Dem bones, dem bones

It's the holidays. Well it's not now but it was. And in America that means chockablock airports.

The trouble with airports, busy ones in particular, is you have no control over how other people behave. The sheer effort expent trying not scream at people who are, let's face it, holding things up with stupidity that borders on the criminal has at one time or another left me visibly shaking and moments away from what I'm certain is spontaneous combustion.

It's bad enough when you're trapped and watching the idiocy unfold before you while you check your watch every ten seconds and wonder if you'll make it through security before your flight leaves. But when passengers willfully slow things down? Criminal, surely?

And right around the time of the holidays some absolute nutters, in the name of civil liberties, decide it would be the perfect opportunity to boycott the airport x-ray machines. Sigh... does anyone think these things through before opening their mouths to protest? It's really not an infringement of your rights, people. It's an x-ray. However good or bad you think you look, the bored, exhausted and indifferent TSA agent probably couldn't care less how you appear in x-ray format. If they're taking nude photos of passengers and asking you to pose or look over your shoulder and pout then I can see your point. In actual fact, they're looking at what is for the most part a bundle of bones. Have people seen what an x-ray actually looks like? I mean, you do know you like like an idiot if you think some desperate TSA agent is going to be getting excited looking at an x-ray of you, right? I'm not an expert but I feel good about my chances regarding the accuracy of the following assertion: if the TSA agent is that desperate for excitement I'm pretty sure he (or she) is just going to go home and look at porn.

While I'm not at all one of these folks who wants to sign away my civil liberties for the sake of safety, an x-ray really isn't all that intrusive. What's next, boycotting of CAT scan's and MRI's for fear hospital technicians are getting hot and bothered looking at your irradiated bits and pieces? Try to keep it in perspective.

And here's the thing, x-ray: 10 seconds, full body pat down 4 minutes. 100 passengers body scanned, approximately 16 minutes. 100 passengers patted down, approximately 6 hours. Now, how do you feel about having to be at the airport 2 hours before your flight? How do you feel about having to be at the airport 6 hours before your flight? Stop being an idiot and go through the stupid x-ray. "Oh, but they can see my contours!" Yes, and I'm sure that makes all the difference between an x-ray being of interest or not to a TSA agent. And after 8 hours of looking at x-rays on the job, who the hell wants to look at more that might or might not be possibly stored on a TSA hard drive somewhere?

It's far more invasive to have someone's hands all over you, I'm sure. And you really can't be one of these people who thinks you can say no to everything.

X-ray?
No.
Pat down?
No.
You have to have something done.
I'd really rather just go straight to my gate.
Oh. Ok...uh, never mind then. Have a nice day.

**LOUD BUZZER**

Nil points! It doesn't work that way. You cannot have your cake and eat it too. I've tried, it's not allowed. You can have your peanuts and eat them too but since you only about 14 per flight, it hardly counts and you'll be hungry later.

So for the sake of everyone's sanity, just shut up, if selected go through the x-ray (that's right, it isn't even a guarantee you'll have to have one!) and get on the plane so you can go home and annoy your family instead of me.

In that spirit, I leave you with these very sexy TSA x-rays which I think, we can all agree, probably don't look anything like you when you go through the scanner. Unless you're wearing stilettos and get very creative when told to stay still for 10 seconds. Enjoy!

TSA Calendar

Miss January

Miss February

Miss March

Miss April

Miss May

Miss June

Miss July

Miss August

Miss September

Miss October

Miss November

Miss December

According to Gadling.com, these images were created by a German agency for a Japanese computer display company called EIZO, and apparently they are actually just very good CGI and have nothing to do with the TSA.

Deja Vu

Television rots your brain.  Or so I've been told. Given the sheer volume of rubbish on television these days, it's not hard to believe. Outside of sporting events which make up a substantial portion of my viewing, there's not much else to choose from. When everyone is apparently religiously watching Jersey Shore and America's Next Top Model, it makes it quite easy to imagine tossing my television and aborting the monthly cable bill.

For my personal viewing, besides Fox Football ("Do you mean soccer?" - click for more details) Channel, I used to turn to BBC America. It was my 'happy place' amid the pain and misery of US television programming. I could get news (proper current events, not local school children constructing the largest noodle craft project ever unveiled), sitcoms (that actually made you laugh) and drama (that wasn't predictable). You've got to give credit where it's due, we do know how to write interesting television in the UK. Lately however, the selection on the BBC America has become tenuous. It seems whenever I do have some time to actually watch television, and switch to my trusty BBC America I'm greeted by Star Trek: The Next Generation. What? That's not a British show. Not even a little. One English actor does not a British show make. Cough up the cash BBC America and pay for some more programming.

