he know all this?” The answer is simple. It’s the same reason I know about Britney and Justin’s breakup. It's the same reason I know about J-Lo and Ben’s romance. It's the same reason I know where each of Christina Aguilera's piercings are. It’s the same reason I know the name of Anna Nicole Smith’s interior decorator. Because I’ve had it forcibly shoved down my throat for far too long. I can’t turn around in a CVS without one of my least favorite Friends being plastered on the cover of some rotten magazine, be it People or The National Enquirer. It sickens me. Because of this lingering interest in Friends, I’m guaranteed to be hearing about this show and its oh, so humorous antics long after its dead (which at this rate probably won’t be for another five years).
But I, for one, will never remember any of the cast members of Friends as cast members of Friends. Look at it this way, I’m doing them a favor. They’re afraid of being typecast, so I’ll do them the courtesy of looking past their most popular roles, and focus in on the real special roles.
Matthew Perry, I’ll always remember you for co-staring in Chris Farley’s last full-length film, Almost Heroes. Pure genius.
Jennifer Aniston, you’ll always be that girl from the first Leprechaun movie.
Matt LeBlanc, you’ll be that kid who co-starred in that one episode of Married… With Children, and went on to star in a half-assed spin-off called Top Of The Heap.
Lisa Kudrow, you’re still that ditzy girl in the coffee shop from Mad About You.
David Schwimmer… I still don’t know who the fuck you are, and that suits me fine.
Last but not least, Courtney Cox, the only one with a beefy résumé. Not only are you the girl Springsteen danced with in “Dancing In The Dark,” but you’re also that Earth girl from the Masters of the Universe movie.
And there you have it. The truth about your so-called Friends.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow
(P.S., all hate mail can be sent to Michael Vick)
There’s this radio ad—perhaps you’ve heard it yourself—for the “Coors Original Bar Network.” Allow me to relay the key dialogue for you:
Woman: (Sounding like a hybrid of Carmela Soprano and Fran Drescher) Why is this place such a mess?!
Man: (Obviously disinterested) Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Woman: My favorite show Friends is going to be on in a few minutes and I want you to rub my feet while I watch it!
Professional Superhero, Radio Voiceover Man: Sound like a typical Thursday night? You need a guy’s night out with the Coors Original Bar Network.
Woman: Look at this, the toilet seat’s up again!
Radio Voiceover Man: The Coors Original Bar Network is a secretive group of real guys who don’t want to sit at home and watch “Must Be TV.” Who wants to watch some show about two fruit loops and a girl, or a bunch of friends getting paid $70 million an episode to think they're funny?
Looking back, the only flaw I can find is that if the Coors Original Bar Network is a “secretive group,” why are they advertising on 106.9 WCCC?
Aside from that, this entire ad smacks of the truth.
Look, Friends was cute when it first came out. It was entertaining, but in no way massively creative. If you really think about it, Friends is just Three’s Company plus three main characters minus one landlord.
But nowadays, the writers seem to be mixing in equal parts sitcom cliché and sloppy, haphazard plotlines. They’ve already milked the show of every possible relationship between the six characters (unless they really get down and dirty and go for an incestuous relationship between Ross and Monica… which, if Vince Russo were writing, I wouldn’t doubt for a second that such a storyline would have been already considered), two of them are married, two of them have had babies. How much further can you go? When you start throwing tired sitcom mainstays like weddings and babies into the mix, you’re just hammering the nails into the coffin faster. These kind of shows half a fixed half-life, and for all intents and purposes, Friends should have been done and buried two seasons ago.
But no. Oh, no. That would be far too easy.
Y’see, there’s a reason they granted this show one more season. It’s because the cast members are such whiny prima donnas, they don’t want to let go of their sacred cow.
Having said that, I’ll give them this much: they’re smart whiny prima donnas, because they know they won’t have a career after this wreck is over. Seriously, who here has managed to cultivate a successful film career? No one. OK, so Courtney Cox was in the Scream series, but do you really think people were flocking because her name was on the marquis? No, they were flocking for the exact same reasons that people watch Friends: bad writing and bad acting. You know, the things that appeal to the masses. And Lisa Kudrow doesn’t count either. She had a bit part in the Analyze This movies, but c’mon. If didn’t go to that movie because of Bobby De Niro, you’re in need of a chainsaw to the gut, my friend (damn straight I’m addicted to Vice City).
Folks, the modern sitcom died when Seinfeld ended its successful, and immensely groundbreaking run. Everything since then has just been one big mile-high pile of fluff. This is why game shows and reality shows have taken over the once domineering spot of the sitcom, leaving for a very desolate teenage wasteland in the country known as network television. Save The Simpsons, SNL, American Dreams, and The West Wing, there’s really nothing on network TV anymore, leaving some (like myself) thanking God for cable programming like South Park and premium cable shows like The Sopranos.
‘Cause Friends just ain’t funny. These people are not worth the money they’re making, end of story. Of course, you couldn’t convince the folks at NBC of that all too obvious fact. Anything they can do to remain America’s sweetheart network will be done in half a heartbeat.
