TheBigShowAtUD's Xanga

Christmas Folklore and My Parents' Shattered Dreams

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 00:26:48 GMT

Christmas once meant fun, games, and hunger-inducing dessert-scented candles. There was no "It's better to give than receive" nonsense. When I was a child, I didn't give; all I did was a sign holiday cards my parents bought until Dad banned me from writing in crayon, colored pencil, or smear-prone erasable pen. "You can sign the family cards when your handwriting improves," he'd say. "But Dad, I'm eleven, and Mom says boys never learn to write good." I was devasted to be left out of such a significant family bonding activity. Only later in life did I learn he totally failed as a father when he didn't tell me I should have said "well" rather than "good." You are all hereby witnesses to my promise not to make the same mistakes with my own children. May they hate me for lesser reasons than my failure to teach them proper grammar. I'll give them plenty of reasons.

The holidays are all about enduring bad weather and spending time with more of your family than you ever see at once, until someone dies. The older I get, the more these sacred times change. It used to be that my family, wanting to treat me well, would ask me questions I liked to answer. Things like:

"So Matthew, do you want to watch Home Alone now, or after you have had more cookies?"

"Um, yes!"

And then everyone laughed, because that was a dumb response and kids are cute. Har-har, funny kid. He's going to be somebody, one day. "He's gon' be someboday!" Cousin Lawrence, would say. Now that I'm grown, it's:

"Matthew, are you ever going to give us additional relatives, yet, or will you have us die without seeing you find a nice young woman who loves you like we do?"

"Uh, well, you were ok until that 'like we do' part."

"Matthew, that's a dumb response, and you're not cute anymore. When are you going to be somebody?"

Apparently, I'll be making my own macademia nut cookies around here, from now on, while watching It's A Wonderful Life in technicolor. Technicolor is blasphemy to classic black and white movies. Technology is great, but I prefer to invoke the same principle I think to myself when I see 1,600 calorie burgers shown in some MSN.com health article: "Just because you can doesn't mean you should," especially when coloring Donna Reed's face. It's wrong, and they know how much I hate technicolor. This is my punishment for not unleashing my biological progeny on the world? None of you wants that, yet. Hellraising honor students, they'll be.

Unfortunately, my great-Aunt Margaret lives like it's still 1992, and thinks VHS is en vogue. She still doesn't understand DVDs and won't want to hear my two bits of nonsense about newfangled Blu-Rays.

"Can we bring DVDs here, next year?"

"Don't use that language in my house!"

"Aunt Margaret, I said 'dvds, not... whatever you thought I said that I can't really imagine, right now.'"

"Oh, ya mean those cd things? *waves hand in disgust* What's wrong with videos?"

"Well, if it's like last year, our movie is taped over some great moment in Chicago team sports history, and you'll get mad at..."

"Lawd, have mercy! Did he tape over my Bulls game, again?! ANDRE, GET DOWN HERE, NOW."

Uncle Andre gets into the same trouble ever year. For him, Christmas Day = Groundhog's Day. That's when my sister and I look at each other with anxious faces that say "No, YOU tell her Michael Jordan doesn't play anymore." But neither of us has the heart to do it; it's like telling a child Santa isn't real. We think she knows, but is in denial about it. We figure she'll recover, one day, or hear it from someone else she trusts, and then come ~~running~~ walking gingerly toward us hollering "You knew, all this time, and didn't tell me?!" That's exactly what I did when I was finally convinced that Santa Claus isn't real. I ran to my Dad, hot tears streaming down my face:

"But the milk and cookies!"

"I ate them, which says something, because the milk was warm by the time I got to it. Gross."

"And getting me presents that I liked when you and Mom are too old to know what kids want?"

"Well, your mother is smart."

"I'LL GET YOU BOTH! ONE DAY!"

I stormed off to my room to not-study-math while plotting my revenge in a sketchbook that I still own, to this day. I spent years looking for the perfect moment to get them back for ruining my holidays that year, with their vile secret-keeping. Sure, they never ever told me Santa was real, but they participated in the lie. Have they no principles? I guess not, and I'm going to blame them, right away, when everyone else discovers that I have none, either. In fact, it was that thought that ought to have told me what I should do with the rest of my life. No doubt my smart parents stayed up late at night, not enjoying each other's company, cowering in fear that the worst might happen:

"You don't think he'll ever grow up to be a..."

"Noooo, not him. We reared him well. Mostly. Kinda. He's honorable and stuff. He'll be something more noble, like a Wall St. bank executive, a Senator, or mayor of a crime-ridden city. Yeah."