The only thing more worrisome than the appearance of American shows on BBC America is the sheer lack of imagination in actual American programming. It seems many of the shows which are having (or have had) enormous success are remakes of UK shows, re-casted with American actors (language barrier?) - Sanford & Son (Steptoe & Son), All in the Family ('Til Death Do Us Part), Football Wives (Footballers' Wives), Skins, Shameless, Coupling, The IT Crowd, The Office, Queer as Folk, and most recently Being Human. In the case of reality shows, they get shifted over the pond with a ready made charismatic/villainous host (Simon Cowell, Ann Robinson, Piers Morgan) - The Weakest Link, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, American Idol (Pop Idol), America's Got Talent (Britain's Got Talent), Cash in the Attic, Trading Spaces (Changing Rooms), What Not to Wear, Undercover Boss, Super Nanny and now Top Gear.

Top Gear, at least, makes sense. It's immensely popular and there is a different market of cars in the US with it's own group of enthusiasts who would love a Top Gear aimed at the vehicles available here. Unfortunately, the US version lacks the exact ingredient which has made the UK version such a smash success: personality. I can count the number of things I know about cars on one hand. I'm not an enthusiast by any stretch of the imagination and I know nothing about engines (outside of the fact that I need one to go). And yet, I love Top Gear. Why? Because it's entertaining. Unlike the US version which is decidedly not.

It would be nice, if the US networks would hire a few more imaginative people and come up with some of their own rock solid entertaining shows. It can be done but someone out there is going to have to work on getting some television execs who aren't monkeys jumping to copy the first entertaining thing they see. A few less Jersey Shore's, a few more House/Lie to Me/Law & Order's would be a treat.

Without that, it's only a matter of time until some dull witted TV exec sees Star Trek: The Next Generation on BBC America and pitches it to his network as a brand new show....

"I just saw it on BBC America," he says. "It's a show about humans traveling space, the final frontier if you will. Exploring the outer reaches and interacting with aliens. They call it Star Trek. We'll call ours...um, Planet Exploration?...No...Space Expedition?....No.... Solar Journey? No, wait, wait, I've got it... we'll call it Star Trek!"

"That's where you started, sir."

"Oh, well, we'll sort out the name later. Right, what we need is a bald actor, go find me one! Is Michael Chiklis free?"

It will be half way through its first season before someone at the network notices the show seems somewhat familiar....

"Hey, who bought the rights to make this new show?" Scratches head, "Don't we already own this?"

Reformed Demon

At some point in our lives, we all need to slow down. In some cases, it's age, over work or burnout. In my case, I was told to. By the police. Repeatedly.

To be fair, I wasn't keen on heeding their 'advice' so we bumped into each other fairly often. But it was not their grim demeanor or arsenal of hand guns and tasers that made me see the light. No, what finally convinced me that a lifestyle change might be in order was the daunting prospect of a car insurance payment that had ballooned to the size of what I was sure would match a small home mortgage payment.

I have, since my 'rehab' almost six years ago, become a mainstay of a group of drivers who travel just over the limit but never to exceed by more than 8 mph lest we trigger some sort of alarm. I have committed to the actual use of cruise control which heretofore had been the equivalent of self destruct button in the car - DO NOT PUSH! I have forfeited driving red coupes and grimaced as my five speed transmission begs to be toyed with on deserted roads. All done to keep me on the wagon as it were. What I haven't been able to shake in six slooooow years though is my speeder's guilt.

Traveling down any given road, the sight of a police vehicle by the road side triggers an involuntary response whereby I immediately slam on the brakes and then, panic stricken, look down only to discover I was actually already traveling at the speed limit. The down side to this sort of behaviour though is the three car pile up I cause on the road behind me. I'm aware of it, I'm working on it. But I still have a guilty conscience apparently. So consider this a friendly suggestion - don't tail gate in my vicinity.

"You mean soccer?"

I've never quite worked out why soccer is called soccer here. Whenever I start talking about football, most people stop me and say "you mean soccer?" No, I mean football. Round ball kicked about with the feet. You've got all these leagues but the names don't reflect the actual activities going on. Whenever I talk to the son of a friend of mine about sports, I tease him about petitioning to have all the leagues renamed. I'm not quite sure if he's worked out that I'm kidding yet as he seemed genuinely concerned after I mentioned it to him the first time but I thought I'd outline my cunning plan for all to admire.

