Wednesday, October 16, 2013

GABF: Heaven in a bottle

I am going to tell you about my weekend, because frankly, I probably had a better weekend than you. Why? Because my weekend involved one of the greatest spectacles this great country of ours puts on that does not involve any of the Kardashians: The Great American Beer Festival.

What is the Great American Beer Festival? It is like Disneyland for drunk people. Some of the numbers: 580 breweries serving 2,700 different kinds of beers over 3 days to 49,000 people who by the end of the day will have a higher BAC than IQ. They give you a small little glass and you can have unlimited samples of beer for the entire four hour session.

It is the journey that every good beer-loving 'Merican like me must one day take. You go into the Great American Beer Fest a boy and you come out four hours later a severely inebriated man. It is the Super Bowl to my quarterback, the Mecca to my Hajji, the Mount Doom to my Frodo, the ice cream truck to my Arthur Jones

Now, the first step towards the GABF actually occurs months before the actual festival. As the event has grown more popular, getting tickets to the festival is like trying to get fresh lobster in Kansas. Tickets this year sold out in about 20 minutes, which means in order to get the tickets, I completely ignored my professional obligations for about an hour refreshing my computer and angrily clicking on a stupid little button.

But thanks to my perseverance and all the good beer karma I've built up over the years, I was able to score three tickets, which I immediately sold for heroin.

I'm kidding obviously. I wouldn't have given you the ticket for a solid gold statue shaped like Kate Upton. I may never get to experience something like this again, so I took copious notes. Of course, I have no idea where they are. I probably ate them. The only thing I had was a drawing on the back of my ticket that appears to be a pretzel. But I do remember all most some the existence of the festival, so I will try to recount it as best I can.

**Disclaimer: Author may take some liberty with the facts of this story as they may or may have not occurred in order to fill in parts of the trip that he may or may not remember. Any resemblance of people in this story to persons you may know is probably likely since all people act pretty much the same when you get that much alcohol in them. WARNING: This contains language and nudity. And cheese on toothpicks, if that sort of thing bothers you.**

So the first thing you notice when you arrive at the festival is just how big this thing is. There are people every where in this huge building, and try as you might, the bottom line is you will not drink even half the beers at this festival before dying. So having a plan is key, or you will end up drunkenly wandering the halls forever, doomed to a Courtney Love-like existence.

So me and my two companions, Alex and Andrew, came up with what we thought at the time was a pretty fool-proof and scientific plan:

Q: So where do we meet if we get separate?
A: “By the beer.”

Q: Which beers should we drink?
A: “The ones we can gt our hands on the quickest.”

Q: Where should we start?
A: “Right here looks good.”

We also established several ground rules:
  1. Leave no man behind
  2. Actually the hell with that, this isn't the Marines, this is drinking. You fall behind, you get left behind.
  3. No cutsies in either the beer line, bathroom line, or the cheese steak line.
  4. Hold onto your sample glass. There is a tradition at the GABF of yelling whenever someone drops there glass. The last thing we want in a room full of drunk people is to have everyone looking at us.
  5. First person to drink to “YOLO” will be stabbed.
And so we started our journey of beer. The magical, magical beer. There were a few that weren't great, but 99% of the beers there were absolutely magical. The one the three of us all remember was an imperial pumpkin porter from a Texas brewery that tasted like pumpkin pie in a glass.

Among the other more interesting beers we tried were (and I am not making any of these up): Sweet potato ale, an oyster stout called Pearl Necklace, a stout called Sexual Chocolate and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich beer called No Crust. Did we make inappropriate jokes out of all of those and sing “peanut butter jelly time” as we drank all those? Why yes, yes we did.

But you need more than beer, so we weren't too shocked when we realized that our routes were primarily determined by Alex, who at the slightest hint of free food would dash off in that direction with the type of speed and dedication to purpose normally reserved for Navy SEAL training. Alex spent most of his day drunkenly telling girls how much he loved putting sausage in his mouth.

But there wasn't just sausage. We had gooey cream-stuffed churros and cookie dough cupcakes, which are even more magical than they sound.

There is a lot or random stuff at the GABF. There was a place you could get your hair cut, a lady giving massages, the world's longest line to take a piss (also known as the PBR bottling facility) and even a place that I think was performing weddings.