Finally, just before her birthday in 2002, Mom realized that her worst fears had come true, just as I did when I reluctantly learned that Santa Claus was a myth that they didn't care enough to dispell when they had the chance:

"Hi, Mom!

"Hello, Sweetheart. You must be calling to wish me an early Happy Birthday."

"Oh, right. Happy Birthday... early. Hey, guess what? I'm thinking of going to law school and becoming a... hello? Hello?!"

And victory has been mine, ever since.

Happy Holidays, everyone. Love, joy, peace, and don't ever cross me or else.

TheBigShowAtUD©

Misdirection is How Celebrities Get Away With It

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 00:49:20 GMT

Today I woke up very pleased just to be alive, and not only because tomorrow is my birthday, nor because today is another consecutive day of not being Monday. Slightly more important than those, it felt good to have provided timely advice to a friend. You know, it's not everyday that I have the chance to help someone. Wait, I do get that chance everyday, but I actually followed through this time, and not just to call it "Volunteer Experience" on my resume (but I'm not above doing that). I did it, because it felt like the right thing to do. From now on, I can confidently write in future cover letters that I am "helpful" without wondering "What if the interviewer asks me for an example?!" I have one, now. Just one.

My cup runneth-ed over with helpfulness, so he knew to seek me for assistance:

TheTheologiansCafe: Hey, Matthew! BigShow! I really need your help, right now. Hey, do people really call you "BigShow," in person?

TheBigShowAtUD: No, Dan, they "really" don't. What do you want?

TheTheologiansCafe: Well, I think you already know that everyone is accusing me of some questionable behavior involving some female Xangans.

TheBigShowAtUD: Oh, right. Yes. Hey, sorry about my comments on those. I got caught up in the hype. Anyway, yeah. Ha, way to go!

TheTheologiansCafe: Listen, this isn't about making me feel worse, ok?

TheBigShowAtUD: Look, Dan. I'm not here to judge. Other people do that; they're called judges. If you want advice, ok. I'll tell you what to do, even though nothing I say is based on personal experience. That's what I do for a living.

TheTheologiansCafe: Ok, good. I like to think I can trust you.

It's fine if you don't believe ME, but shirts don't lie.

TheBigShowAtUD: Dan, I've studied the lives of troubled celebrities, just like you. I've found that the key to getting the public to forget all about your personal indiscretions is some well-timed misdirection.

TheTheologiansCafe: Misdirection? Like what magicians do so people don't see how the trick really works?

TheBigShowAtUD: Wait, magic isn't real?

TheTheologiansCafe: Uh, you were about to help me out?

TheBigShowAtUD: I thought about your predicament for about twenty minutes, and I came up with a solution. Of course, that was after I spent hours thinking of how awesome my birthday will be. Do you think I should make t-shirts and bumper stickers to pass out? It can be like grassroots activism, but without the tea parties and offensive signs. Maybe Anderson Cooper will show up. What do you think?

TheTheologiansCafe: how, listen. I need ideas, now, before my wife takes half of everything... half of my subscribers, half of my Adsense revenue...

TheBigShowAtUD: Way to prioritize, Dan. I see what's really important to you.

TheTheologiansCafe: --

TheBigShowAtUD: Right, misdirection. Think about it. That's how celebrities, like you, get away with their personal mishaps without being banished to late night cable television. Look at Kobe. He cheated on his wife, was accused of rape, and look at him now. He bought his wife a ridiculous diamond ring. A RING! That's all it took, and everyone focused on that.

TheTheologiansCafe: Well, I don't have millions, Matthew. But did you see the Lakers won the NBA Championship, last year? I have the link.

TheBigShowAtUD: I don't need a link, Dan. I saw it on television. Focus. Two words: O.J.

TheTheologiansCafe: "O" and "J" aren't two words.

TheBigShowAtUD: Dan, this is the Twitter phase of American history. It is perfectly ok for letters to substitute for whole words. "O.J." is practically a complete sentence. But look, he survived a murder a trial, and look at him now. In three Naked Gun movies! And absolutely no comedians currently joke about him on television. Ever. See?

TheTheologiansCafe: He made those before the murder trial. I think I have the link to a Dave Chappelle special from Comedy Central. Part of it is about O.J.

TheBigShowAtUD: Ok, whatever. I don't need a link. 'Twas a bad example. What about Chris Brown? Remember all of those blogs saying his career was over? Wrong. He made another album, and look at him now. Transforming, and all that.

TheTheologiansCafe: That was a terrible pun.

TheBigShowAtUD: I know, but you see the pattern: trouble, and then misdirection. Look at Robert Downey, Jr. Look at all of the chances he's gotten. A former drug addict now playing a fictional drug addict in a movie. THE IRONY, DAN!

