Max-stravaganza

With sincere apologies to Garrison Keillor: ***** It's been a quiet week in Lake Brobegon, Minnesota, my home town.  Out there on the edge of the prairie, the town has begun its transition into the post-Yule Tide, post-BCS portion of winter.  Now that the distraction of religious obligation and bowl games is past us, the Bros can wholly focus their attention on raging hard.  Dudes band together in the winter, their hearts full of youthful cheer and their CamelBaks full of Canadian malt liquor. Winter is a joyous time in Lake Brobegon, particularly since the word "snow" is so conducive to puns.  Bro-boarding.  Bro White and the Seven Dwarfs.  Stopping by Woods on a Bro-wy Evening.  Icy precipitation is pun efficient and indisputable visual evidence that Bro-bal warming needs to be stopped at any cost, if only for the wordplay. On Sunday afternoon at the Our Lady of Perpetual Methodism church, Pastor Ingqvist gave his annual winter serm...

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...

The Fiscal Cliff.  MLB Free Agency.  Israel/Palestine.  NHL Lockout.  Twilight.  Heisman Trophy finalists.  "Did you enjoy 'Lincoln'?"  Lena Dunham.  These are the issues of our time that we are forced to look at as both a country and as an office break room.  And even though there are correct answers to these questions (Go over the cliff, Hamilton to the Red Sox for three years $55M, Israel, $10,000 for each player is still too little, Johnny Football, Team Edward, well-acted snoozefest, pity party), we are expected to hash them out with decorum and tact.  No matter how many first place ribbons you scored at high school debate tournaments, we could all use a lesson on how to productively discuss without hulking out into a fit of partisan rage.

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 ...