But none of it, can top the silent disco. If you've never heard of a silent disco, they fence off an area and give dancers headphones that all play the same music. This means that a bunch of white people who have just spent the past two hours drinking large quantities of alcohol are dancing to music nobody else but them can hear. This alone is worth the price of admission:

So to recap, the festival was a blast. In fact, the only drawback to GABF: The morning after GABF. Especially for Alex and Andrew, who had to work and probably looked something like this:

But the day after GABF was mainly sad because it meant we were no longer in the GABF. But we have vowed to return some day, and we will use the wealth or knowledge and experience that we gained from this years festival to truly master the art of being wandering drunks next year. You should come with us. We'll introduce you to our friend, the overlord of the GABF, Rasputin.

Thursday, October 10, 2013


I awoke the other morning to find out that something essential to the function of this country, something very near and dear to me and something that I could never imagine living without was no longer working: my toilet.

You see, a water main broke near my apartment complex, leaving about 200 units without water as we share one porta-potty. Oh, and speaking of things that are full of s***, the U.S. Government stopped working last week too.

Now like most Americans, I really have a very shallow understanding of why the government shut down. Seriously though, if someone can explain it to me in very simple terms (preferably using pictures and pop-up books) I would appreciate it.

But I think it's safe to say it has something to do with the one fact that always stops the government from getting a lot of things done: It is run by idiots. Basically, the House (run by Republicans) passed a bill that the Senate (run by Democrats) does not want. Ipso facto bing bam snap crackle pop:


So who is at fault? It is really hard to say. So I say we blame this on Miley Cyrus. The media thinks everything these days is the fault of Miley Cyrus and her twerking, including (but not limited to): degradation of American values, teenage pregnancy and Breaking Bad ending.

But enough about why the government shut down, we must now get to the important issue: Figuring out if we (as in “I”) care. The lazy, wise-ass answer would be to say, “Well, it's not like the government does anything normally.” So that is what I am going to stick with, because I am a lazy wise-ass.

But in all seriousness, Congress-persons are still getting paid, but hundreds of thousands of federal workers aren't and many federal services will not be running as long as the government remains shut down. So my plan is to become a Congress-person so I no longer have to care about things like the government shutting down because I didn't do my job.

But I'm still not old enough to run for Congress, so in the meantime we have to get to the heart of the issue that caused this government shutdown which is at this moment unbeknownst to me. But I do have inside sources, and I am being told there are people on the inside hard at work at resolving this delicate situation:

Oh well it's not like this government shut down is really affecting me. Hah! Take that Nobel Prize winners!

Wait what? You're telling me breweries can't distribute more beer during the shutdown? OK this is starting to get serious now. Oh no, I need to check, oh no they didn't... They shut down PANDA CAM!!!!

Nobody shuts down panda cam without consequences. So I am urging Congress to come together and reach a solution. I am planning on doing this the only way I know how: Getting really drunk and then yelling/sobbing into a phone. That way, we can re-open national parks across this great country of ours. And then toss John Boehner into Old Faithful.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

The baby is coming, the baby is coming!

Now for obvious reasons, I don't like to quote Justin Bieber unless I am yelling at airport security to “keep your hands off my monkey!” But just for today I think it's only fair we let the Biebs announce the big news!

Justin: “Baby, baby, baby OOOOOHH like baby, baby, baby OOOOHHH baby, baby...

OK thanks Justin I think we get the picture. So as you've probably heard, yesterday Kate Middleton and Prince Harry/Charles/William had a royal -

Justin: “Baby, baby, baby OOOOOHHH-”

Yes, yes thank you Justin. Anyway, yes they had a baby. And the collective world lost its s**t.

And frankly, that pissed me off a bit. Our forefathers did not shoot British soldiers with rusty pellets so they could listen to some person with a British accent dribble on about the goings-on of the royal hoo-has. I already described how disgusted I was with all the coverage of the royal wedding, so I really was not looking forward to all the media coverage of this child.

It would be one thing if this baby actually were going to inherit any actual power, but other than the power to cause British paparazzi to poop themselves, nobody in the royal family has any power. Yet, here was CNN devoting full coverage to it. And I mean full coverage. At one point they showed a random woman giving birth as part of their coverage:

You would have thought nobody had ever given birth to a child before, despite the fact that I'm pretty sure China alone flushed 1 million yesterday.

