Max-stravaganza

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 ...

My rule of thumb regarding heavy drinking has always been: Go as hard as you want, but make sure that someone else in your party is drunker than you are.  That way, the next morning as your friends decompress the night and tag photos on Facebook, they'll say, "Yeah, you were pretty sloshed last night, bro.  But did you see Reginald?  That dude blacked out, tried to put a bouncer in the figure-four leglock, and then texted his mom to brag about it!" No matter how crazy you acted, no matter how many women slapped you for being sexist, no matter how many off color jokes you told (that you swear are funny but everyone else just didn't understand the context), no matter how badly you wrecked your credit card statement by buying drinks for people you had never met before, you can sleep well knowing that the other guy is going to pull focus. Well, that's essentially Newt Gingrich's role at the GOP debates. *****

It took me two weeks to finish the pencils.  Three months to try to teach myself digital painting in Photoshop.   Then it took me a month and a half to get the balls to ask my coworkers for help when I failed miserably at coloring.  Two days later, I was finished.   So I proudly present: Rowdy Rodimus Prime-per

During my senior year of college, The Killers' " Read My Mind " got me through some particularly hard times. Or possibly it perpetuated those dark feelings and drove me into a deeper depression and made my spiral that much more downward. It had the potential to become my Helter Skelter  or, slightly more upbeat, the Don't Stop to my Bill Clinton. Either way, that track was there for me when I needed it, unlike the person whose absence made me in need of said song. Not that I'm bitter or anything. Anymore. Now, I have always considered myself to be a hopeless romantic, but I'm not sure if there is anything about my particular way of life or daily endeavors that truly warrants that title. "Hopeless romantic" is something that I wanted to be and the label stuck. I belong to that particular crowd of 20-somethings who, despite never having found it, laments losing the love of their life. The details leading up to this event don't really need...

Thanks to a random work conversation, courtesy of Jason Ho , the following was born. Hashtag flyandtalk.  So without further Apu, here is: Just Imagine...Aaron Sorkin writing the Justice League.  (Click thumbnail for full size script pages)

A quick, vaguely unmanly confession: I am very uncomfortable walking into a strip club. And I'm not one of those prudes who despises the institution because it degrades women. None of this Gertrude Steinem, undefinable third wave feminism nonsense that insists that it dehumanizes women by turning them into grunting, monosyllabic sex objects. No, I equate stripping to being a secretary at Sterling Cooper. You might get slapped on the ass for a living, but there's also an element of empowerment to be found. I have no problems with the female body. Doesn't make me nervous at all. I think I have even "liked" the female form on Facebook. If it weren't for the promise of bare breasts, why else would I go see Anne Hathaway movies? Hell, I sat through Princess Diaries 2 just in case Disney decided to slip in a few choice, three frame blocks of graphic nudity. No, it has nothing to do with ethics or Feminism or basic hygiene. My problems stem from a more syst...

There's a new Trace Adkins song making its way through the American airwaves. I've heard it on the country radio stations in between long sets of Waylon Jennings and Anti Gay Marriage PSAs. It's a little diddy called, " Just Fishin .'" The song itself is simple, not too intelligent, somewhat effective, yet it makes you smile, like George Foreman on the Home Shopping Network. It's about a father going on a fishing trip with his young daughter. She has her pink rod and reel. As they sit out on the boat, she talks about her life. He tells her stories from the past. They learn about one another. They're make memories that last a lifetime. They're having a father/daughter experience that goes deeper than baiting hooks. And the whole time, his wife thinks that they're "just fishin'." Beautiful song. Makes me wish that I had a redneck daughter who enjoys flaying big mouth bass and singing along to old songs about trains, truck...

September is here, which means (as always) that the Dodgers have been statistically eliminated from playoff contention for the past month, the Niners are faking a competitive streak that will end around week 5, and TV networks are rolling out new shows in the annual battle of "which will be least offensive to Middle America?" So far, there haven't been that many clear pilot season successes. "Person of Interest" features Ben Linus and Jesus using a weird, Morgan Freeman in Dark Knight/Patriot Act machine that gives you the social security number of someone who is either a victim or a perpetrator of a crime. Yep. That's the best, most accessible drama of 2011 so far. Did I mention that Jim Caviezel's best friend is a talking pie? Then you've got a show about dinosaurs (I believe it's called "Whitney"), a couple Mad Men rip offs, a couple "Fables" knock offs, and a Hank Azaria show that destroyed Vegas bookies when it shocki...

Moment of full disclosure: I love professional wrestling. Actual love. The type of love between a man and a woman or a man and a fine Cuban cigar. If we were in fifth grade, I would be in "like" like with wrestling. And it isn't in the sense of “I love the camp! Foreign objects rule!” or “It’s a parody of MMA" or “It’s so bad that it’s good,” much like how some worship Plan 9 From Outer Space or Jeph Loeb's run on Hulk . No. I actually love the sport...to the point where I refer to it as “a sport." I read the dirt sheets. I watch the occasional PPV. When I look at what John Cena has done to the WWE, I shed a single tear like the Indian Chief staring at a field of garbage. I fondly reminisce about the Attitude Era (the late ‘90s when the Rock, Austin, Angle, HHH, and Y2J were running wild) much like the Huffington Post does the Clinton years. It combines Hollywood drama, larger than life icons and athletic ability (which is typically overshadow...

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...