Max-stravaganza

The parable of the Prodigal Son has never made sense to me. There are a few gaps in logic that seem to run contradictory to the rest of the New Testament. A quick recap for those of you who slept through Sunday School (read: the cool kids/erstwhile Atheists): It is a story of two men: the perpetual fuckup, and his moral, hard working brother. One day, the Prodigal Son (who was out doing God knows what in the land of milk and honey) returns home. The father is overjoyed and slaughters the fatted calf in celebration and there is much rejoicing. What never made sense is why the good son gets skipped over. He's been a model citizen and never has there been a ritualistic slaughtering on his behalf. His consistent performance goes unrewarded by his father. The Non-Prodigal maintained a straight A average, but his college application doesn't look as impressive as the truant C student who gets his act together Junior year and starts getting A minuses. No matter how consistent ...

There are two sorts of people who go to the gym on Saturday morning: those attempting to sweat off their hangover and those who had no plans on Friday night. I won't specify my reasons for being on the exercise bike. It's Saturday morning, so naturally the only thing on broadcast TV are Ron Popeil infomercials, replays of SportsCenter and the Suite Life of Zack and Cody (sidebar: I nearly run over once by Ashley Tisdale. I'm not sure what was more disappointing: the fact that she is only 5'2" or that a child actress drives a luxury automobile that is unattainable for someone with my college degree). So as I'm pedaling away, there are two screens in front of me. To my right is a graphic infomercial for St. Jude's Children's Hospital. Marlo Thomas takes us through a montage of children in incubators, cancer patients, smiles that fight through tears. It's brutal, gutting and plays upon our guilt...albeit for a good cause. The screen on my ...

A while back, Pete Townshend was interviewed (wish I could find the transcript, but Google has finally failed me. Google insists that this has never happened to it before, but I have my doubts. This isn't my first encounter with search engine flaccidity.) about the current state of the music industry. The point that resonated was a comment about ownership of digital music. Not in a "Hands off, Napster! I'm still bitter!" Lars Ulrich-sort of rant. Townshend was mourning the loss of tangibility when purchasing an album. Back in the day, you bought a record. In addition to the music, you had a physical representation of the purchase. You had liner notes. You had cover art. You had the actual vinyl record. More importantly, they were your copy. A version of the record that was capable of being personalized (read: damaged). Townshend mentioned that his childhood record collection had plenty of scratches, but they were his scratches. He knew that his copy of...

HUMAN RESOURCES: Welcome. Please have a seat. I have a quick series of questions to assess your personality and see if you're best suited for this position. HR: First off, what's your name? APPLICANT: Fuck You. That's my name. HR: Heh heh. Seriously now. A: There are some who call me...Tim. HR: Okay, Tim. What unique abilities do you bring to our company? A: What I do have are a very particular set of skills. Skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. HR: How do you feel that you are different from other applicants for this position? A: Some people can read War and Peace and come away thinking it was a simple adventure story. Others can read the ingredients on a chewing gum wrapper and unlock the secrets of the universe. HR: Where do you see yourself in five years? A: I'm going to be a mighty king. So enemies beware. I'm going to be the main event, like no king was before. I'm brushing up on loo...

Dear Esquire, Long time reader, first time griper. Ever since opening my first copy in my childhood dentist's waiting room, I have been a firm believer that Esquire is the one, true authority for men with regards to fashion, food and foxy ladies. So much so, in fact, that I will personally thank Esquire on my tombstone. This is done in part because your magazine helped me pick out the gravesite that will attract the most single women. Your most recent issue, however, has put me in quite the moral quandary regarding your magazine's capacity to accurately judge what constitutes "manliness." In an article titled " 10 Trends to Steal from Fashion Week ," you run down the essential points that American men should take from European stylists. These include: Shortened, blue blazers, shiny tuxedos, mesh tops, and tribal print. What the hell, Esquire? It's like you want me to get run out of town by angry villagers like I'm Frankenstein's mo...

Game of Thrones is all the rage on the blogosphere and Twitterverse and all those other online sources of baseless opinions which, sadly, I belong to. Even though it puts my soul at hazard, I finally broke down and tweeted: "Okay. I'll be a part of this world." As my college friends can attest, there isn't a TV series that I haven't seen. We all remember that two week stretch during sophomore year where I marathoned seasons 2-5 of Blossom and nearly wrote my term paper on Joey instead of D.H. Lawrence. With Game of Thrones , however, I'm waiting to read the book first. Partly because I hear it's a great read. Mainly I'm doing this for the same reason that before torrenting (what? I would never do that!) V for Vendetta , I read the comic book: so I could say "God, the book was so much better! Why did they change detail XYZ and leave out character Q?" Without reading a single page, I feel entitled and better than most people. Exactl...