And tell me there’s not an E! True Hollywood Story already in the works. C’mon, between Courtney Cox getting married to David Arquette, Matthew Perry going in and out of rehab, Jennifer Aniston’s rivalry with her mom and her marriage to Brad Pitt, and the constant salary battles, there’s at least a two hour show to be had. And I know, you’re wondering, “If he hates the show, how does he know all this?” The answer is simple. It’s the same reason I know about Britney and Justin’s breakup. It's the same reason I know about J-Lo and Ben’s romance. It's the same reason I know where each of Christina Aguilera's piercings are. It’s the same reason I know the name of Anna Nicole Smith’s interior decorator. Because I’ve had it forcibly shoved down my throat for far too long. I can’t turn around in a CVS without one of my least favorite Friends being plastered on the cover of some rotten magazine, be it People or The National Enquirer. It sickens me. Because of this lingering interest in Friends, I’m guaranteed to be hearing about this show and its oh, so humorous antics long after its dead (which at this rate probably won’t be for another five years).
But I, for one, will never remember any of the cast members of Friends as cast members of Friends. Look at it this way, I’m doing them a favor. They’re afraid of being typecast, so I’ll do them the courtesy of looking past their most popular roles, and focus in on the real special roles.
Matthew Perry, I’ll always remember you for co-staring in Chris Farley’s last full-length film, Almost Heroes. Pure genius.
Jennifer Aniston, you’ll always be that girl from the first Leprechaun movie.
Matt LeBlanc, you’ll be that kid who co-starred in that one episode of Married… With Children, and went on to star in a half-assed spin-off called Top Of The Heap.
Lisa Kudrow, you’re still that ditzy girl in the coffee shop from Mad About You.
David Schwimmer… I still don’t know who the fuck you are, and that suits me fine.
Last but not least, Courtney Cox, the only one with a beefy résumé. Not only are you the girl Springsteen danced with in “Dancing In The Dark,” but you’re also that Earth girl from the Masters of the Universe movie.
And there you have it. The truth about your so-called Friends.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow
(P.S., all hate mail can be sent to Michael Vick)
1/02/2003
And now, my Top 10 Albums of 2002, in no particular order:
1 – Audioslave, Audioslave
2 – Jerry Cantrell, Degradation Trip Volumes 1 and 2
3 – Zakk Wylde’s Black Label Society, 1919*Eternal
4 – Dream Theater, Six Degrees Of Inner Turbulence
5 – Down, Down II
6 – Disturbed, Believe
7 – Rush, Vapor Trails
8 – Stone Sour, Stone Sour
9 – Joe Satriani, Strange Beautiful Music
10 – Queens Of The Stone Age, Songs For The Deaf
…Compared to the Top 10 of 2001
1 – Aerosmith, Just Push Play
2 – Tool, Lateralus
3 – Jeff Beck, You Had It Coming
4 – Ozzy Osbourne, Down To Earth
5 – System Of A Down, Toxicity
6 – Monster Magnet, God Says No
7 – Tantric, Tantric
8 – Soil, Scars
9 – Eric Clapton, Reptile
10 – Stevie Nicks, Trouble In Shangri-La
And the five best Greatest Hits Albums of the year
1 – Aerosmith, O, Yeah! Ultimate Aerosmith Hits
2 – The Rolling Stones, Forty Licks
3 – Nirvana, Nirvana
4 – The Who, The Ultimate Collection
5 – U2, Best Of: 1990-2000
And now, ten artists whose new releases I will be anxiously awaiting in 2003:
1 – Aerosmith
2 – Ozzy Osbourne
3 – AC/DC
4 – Zakk Wylde’s Black Label Society
5 – Godsmack
6 – Sevendust
7 – Cinder
8 – A Perfect Circle
9 – Tapeworm
10 – Thursday
And lastly, Rest In Peace…
Randy Castillo
Dee Dee Ramone
Layne Staley
Jam Master Jay
John Entwistle
Dave Williams
Robin Crosby
Goodnight, and have a pleasant New Year.
1 – Audioslave, Audioslave
2 – Jerry Cantrell, Degradation Trip Volumes 1 and 2
3 – Zakk Wylde’s Black Label Society, 1919*Eternal
4 – Dream Theater, Six Degrees Of Inner Turbulence
5 – Down, Down II
6 – Disturbed, Believe
7 – Rush, Vapor Trails
8 – Stone Sour, Stone Sour
9 – Joe Satriani, Strange Beautiful Music
10 – Queens Of The Stone Age, Songs For The Deaf
…Compared to the Top 10 of 2001
1 – Aerosmith, Just Push Play
2 – Tool, Lateralus
3 – Jeff Beck, You Had It Coming
4 – Ozzy Osbourne, Down To Earth
5 – System Of A Down, Toxicity
6 – Monster Magnet, God Says No
7 – Tantric, Tantric
8 – Soil, Scars
9 – Eric Clapton, Reptile
10 – Stevie Nicks, Trouble In Shangri-La
And the five best Greatest Hits Albums of the year
1 – Aerosmith, O, Yeah! Ultimate Aerosmith Hits
2 – The Rolling Stones, Forty Licks
3 – Nirvana, Nirvana
4 – The Who, The Ultimate Collection
5 – U2, Best Of: 1990-2000
And now, ten artists whose new releases I will be anxiously awaiting in 2003:
1 – Aerosmith
2 – Ozzy Osbourne
3 – AC/DC
4 – Zakk Wylde’s Black Label Society
5 – Godsmack
6 – Sevendust
7 – Cinder
8 – A Perfect Circle
9 – Tapeworm
10 – Thursday
And lastly, Rest In Peace…
Randy Castillo
Dee Dee Ramone
Layne Staley
Jam Master Jay
John Entwistle
Dave Williams
Robin Crosby
Goodnight, and have a pleasant New Year.
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