MLS - Major League Soccer? No. Football? Yes. Ball spending most of its time connecting with foot. But you can't call it MLF (Major League Football) because that's a typo away from being MILF and that would just cause confusion with people trying to understand the already overly complex viewers guide on the television. Plus, Hugh Hefner and the other lads would be tuning in and wondering where the naked ladies are. On the other hand, may be a Playboy sponsorship is what the US league really needs to (warning: imminent pun) get kick started. Import a few more Beckham's and the ladies will be happy spectators too.  So with MLF off the table, MLS will be converted to the new National Football League (NFL) sans commercial interruptions!

We can’t have two NFL’s so naturally the old American styled NFL will need to be re-marketed as the NHL (National Handball League) as it is, after all, mostly about running around with a ball in your hand or catching a ball.

Those poor hockey folks are next in line for an accuracy update and while there is a fair amount of actually hockey being played, there seems to be inordinate amounts of fighting going on. I mean, seriously, they have a box to put you in if you beat up too many people. Sounds like the Ultimate Fighting Championship to me. Get out of the box, have some fisticuffs. Oh, and here’s a stick to help you with that pesky puck which periodically gets in the way! So the hockey lads will revel under their new moniker of UFC…

...while the actual half naked fighters of the old UFC are handing out plain old fashioned beat downs with elbows, knees, knuckles, feet and blood (it can be a weapon!) we may as well pay them tribute by revamping the largest growing sport under the banner of the NBA (National Beatdown Association).

Bringing us to the current league with the largest group of shockingly tall individuals ever assembled, the National Basketball Association. Well let’s face it, when was the last time you saw an actual basket used? It’s a steel rim, a hoop if you will, thus the colloquialism ‘hoops’. National Hoopball Association it is! Congrats, lads, you’ve just been inducted into the NHA!

Which leaves us with one final sport: the sad and lonely national past time of the good ol’ US of A. Baseball. Major League Baseball…yeah, I guess we won’t need to change that one. ::yawn:: Which is fine as I’m not overly enthused about re-christening a sport that can put you to sleep. I’m more excited by the prospect of a league for full contact chess in the future.

Must dash, have to send a quick memo to ESPN about their programming updates.

The most expensive FYI ever...

Opening the mail tonight, I discovered a letter from the US Census Bureau. Short and concise, it contained exactly six sentences between the opening salutation and closing signature.

The letter can be paraphrased as follows:
1. Hi.
2. In about a week, you're going to receive a census packet.
3. It is very important you complete it and return it to us.
4. The Census results are used to determine how funds are allocated for roads, schools, health care and other important programs in different areas.
5. If you do not return it, the results will not be accurate and your community may not receive its fair share of funds.
6. Thanks.

If there are roughly 114,000,000 households in America and assuming each gets a letter, the federal government just spent $50,000,000 on postage. $50,000,000....to tell us we'll be getting another letter in a week. Fifty. Million. Dollars. For what amounts to an FYI.

There is no chance I suppose that you could have put this single sheet of paper, explaining the importance of the census, in with the packet you're sending me next week?

Points 1 and 6 would already be typed. Point 2 would become redundant and not need to be typed. So really, you just need to add points 3, 4 and 5 to next week's packet in big, bold, underlined letters. Any chance? No? Well done. If my expense reports looked like that, I'd be unemployed.

The Grinch Who Stole Facebook...

I like to think that I'm convivial creature. I enjoy socializing. I'm quite happy to network. One would think this would be naturally conducive to regular use of social networking sites. And yet, for some reason, that is not the case. At least, not anymore. "Out of the loop?", someone asked the other day. Can't even see the loop from here, mate. Not entirely sure I want to be in the loop anymore for that matter.

The loop used to consist of written letters. With the advent of the internet, it became letters and photos emailed back and forth in lightning quick fashion. Gradually it morphed into online profiles with images posted in batches and short comments left here and there for all to see. I was content with all of those things. The loop now consists of my having to let you know my every movement six times a day in short one line bursts with mobile uploads of pictures where I am at the this very moment. In exchange, you haven't got to say anything - you can just give me a digital thumbs up. "Friend likes this!".

It is entirely possibly that lengthy conversations might have taken place online but that was back in the dark ages of social networking, before you had to spend time pretending to farm, clean a fish tank, pass drinks and form alliances in hopes of surviving the ongoing mafia war.

Instant messaging and mobile texting have vanquished the art of letter writing. And now, online applications have killed the art of coherent conversation reducing communication to the equivalent of a cyber grunt in the general direction of people you know (or don't know for that matter).