Baseball season is upon us, which means that once again Americans are provided with their favorite pastime: hating Barry Bonds. The Bonds steroids/perjury/socking dingers trial is back up, and much like pitchers in the late 90s, the prosecution has no answer for Barry Bonds. It looks as though Barry is going to get off because of his shrunken testicles (*pause for effect 3...2..1..*), which apparently is the legal equivalent of an intentional walk. Even after retirement, Bonds continues to be a media pariah. Even after he left to game to no fanfare, he is still the target of scorn, ridicule and "BAL-CO" chants. Don't get me wrong, I hate this man more than Jane Fonda and the Jonas Brothers combined, but you have to respect the man's hand-eye coordination and bat speed. The following is an essay I wrote about how the necessary evil that is Barry Bonds has a few positive benefits. I apologize if it reads melodramatic. I wrote it two years ago. I was so much olde...

If you get it, read a book.

If Michael Moore has taught me anything (*pause for laughter*), it's that we as a society need to start asking tough questions about our leaders and idols. We have to stop blindly accepting orders and free ourselves from the shackles of the dominant culture. Having said that: What the hell has Wedge Antilles ever done to earn our faith and trust? The Wedge Factor: When an unimpressive supporting character receives a dedicated fan following for no reason; typically a character that receives so little screen time that the audience fills in the blanks with awesomeness. It's a concept similar to the Worf Effect , but I think that the Wedge Factor is a bit deeper (sidebar: I was tempted to dub it the Illegal Wedge , but that was taken). If you ask anyone about their favorite peripheral characters from Star Wars, Wedge Antilles will undoubtedly come up. IGN ranked him the 24th greatest Star Wars character of all time . He is a bold fighter pilot, a valiant solider and skilled i...

To say goodbye is to die a little. -Raymond Chandler, "The Long Goodbye" ********** I recently got representation as a writer. This means that I now have to "work" and "generate new ideas" as opposed to sitting around on my ass, dreaming about putting things down on paper. I celebrated my signing by dropping a good chunk of change in the "Young Professional Douchebag" (YUPDIE) section of Urban Outfitters. I bought plenty of flannel, a book about how to make 100 different sorts of martinis, and a turntable so I can invite people back to my loft and listen to old Bryan Ferry records. And on Friday, I said goodbye to my unpaid internship. It was sad. I felt like I should commemorate it with Cheers' "We're Closed" final line, or saying Goodnight Moon to every room that I had spent time in. "Goodnight copier. Goodnight movie projector. Goodnight beleaguered assistant to egomaniacal director." ...

Oscars are this weekend, and unfortunately The King's Speech is going to win Best Picture; mainly since David Fincher alienates Academy members much like Mark Zuckerberg alienates everyone. Then you've got Mr. Darcy , who's going to win an Academy Award for doing his best Simple Jack impression. If Jesse Eisenberg stuttered during Social Network, it's because he can't keep up with Aaron Sorkin's banter, not because he's trying to exaggerate historical inaccuracies for the sake of Oscar gold . The Social Network was by far my favorite movie of the year, possibly decade (depending on whether the decade starts with year one or zero. Jack Black and Michael Cera say that it's year one, so I'm going to trust them on this.) I left the theater bruised and battered. I couldn't tell what I felt. Firstly, it's a fantastic movie. Secondably, I was demoralized since I a) didn't go to Harvard, b) come from money or c) am not good at math, whic...

I know that I'm late to the party, but I'm thoroughly tired of Twitter (and I'm also late to the party on using the phrase "late to the party"). Apart from giving us 24/7 insights into the buying habits of our congressional leaders , it reinforces the misconception that every one of our random thoughts is worth broadcasting (note: but keep reading my blog). People often ask me why I don't have an account. It's rather simple. My Twitter feed, like my tell all biography and sex tape, is raunchy, poignant and full of angry language towards the female cast of Glee, but it won't be relevant until I'm famous. No one wants to hear the banal rants and ramblings of a nobody (sidenote: but keep reading my blog). A co-worker responded, "But being on Twitter is how you become famous." Not for the right reasons. Twitter is the online version of the E! Network or Bravo. What kills me is when people talk about their tweets. Verbally retweet...