But then of course, the moment actually came, and the royal offspring cameth forward:

...And I still didn't care. In fact, I'm still not convinced there was an actual baby born. I have not seen pictures of it, thanks to this crazy new “pay for baby pictures” thing famous people are doing now-a-days. The only member of the royal family I would pay to see naked is still Pippa.

Like most bad things in this world, I blame all this baby-mania on the Kardashians. This whole baby excitement peaked with the birth summoning of Kimye's child demon-spawn, which they promptly named North West in an effort to ensure she is a unique individual gets teased in school and grows up to be a stripper.

So of course, the next big thing is: What do we name the royal family's little stinker? Now I didn't know we named British royalty. I thought you just added more roman numerals onto the end of his name, like Henry XIII, Pope John Paul II, or RGIII.

But apparently we do have to name his royal poopiness. Now I don't know what Prince Charles/Harry/William's last name is, so we're going to pretend the baby's last name is Middleton. So here are some names to ensure he and North West can one day marry each other and join the royal rich and spoiled families of our respective continents:
  • Stuckinthe Middleton
  • Rightdownthe Middleton
  • Monkeyinthe Middleton
  • Upthe Middleton
  • And my personal favorite: Carlton Middleton
I'm just really worried about what all this media coverage could mean for this poor kid. I mean, what happens when they televise his circumcision? I mean, that could make the doctor nervous, and one wrong snip while working down there and –

Justin: "Baby, baby, baby NOOOOOOO"


Sunday, July 14, 2013

Sharnknado warning

Any of you who are on any form of social media know that the only story that has even approached the level of hype and excitement CNN has put on the Trayvon Martin trial is of course the SyFy movie  Sharknado.
For those of you who somehow have not heard of Sharknado, it is exactly what it sounds like. It is a giant f*****g tornado that picks up a whole bunch of sharks and then rains them down on Los Angeles. 
I don’t think it is an underestimation to say I was more excited to see this movie than I am for the return of Twinkies.

Is anything about this movie realistic? Well, no. It takes a special kind of person to watch SyFy movies. Namely, an idiot like me. For instance, I once watched a movie called Dinoshark, and the only time I got outraged about the facts in that movie was when girls in a water polo match use two hands. That’s right, in a movie about a prehistoric shark ravaging Mexico after being released from a glacier, I got mad because the players refused to follow the rules of water polo. 

Heck, I once ignored a line in a movie called Dinocroc vs Supergator that implied crocodiles and alligators are natural enemies even though I’m pretty positive those two animals have never, ever encountered one another in the wild.

In fact, I’m a bit of a SyFy movie connoisseur. Why? Because those are the types of movies that are on TV while I’m sitting on the couch on Sunday afternoons working off a hangover. So for those of you that didn’t watch Sharknado, I – as a certified SyFy movie expert -- watched it for you! Caution, this obviously contains spoilers.

But first, the key to remaining interested in a SyFy movie even as the horrible production, acting and plot threaten to shut down your brain is to get invested in the characters. And by that I mean predicting with your friends which people will die. So we are going to break down the odds of each of Sharknado’s main characters avoiding becoming shark kibble:

Fin: Our hero
Weapon of choice: Chainsaw
Odds of surviving: 1-1
Breakdown: This is a gimme. The main hero never dies, even if he thinks a chainsaw is a practical weapon to be carrying around. But more importantly, how lazy are these writers? A guy named Fin. In a movie about sharks. I almost want him to die now.

Nova: Our heroine
Weapon of choice: Shotgun
Odds of surviving: 3-2
Breakdown: The other safe bet in a SyFy is our hero’s love interest. You can identify the heroine by picking out the least slutty of the women in the movie who is still good looking. Plus, Nova here has a scar on her leg from a shark that ate her grandfather when she was a child, causing her to hate sharks. Did I mention she has a shotgun? Yeah, I think she will easily have the highest kill count.