TheTheologiansCafe: sn't that the same comment you posted on Drakonskyr's blog, last week?

TheBigShowAtUD: Yeah, but it's worth repeating. Besides, he's different. For one thing, his name is... you know what, you're both named Dan. That's weird. Anyway, this means all you need to do is blog. There you go.
TheTheologiansCafe: Blog? That's it?

TheBigShowAtUD: Yeah, you know, maybe scour the Internet for a story you think might be of interest to several hundred people. Then, briefly summarize it, and post a link. Keep it simple, because simple is what really fools people. So just say "Here's a link." Don't try to be clever. They'll think it's for citation, but NO. Sike. Not. Got em. Win. They'll forget all about you virtually hooking up with other Xangans. Water over the bridge, as it were.

TheTheologiansCafe: You mean under the bridge.

TheBigShowAtUD: Dan, I'm a lawyer not a civil engineer.

TheTheologiansCafe: Ok, that sounds easy enough.

TheBigShowAtUD: How about also posting a semi-inappropriate or reasonably inflammatory picture that kind-of-but-not-really illustrates the story? And, of course, end with a question. Nothing tells people what to think or how to respond better than asking a question before they've made up their minds on their own. Dan, this is brilliant. I need to do this in my own life.

TheTheologiansCafe: You know, you should work for the Government.

TheBigShowAtUD: I would, but I'm already a lawyer. Becoming a politician would be complete corruption. I like to think there's still hope for me. Maybe I can teach prisoners how to set up MySpace accounts.

TheTheologiansCafe: So, if I do this, I'll be saved?

TheBigShowAtUD: Yes, of course. Well, not Revelife "saved," but rescued from the clutches of bad decision-making that everyone knows about. No one will remembe this until someone does a Xanga Year-in-review. I won't promise, but I'll say that I strongly believe that my advice will not make your situation worse.

TheTheologiansCafe: But it's almost mid-December. The new year starts in a few weeks. No one will forget that quickly.

TheBigShowAtUD: Ha! Then forget it. You are screwed, sir. Good luck to you! Oh, and this whole consultation is free, by the way. Next time, you'll have to pay me in credits. You know, the ones you have left over after Mrs. TheoDan takes half.

Such a selfless act just in time to start year twenty-nine on the right foot. Santa's watching.

TheBigShowAtUD©

Having A Minority Identity Crisis

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 00:35:09 GMT

I know several of you are wasting your employer's time, and being highly unproductive while the money lost from web surfing instead of adding to your employer's already-reduced profit margin adds to the continued downfall of our weakened economy. The point is that, contrary to what you might assume if you saw me in person, I have no street cred. Zero. I'm neither "hood" nor "gangsta," and I never once skipped school to buy Air Jordans. You don't fool me, Common. You're not dangerous, either; you were in GAP commercials, after all. There's nothing less street than the GAP.

Naturally, I'm unqualified to be a rapper. Oh, I can write, and I'm sure I could dress the part, but I'd be scared of my own entourage. Vibe magazine would find my Facebook page, and the secret would be out that I live in tree-lined suburbs and not the semi-rough neighborhoods of [wherever the semi-rough neighborhoods are]. I've never been in a fight, besides a handful of verbal altercations. I can make a person cry with sharp-tongued grammatical accuracy that would make Stephen King say "And that, Stephanie Meyer, is what good syntax sounds like," but that's not as hot with the ladies as giving out nosebleeds and black eyes for looking at me sideways. I have nice hands that are too good for injuring a person's face, unless there's a life at stake, or a stolen Kit-Kat.

I strike fear into no one besides elderly white women who assume I'm after their purses and their cars. What, you think I'm going to break into your car and tune it up? Get outta here. My swagger comes from wearing argyle socks, and staying up to watch Charlie Rose. In my first job after high school, a guy said to me "Oh. I didn't know black people wore Doc Martens." I said "They don't. I do."

I didn't officially earn my black card until the police pulled me over multiple times in one month in my own neighborhood. "Don't you recognize me from last week?!" I had to remove my law school window sticker after I reluctantly realized it wasn't doing me any favors. Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson aren't outraged when discrimination happens to me. They say "Well, he's not our usual clientele, you know."

Thankfully, someone at work feels my pain... sort of:

She'll think you're creepy if you keep staring.
I just can't believe it.
What?
HER!
Ok, I don't get it... and I'm smart, so it must be you.
Look, how often does Cynthia hit on you?
Never, and I'm ok with that.
Well, yeah, me too. But I'm just saying. She's been chatting with Mike for forty-five minutes.
Janitor Mike?
JANITOR MIKE. wtf.
Don't you get it, Matthew? We're not even black enough for the non-black women who prefer black guys.
Or... maybe she assumes things about his hygiene because he works in sanitation. Women are weird like that.
I'm having a minority identity crisis, and you are completely useless.
You mean I'm not black enough to help a black guy out when he's not the black guy he thinks he should be?
Yes. Jerk.