As if that weren't bad enough. You want me to spend time pretending to farm, clean a fish tank, pass drinks and form alliances in hopes of surviving the ongoing mafia war. And I'd rather not. I have 300 requests to spend time pretending to farm, clean a fish tank, pass drinks and form alliances in hopes of surviving the ongoing mafia war but I've ignored them all. What the online application hasn't killed though is your determination and persistence. For every request to spend time pretending to farm, clean a fish tank, pass drinks and form alliances in hopes of surviving the ongoing mafia war that I ignore, another pops up to take its place. Kudos to you!

In a desperate attempt to salvage some humanity, I went to your profile to see what you were up to and what your interests were or where you'd been. But alas, I couldn't find any helpful information as it was lost beneath a haze of farms, fish tanks, gifts and quizzes about which sitcom character you're most like. So I gave up. And I left Facebook. And I was content for a while.

But then I realized I was beginning to miss vital information. My incoming emails seems on the light side. Someone asked me why I wasn't at such and such. Hang on, did you send an invitation? Do you have my current address? Was there an email I missed somewhere? I distinctly do not remember a voice mail of any kind. "No, no," they said, "there was a message. On facebook."

So, after a six month or more sabbatical, I've come back to the new loop such as it is, albeit grudgingly. I will log in to facebook on a regular basis. I will catch up and be 'in the loop'. What I won't do is spend time pretending to farm, clean a fish tank, pass drinks and form alliances in hopes of surviving the ongoing mafia war. Life has enough drama without my waging fictitious wars with people I actually like. If I want fish, I'll set up shop with an aquarium in the living room. And if I'm going to have drinks given to me, I must insist that they come from a three dimensional person standing in roughly the same vicinity as me so that there is an actual possibility that I might be allowed to indulge in them.

I still won't farm though. In any capacity. Ever.

The Eight "I'd Really Rather You Didn'ts"

Originally posted 19.May.2007

Some people are just plain funny and possess a superior sense of wit and irony than the rest of us. Thankfully, these people are occasionally ferreted out and forced to write books.

In 2005, Bobby Henderson, wrote an open letter of protest to Oregon State University against their decision to allow Intelligent Design to be included in the science curriculum as an alternative to evolution. In his letter, complete with illustrations, he declared his belief in an alternate religion he had founded himself for the purpose of the letter, and demanded that his 'Pastafarian' theory of creation also be allowed to be taught in the classroom.

Thus the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster was born and the Eight I'd Really Rather You Didn'ts. There were originally ten, just like our good ol' arbahamic religions, but two of the stone tablets were accidentally dropped and their contents never revealed. Here then for your reading pleasure, the 8 commandments you really ought to know about as described in the Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster which Henderson was forced to turn into a book!
The Eight "I'd Really Rather You Didn'ts"

1. I'd really rather you didn't act like a sanctimonious holier-than-thou ass when describing my noodly goodness. If some people don't believe in me, that's okay. Really, I'm not that vain. Besides, this isn't about them so don't change the subject.
2. I'd really rather you didn't use my existence as a means to oppress, subjugate, punish, eviscerate, and/or, you know, be mean to others. I don't require sacrifices, and purity is for drinking water, not people.
3. I'd really rather you didn't judge people for the way they look, or how they dress, or the way they talk, or, well, just play nice, Okay? Oh, and get this in your thick heads: woman = person. man = person. Samey = Samey. One is not better than the other, unless we're talking about fashion and I'm sorry, but I gave that to women and some guys who know the difference between teal and fuchsia.
4. I'd really rather you didn't indulge in conduct that offends yourself, or your willing, consenting partner of legal age AND mental maturity. As for anyone who might object, I think the expression is go f*** yourself, unless they find that offensive in which case they can turn off the TV for once and go for a walk for a change.
5. I'd really rather you didn't challenge the bigoted, misogynistic, hateful ideas of others on an empty stomach. Eat, then go after the b*******.
6. I'd really rather you didn't build multi million-dollar churches/temples/mosques/shrines to my noodly goodness when the money could be better spent (take your pick):
   1. Ending poverty
   2. Curing diseases
   3. Living in peace, loving with passion, and lowering the cost of cable
      I might be a complex-carbohydrate omniscient being, but I enjoy the simple things in life. I ought to know. I AM the creator.
7. I'd really rather you didn't go around telling people I talk to you. You're not that interesting. Get over yourself. And I told you to love your fellow man, can't you take a hint?
8. I'd really rather you didn't do unto others as you would have them do unto you if you are into, um, stuff that uses a lot of leather/lubricant/Las Vegas. If the other person is into it, however (pursuant to #4), then have at it, take pictures, and for the love of Mike, wear a CONDOM! honestly, it's a piece of rubber. If I didn't want it to feel good when you did it I would have added spikes, or something.