Baz: The funny best friend
Weapon of choice: Baseball bat
Odds of surviving: 10-1
Breakdown: Baz is from Tasmania. That’s right, Baz is a Taz (really writers?). Anyway, the best friend is there for comic relief, but almost always dies towards the end of the movie in an inevitably heroic sacrifice of some sort. Also, people with accents do well with women at bars, but not as well with killer animals in SyFy movies.

April: The old flame played by Tara Reid.
Weapon of choice: Hedge trimmer
Odds of surviving: 5-1
Breakdown: One of two things happen with the old flames in these movies. They either reunite with the hero, or they die in some fantastically bloody way. With the presence of Nova, I doubt the first is an option, but the fact that Tara Reid is playing the old flame gives her a chance. You don’t pay Tara Reid and her plastic parts to just die.

George: The old drunk horny guy
Weapon of choice: Barstool (I am not making that up)
Odds of surviving: 500-1
Breakdown: George -- who is played by the dad from Home Alone -- is doomed. Drunk people never survive these movies. Old people never survive these movies. Horny people never survive these movies. People who think carrying around a barstool as a weapon is a good idea don’t survive anywhere. 

Claudia: The teenage daughter
Weapon of choice: Teenage angst
Odds of surviving: 2-1
Breakdown: SyFy movies rarely kill children. Especially family members. Even if they are really annoying.

Matt: The college-aged son
Weapon of choice: Propane canisters
Odds of surviving: 3-1
Breakdown:  He’s a little older and he’s a male, which means he is more likely to die while trying to impress either his father or a girl. Hence the longer odds than his sister.

Two bros: Bros
Weapon of choice: Bromance
Odds of surviving: 1 million-1
Breakdown: I don’t know who these two people are or how they are connected to the other characters. They just show up out of nowhere. They are certain to die, probably in a very brotastic way. God bless them.

I’ll give you some time to place your bets. OK, and now we commence with the film. Get yo popcorn ready.

1 minute: We start off as most bad SyFy movies do, in a boat off the coast of Mexico with an Asian business man doing something illegal with a vaguely European person with an evil accent who says “People shouldn’t be afraid of sharks, it’s sharks who should be afraid of us.” They of course both die.

We also get our first look at the production quality of the sharks. It is horrible. Also, these sharks are very adept at moving around on dry surface and chewing people. Darwin would be proud.

9 minutes: After the obligatory shots of LA beaches and bikini-clad butts, we are introduced to our main characters, who are in a bar that gets overrun by sharks coming in on large waves. We are told that a hurricane in California is the fault of (brace yourself): Global warming! Everything is global warming’s fault.  Also, as the bar patrons run screaming out of the bar, Fin reminds them, “Don’t forget taco Tuesday.”

37 minutes: Fin, Baz, Nova and George embark to try and find Fin’s family. It’s pretty smooth sailing until they encounter the only thing more dangerous than sharks: LA traffic. George displays surprising skill wielding his barstool to smack a shark and save a dog from a car, but he is our first character to get chomped. His last words: “Ow.”

50 minutes: They find Tara Reid and the daughter. Time has not been good to Tara Reid. After a shark eats her pretty-boy douchebag new boyfriend, Baz looks at the bloody water and drops this line: “It looks like it’s that time of the month.” Apparently being a script writer is not that hard.

1 hour: We are at the halfway point, and there have been lots of sharks but no tornados yet. I’m getting worried.

1:09: Wait, off in the distance, beyond the skyline, could it be?


1:16 hours: The car they are driving has a gas leak. After the get out, it suddenly explodes, despite no sparks. They decide to go straight into a liquor store. I frankly wouldn’t leave it.

1:19 hours: With no ride, they steal the only practical vehicle there is for this situation: A tricked out Hummer. Seriously, this Hummer has a Nos switch. This movie is now part shark, part tornado, part Fast and the Furious. I’m in love.

1:32 hours: They find the son, who is a chopper pilot. They decide they are going to “stand and fight.” They are going to do this by flying a helicopter into a tornado and drop small little propane canisters to blow up the sharks. Baz also tells us that not only will this kill sharks, this will somehow stop a tornado.  He had scientific facts to back this up.

1:43 hours: So much for dying heroically. Baz gets picked up by a tornado and eaten trying to rig a Hummer to explode. 

