Max-stravaganza

While Kevin James' big screen career has focused on the fantastic yet impractical   subjects 1  of mall copping, zookeeping and boom coming, his television credits contain some true insight into modern middle class struggles.  A 2002 episode of The King of Queens offered an accurate, microcosmic and Nostradamic look at America's current debt ceiling/fiscal cliff/sequestration/Bill Maher fingerpointapalooza crisis. In said episode ( S'Poor House from season five), Doug and Carrie learn that their basement is riddled with mold.  It will cost $12,000 to replace the dry rot; a sum that the cash-strapped, lower middle class Heffernans (Doug works as a driver for the privatized and profitable IPS delivery service while Carrie is a secretary) can't possibly afford 2 . At Carrie's insistance, Doug swallows his pride and petitions his father for a loan.  Mr. Heffernan, financially sound in his old age, agrees, but on the one condition that Doug finall...

Prior to Pulp Fiction , John Travolta was stuck in Hollywood purgatory.  After star-making turns in Saturday Night Fever , Grease , and Welcome Back, Kotter 1 , he struggled to find his footing as a dramatic actor.  No matter how many times he insisted that he wanted to be taken seriously, all audiences saw was a chubby guy in his late twenties who would never live up to his potential 2 .  Travolta would find some box-office success in the  Look Who's Talking franchise, which only type-cast him as a *gulp* goofy love interest for *shudder* Kirstie Alley. Then, in 1994, Quentin Tarantino offered John the part of Vincent Vega, a relatable sociopath whose tough guy exterior yet insecure pathos seemed to mirror Travolta's real-world persona.  The first time audiences heard "royale with cheese," Danny Zuko suffered a horrible, mafia-style assassination to the sounds of Ezekiel 25:17.  Travolta received an Academy Award nomination and found...

1) The Stress Bracket It's 11:58am.  Like all respectable pools in this country, there is a hard noon deadline.  Maybe you got caught up in work.  Maybe you forgot that March Madness takes place in the month after February.  Maybe you were too busy playing team sports and hanging out with girls.  But somehow you forgot to fill out your bracket. It's a two minute mad cap dash to the Final Four.  Putting together a bracket last minute as though it's a 3000-word college term paper the night before, word-counting every other hour (my name counts as two, right?), messing with Microsoft Word's margins, and even considering adding in a few charts and graphics despite the fact that the topic is "Discuss the role of the individual in Moby-Dick ." Either way, this person fills out a bracket in less than 90 seconds (the aid of a flipped coin determining any close match ups) and then haphazardly hands it in, not even noticing that the seeds in his final ...

As an alternately underpaid/unpaid Hollywood intern, you always have to fake that you're "just lucky to have the experience." You're "thankful to be working with such great people" and "truly blessed to be learning so much." It's institutionalized bullshit, insisting that the emasculating experience is more important than full time employment. But recently, I have been genuinely lucky to be working with one particular individual...as from my office/copy room, I now have a front row seat for their slow, devastating, full-on Travis Bickle descent into insanity. I'm not going to say who this person is. Everyone in Hollywood knows everyone else. But it's someone I either work for or with. Man or woman. Executive or artist. Director or designer. I'm not saying. I plead the fif . Over the past month, this individual has slowly lost his or her grasp on reality. Symptoms include: Seeing things that aren't there. Gross paranoia. An eve...

My parents' basement, 1 AM Dear assorted nerds, competitive statisticians, former high school athletes, Monday morning quarterbacks, disillusioned 9 to 5 corporate schlubs, ESPN interns, middle management suits, fanboys, compulsive gamblers, or as you are collectively known, Fantasy Football Owners- It's 1 AM and it might be the Five Hour Energy that I chugged four hours ago, but I believe that I have something to say. We're at the tail end of the season within the season, the post-season before the post-season: Fantasy Football Playoffs. The past thirteen weeks of draft strategy and passive aggressive waiver claims have paid off for a select few. Although the NFL players might think they are competing for their own postseason spot, they are actually fighting for bragging rights. Although the Carolina Panthers are hoping for the #1 pick in the 2011 draft, there are plenty of owners praying that Jonathan Stewart hits the 100 yard mark this Sunday. I was brought into Fant...

With the advent of user generated web content, the Internet is supposed to conform to my own needs. Either I don't make a good first impression or the Internet could seriously use a refresher course. I dislike most of the people that Facebook suggests I add as friends (I'm looking at you, "angry dude from college" and "quiet girl I never spoke to in high school"). I hate half the music that Pandora recommends (REO Speedwagon on my "AC/DC" channel? Really?) and Hulu tailors some very strange ads "just for me" (Diaper commercials, LensCrafters, HIV prevention tips for gay Samoan men, etc.). And since I'm a straight, contraceptively competent, and continent caucasian with perfect vision, I'm not sure who that one was meant for. So I've been hard pressed to see how Web 2.0.1 has made life easier for society. It's just an outlet to post tons of unnecessary information about yourself (see: here ). And suddenly it hi...

It has only taken four and a half months, but the weather has finally warmed up in Auckland. Even though I still carry around my umbrella in my backpack (gotta be prepared for flash floods), I can confidently and pragmatically parade down the street in sunglasses and a t-shirt. But most importantly...for the first time since I've been down here I've been able to wear shorts. Yes, I can finally bust the plum smugglers out of my wardrobe and flaunt my oddly-youthful calves. Yes, it has been far too long since my legs have been allowed to breathe. I've sported my favorite pair of jeans so much over the past semester that I've worn unfortunately placed holes into the back pocket and crotchal regions. So now I get to rotate in my khaki shorts and stop exposing my boxer shorts to anyone walking behind me. This all ties together with my dream summer job: UPS delivery guy. I mean, what could possibly be cooler than getting paid to wear shorts to work? What could be cooler?...