1:45 hours: Nova and Matt are in a chopper throwing their redneck explosives into the tornadoes. And somehow it’s working. The two pound propane tanks are producing nuclear sized explosions and instantly stopping these tornadoes. I hope FEMA is taking notes.

1:47 hours:  Also our bros meet their end. One pushes the other out of the way only to get killed himself. His friend minutes later has a shark land on him anyway. #YOLO to our bros.

1:52 hours: Nova falls out of the helicopter and in midair is swallowed whole by a shark. Apparently these things have very good hand-mouth coordination. Never-the-less, a death I was not expecting.

1:55 hours: There is still one tornado left, and Matt’s helicopter is down and they’re out of bombs. So Fin drives a Hummer filled with more bombs and jumps out just as he pushes the Nos button and the Hummer goes flying into the tornado and blows up. Are we really sure this wasn’t the rejected script for Fast and the Furious 7 Deadly Seas?

But our heroes are not out of the woods yet. Sharks are now falling from the sky, and one is about to crush Claudia. But thankfully -- in possibly the greatest action scene ever -- Fin dives chainsaw first into the mouth of the shark. 

And of course, he saws his way out of the shark with a bloody but alive Nova, who happened to be in the very same shark. Seriously these things need to learn to chew.

So to recap, our survivors are Fin and  April (who do get back together), Nova and Matt (who now also appear to be a couple) and Claudia, who has learned a lesson about being a whiny brat.

Overall, I’d give it a solid B as far as SyFy movies go. There wasn’t nearly as much sharks in tornadoes as I was expecting, but the acting also was not nearly as bad as it should have been. I’m just really looking forward to the inevitable sequel.

Friday, July 12, 2013

Party in the USA

I'm a little ashamed of my country right now. Yes, I know we just came off Fourth of July weekend, a time when I normally couldn't be prouder to be an American as we all bask in the glory of gluttonous amounts of barbecue, cheap beer and illegal explosives.

But then I saw that some people have put in a petition to the White House to change the national anthem from “Star Spangled Banner,” to – I kid you not – Miley Cyrus' “Party in theUSA.”

Now, let's be clear, people put all sorts of weird petitions into the White House. Heck, at one point someone from Colorado tried to petition the building of a Death Star, which of course prompted an equally hilarious response by the White House (though I would add I still think a planet-destroying death satellite would not even crack the Top 10 stupidest projects the U.S. government has ever sponsored).

So don't expect Roseanne to mangle her way through “Party in the USA” before the Super Bowl just yet, since the petition only has about 1,000 of the 100,000 required signatures. But still, the fact that this petition exists means we seriously need to take a deep, hard, long look in the mir
ror at ourselves America.

First though, I want to get something out of the way. Do not take this to in any way mean I don't like “Party in the USA.” I love that song way more than any grown man reasonably should, and whenever it comes on I tend to sing it off-tune, with the volume directly corresponding to the amount of alcohol I have in my system at the time. In fact, somewhere out there are several cell phone videos of me singing this song in the back of a car that will inevitably surface should I ever choose to run for public office.

But with that said, “Party in the USA” should not be the national anthem. Sure it is easier to dance to; I mean have you ever tried to dance to “Star Spangled Banner?” I never know what my hips are supposed to be doing during “and the rockets red glare.” Sure it's easier to sing, judging by the countless people who royally screw it up. I mean who the heck says “oer” anyway?

But the reason “Party in the USA” shouldn't be the national anthem is... is... OK this is awkward. I may have just talked myself into this idea. Actually now that I think about it, how great would it be watching someone like Alicia Keys have to sing “and the Jay-Z song was OOONN!”

I mean just look at the lyrics:
“I hopped off the plane at L.A.X. with a dream and my cardigan”

Now if that doesn't describe the true American journey I don't know what does. I also don't really know what a cardigan is, but that's not the point.

The point is, this needs to become reality, and we need to take steps towards this ultimate goal. So write a letter to your Congress person. Email news channels. Tweet at Miley and tell her to do away with whatever the heck you call her hairdo right now. With your help, we will succeed, and we will put our hands up because they are playing our song.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Final Four Play

As I'm sure you are aware now because one of your obnoxious co-workers is bragging about winning $20 on a sporting event so random 10-year-olds routinely win it, the NCAA men's basketball tournament wrapped up on Monday.

In the end, Louisville beat Michigan to capture the championship, capping off a remarkable run through the tournament for a team that, by all appearances, is coached by the long-lost uncle of Edward Cullen.

There were a lot of story lines to this game, especially on the Louisville side. As many of you have already seen, one of their players, Kevin Ware, jumped to defend a shot in a game and then watched as his leg made like a Kit Kat bar and pretty much snapped in half.

WARNING: If you are at all squeamish you should not watch this video. Seriously, it was the grossest thing I have ever seen on TV, and I once watched an entire documentary on tapeworms. In fact, don't watch the video, just look at the reaction of his teammates:

Seriously, they look like they just saw the swampy girl from The Ring crawl onto the court. This injury has made me very grateful for the fact that I have never in my life been able to jump more than two inches off the ground.

Yet somehow, despite the fact that his bone was sticking out of his leg, Ware's only concern was yelling at his teammates to win the game. This is fairly remarkable considering if that had been me I would have been more concerned with the fact that my bone was STICKING OUT OF MY LEG. Actually, more than likely I would have been passed out. I mean the very act of watching the video makes me a little light-hea... *head smashes onto desk*

Anyway, so Louisville had a lot to play for. Which made it surprising that for most of the first half of Monday's game, they were dominated by some freshman named Spike Albrecht, who I'm pretty sure is descended from leprechauns.

Despite being a short, white ginger person – traits that generally do not bode well for people trying to play the sport of basketball – Albrecht went absolutely bonkers.

But then Louisville countered with Luke Hancock, an equally vanilla white person. Before you knew it the game was just a duel of white people jacking up three-pointers from wherever the hell they wanted in a unathletic display of YMCA pick-up ball that would have made the 1920s proud.

Eventually the other players also got into the groove of things, and all of a sudden they were doing very springy-type things that required the ability to jump.

 Louisville eventually fulfilled the last, dying wish of Kevin Ware's shin bone and won the game. But I don't think there were really losers in this game. While he may have lost the game, Spike Albrecht is now a living legend. And what do you do when you you are suddenly a cult hero? You tweet at hot babes, that's what you do. 
I like this kid's moxie. They were still cleaning confetti off the gym floor and he is asking out one of the hottest women on the planet. He didn't even start with hot chicks from Michigan or B-list celebs, he went straight for a swimsuit model. You would think this probably won't work, but then again I really didn't think this would work either:

Then finally, there is Peyton Siva's dad. Peyton Siva is one of the best players on Louisville's team. Peyton Siva's dad is a large, formerly drug-addled Samoan person who wore a homemade high school pep rally-style sleeveless T-shirt as he joyfully cheered on his son. It was magical:

I think we can all agree he should become the new mascot for the Cardinals. Heck he should become the mascot for college basketball. He may be my spirit animal.

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Oscars 2013

Now I’m a little late with this, but I didn’t realize it was decreed in the Constitution that the founding fathers sacrificed their lives so that every blogger in the world could write a story reviewing the Oscars. I hate most celebrities and know nothing about movies and even less about fashion so this isn’t really up my alley, but far be it for me to let the founding fathers down, so here we go.

This year’s show of course was one of the most highly anticipated in a while mainly because of who was hosting it: Seth MacFarlane, the creator of Family Guy. Now MacFarlane makes his money by being racist, sexist and crude, so of course everyone freaked out when he, of course, made racist, sexist and crude jokes. And by “everyone” I mainly mean “angry feminists.”

Now, as I said in the opening, every single idiot on Twitter and every blogger in the universe has taken the time to rip MacFarlane a new one in between drooling over Anne Hathaway, Sandra Bullock and some cross-dressing dude singing “All That Jazz,” so aside from saying that I thought MacFarlane did a great job I won’t really get into his hosting job.

But there are several other things about the night that we do need to talk about, so without further ado:

Someone needs to talk to Kristen Stewart. As in an intervention. Because she showed up with Harry Potter to present an award but looked more like she was there to accept an Oscar for Best Performance in a PSA About the Use of Crystal Meth.

Adele continued her world domination tour by winning an Oscar for somehow managing to rhyme “Skyfall,” with “crumble.”

Ben Affleck was also a big winner, with his film Gigli Argo taking home the Oscar for Best Picture. But it was followed by one of the stranger acceptance speeches ever. Affleck, George Clooney and some other clown came up onto the stage, and despite himself acknowledging that he was the ugliest one on the stage and the only one we didn’t know, that uknown third guy took up most of the time. And this year the Academy was pretty harsh about that, what with the Jaws music and just cutting of people’s mics. From now on, whenever people talk to me for too long, I will start humming Jaws music when they have one minute left.

Anyway, once this guy finished his speech, Affleck made a disjointed, rambling speech during which he called being married to his wife Jennifer Garner. Garner looks like this. If being married to her is work, I would really like to know where I can apply for that job.

But with all of Ben’s Gigli Argo success, the question of who won the night is not even close. It was Jennifer Lawrence. Not only did she win an Oscar, she somehow managed to seem like the only normal person in the room while doing so. She of course tripped while walking to the stage, because that is what people do while wearing circus tents. It was actually her second dress malfunction of the awards season.

But if anything, people loved her more for it. Also, did anyone else see how fast Hugh Jackman got to her to try and help? Jennifer seemed pretty pumped about it, and let's face it, I don't know anyone - guys included - who wouldn't be. Lawrence also talked about taking shots, made funny faces, and just when I thought I couldn’t love her anymore, she did this. She might want to just plan ahead and get a restraining order against me now.

The Onion got in trouble for calling 9-year-old Kwev-, uh, Qwez-, Quetzaqu-… well whatever her name is, it is, the Onion called her a bad word for angry female genitalia.

Kristin Chenowith took a break from being one of the annoying singing children on the “Alice in Wonderland” Disneyland ride to sing a closing number.

But I think if the Oscars taught us one thing, it is that we can never get too much William Shatner.

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Hooray Beer!

Someone a little while ago recommended that I get a hobby, assuming that this would in some way prevent me from spending a majority of my time posted up on my couch drinking beer and telling people I was still at work. Now, because I am open-minded and willing to take advice, I got a hobby: drinking beer.

Now most of you are reading that and saying: “That is not a hobby, that is your poor excuse for a coping mechanism.” Well you my friend would be wrong!

You see, I am on the record about not liking most things about Boulder, including bikers, hikers, smokers and just the general “oatiness” of this town. But one thing they get right is their beer. Boulder, and Colorado in general, is home to lots of micro-breweries and nano-breweries, defined as blah blah blah lots of beer.

Now let's get something straight, I am no beer snob. If you put it in my hand I will drink rubbing alcohol, so I'm not like some beer snobs who will only drink beer brewed by monks in the remote mountains of Germany.

But with that said, I do appreciate the difference between good beer and crappy beer more than I used to. A few years ago if you had asked me what my favorite kind of beer was, I would have answered “free beer,” or “beer that people at the bars are not keeping a close enough eye on.”

But today I have what some people would refer to as a sophisticated palate and even offer insights on each individual brew. For instance, sometimes after drinking a craft beer, I will opine on the flavor with such keen observations such as “This is good. Can I have more?” And when encountering a less sophisticated beer such as PBR, I will make elegant comments such as, “That tastes like a redneck pissed in a milk carton and left it out in the sun for five hours. Can I have more?”

But aside from showing off my beer-judging skills at parties (“Beer in a red solo cup? Can I have some more?”) the biggest benefit to being a “beer enthusiast” is going to beer festivals. To the untrained eye, a whole bunch of people gathering in an empty building and drinking beer all day would seem like a sad excuse to drink beer.

And you would be mostly right, but the true beauty of beer festivals is the wide variety of snobby, rich white people that show up to these beer festivals.

There are your older folks, who generally just see beer festivals as a way to drink some good beer and chat with their friends. There are the hipsters, who don't actually drink any of the beer and just Instagram their cups and talk about scarfs. There are people like me who just chug their beer, move on to the next booth, chug more beer then go looking for the closest food truck.

But the most dangerous group is the cougars. You see, younger women do not tend to drink craft beer, mainly because their tastes have yet to mature beyond cheap shots of tequila bought for them at crappy dance clubs by frat boys who shop for their T-shirts at Baby Gap.

So the women at beer festivals tend to be on the other side of 30. Don't believe me? The DJ at the last beer festival I went to in Denver played “Shout!” as the final song. And if you have never seen an entire room full of wasted, 40-something white women dancing alongside a bunch of hipster dudes petrified by them, then my friend you haven't truly lived.

Anyway, I've really delved into this new hobby of mine, and I've now visited over 50 breweries on my tour of America. In fact, today I will be headed to Colorado Springs for another beer festival and I will be sure to tell you all about it. Or at least Instagram it.

Friday, February 8, 2013

Court Reporter

 So last night a friend and I went to a Denver Nuggets basketball game against the Chicago Bulls. Or at least that was the initial plan. But with an Asian and a woman in the car, we instead ended up in a very sketchy neighborhood, the type of place episodes of CSI start. 

Anyway, we eventually did make it to the game. Now typically going to a basketball game means sitting in the upper deck, watching the action far, far above the court with the other poor people, birds and the ghost of Edmund Hillary.

But for this game we decided to splurge on some lower level seats, and let me tell you they were worth it. Yes, the drink service and the comfy chairs and having the cheerleaders in front of us for much of the game was awesome, but the neat part about sitting that close is all the little things you never notice watching a basketball game on TV.

Now, the night got off to a very interesting start once they announced it was that it was “Noche Latina” night at the Pepsi Center.  What happens at “Noche Latina” you ask? A magical blend of cheesy, highly stereo-typical and probably racist things, that is what happens.  First off, the only music being played was Enrique Iglesias, and a mariachi band sang the national anthem (and very well might I add).

What is ironic about Noche Latina is my friend, Shaina is like 4% Mexican but acts like a crazy Mexican woman 90% of the time. Last night was a perfect example: She was seated next to two male Bulls fans and she somehow succeeded at talking trash the entire game while at the same time eating their nachos.

On my side, I had a hot blonde and her boyfriend, and while she was much better looking than the two Bulls fans, I am also 99% sure she is not sure how the game of basketball works. She had Nuggets gear on, but would clap and cheer for every single basket either team scored, like Jackie Harbough at the Superbowl.

But easily the most entertaining aspect of the night revolved around the Nuggets backup center JaVale McGee. For those of you not lucky enough to have experienced the seventh Avenger that is JaVale McGee, a little background. McGee is a gargantuan 7-footer with a 7’ 6” wingspan and ridiculous hops that occasionally result in incredible, video game-like events of mass destruction.

However, while God giveth talent, God also maketh stupid, and Mr. McGee is not exactly a wonder of the Wonderlic. How bad is it? He has entire YouTube countdowns dedicated to his many ill-fated decisions on the court. Among his many peculiar traits, he has a French alter ego on Twitter he uses to retweet his own Tweets, has a segway, and has a mustache tattoed on his finger (despite the fact he has an actual mustache) that leads to a very unfortunate celebration that could really be interpreted wrong by those who don’t see the tattoo.

Anyway, watching McGee on the bench at a game is riveting. Whoever sits behind him has the worst seat in the arena, because after every single Denver basket, this 7-foot person stands up and celebrates. And when I say celebrate, he doesn’t just clap or pound his chest. He does stuff like this:

What made this night even better is there was a girl two rows in front of us who had a McGee jersey on and, as it became clear throughout the night, is in love with JaVale. Whenever he would do anything in the game, this girl would let out a vicious victory cry and thrust her fists triumphantly into the air. After one particular huge dunk, this girl turned around to scream and taunt the Bulls fans next to us, and I’m pretty certain she was one second away from crawling over those two rows and doing this over their shredded carcasses. At that moment I was really glad there was an angry Latina in between me and the Bulls fans.

I’m not sure how this 18-year-old, 90-pound woman came to be in love with a 7-foot, 250 pound basketball player, but I am genuinely rooting for them. Maybe the Pepsi Center can get them together on the kiss cam or something.

Anyway, as for the actual game, the Nuggets routed the hapless Bulls by 30 points, something Shaina did not fail to alert our downtrodden Bulls fans to. When all was said and done, despite the fact I think Shaina was a little disappointed she never got to hit me on the jumbotron, it was a pretty great night. I think Danillo sums it up pretty well…