Well, it's not really "pain," anymore. Long ago, I accepted being unlike what many people would assume about me without knowing me. Unfortunately for them, there are no shortcuts.

TheBigShowAtUD©

Recalling the Dreams I'd Rather Forget

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 22:59:33 GMT

I hate early mornings so much that I can never remember the my good dreams. By the time I've cursed the sun for rising too soon, I've forgotten all about those dreams where I've solved the world's problems in six and a half hours of sleep. Sorry, America, economic recovery will just have to wait until tomorrow morning. I'll try to write it down, immediately, next time.

Naturally - because my life works this way - I have no problem recalling the dreams I'd rather forget. The first of these recurring dreams involves my wedding day. There I am, in some large breath-taking Renaissance-era cathedral with ridiculous stained glass; everyone I want to be there is there, and I've already warned them to forever hold their peace(s) because I know what I'm doing; and I smell really good, too. Just as I turn to kiss my new wife, I wake up. Without fail, I always wake up at that moment. So, let's summarize: since age seventeen, I've not kissed the woman of my dreams even in my dreams, nor have I at least seen her face, yet. This is my life.

But let's direct our attention to the other sort of dream I'd like to forget. It's the one where I'm a father of pre-teens. They're smart, reasonably attractive, and athletic enough not to have their heads flushed in toilets, everyday. They even have good hair that you'd want to fondle with your unsanitized hands, even though we who have nice hair kind of hate that. The scenario soon goes downhill when I realize that my children are bad. Really bad. Not bad like bringing guns to school, failing to master subject-verb agreement in writing, or enlisting in the Army just for the free tee shirt and thermos. I mean that everything they are is everything bad that I am, as if they've only inherited my bad personality traits. I can live with me being far from perfect, because I understand that Perfection is an entity with an impregnable force field around it, just to keep me out. I get it. I'd like to think my children might have a better chance at it.

I suppose my subconscious fear is that because I had a bad father, I'll also be one, as if being so is genetic. Consciously, I don't believe that, but I know that my subscious mind could beat up my conscious mind, anytime. It would also kick it while it was down, and spit on it for good measure. Second only to the combination of peanut butter and chocolate, my subconscious mind is the most powerful force in the known world.

I half-jokingly blame Mom, but I'd be more correct to blame myself. She proved that you're truly never too old to learn when she finally realized that I don't respond well to traditional methods of punishment. She likes to say I was punishment-resistant, but in my book, I'll say that "I've been overcoming obstacles since I was a young lad." Tomato, tomahto. On one occasion where I did something I shouldn't have, she opted for something worse than denying me my allowance, sending me to my room, or forbidding me from taking Ms. Thing to see Aladdin on Saturday; she simply said: "If you want to be that way, that's fine, but just hope you don't have children just like you."

Zing! Speaking of better punishment than taking away my Sega Genesis... I've never forgotten that. On days when I have the bad child dream, I'm glad that my kids will have half of someone else's DNA. Maybe they'll have a chance not to be the downfall of society (yeah, right; it'll be too late by then). Let them inherit my wit, my hair, and my stellar taste in watches; but they can have HER personality. I'm ok with that. The best thing I can do for them - and whatever is left of the entire world by then - is to choose the right woman. NO PRESSURE.

Oh, and I can be less-flawed. I'm not sure which will prove to be the greater feat.

TheBigShowAtUD©

They Never Tested What I Learned

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 15:54:32 GMT

I thought I was a blessed young man in tenth grade when I unknowingly registered for a fall semester science course with plenty of female classmates. I thought the gods of honors courses had smiled upon me. Instead, for the third time in my life, I was wrong. My happiness was short-lived when I discovered that our teacher - one of only a handful of male teachers I've ever had - was not only new to the school, and he was also a newlywed. He was so excited about being married, you'd have thought he ran straight from the altar to room 103, every morning.

You can imagine being me: eager to learn the differences between hyperchlorite and hypochlorite (there aren't many), and instead I got "You won't believe what my wife did for me, this morning!" I couldn't openly complain, because I was trapped in class of swooning tenth grade girls who thought these marriage intros were "so cute." Sure, I had thoughts like "Wow, I'd love to marry someone who'd get up early just to buy me a box of glazed Krispy Kreme doughnuts, and not require me to share," I spent more time thinking "Yeah, she's great, but how many electrons are in the outer shell of Titanium, bro?! Tell me, now!" There was no room for romance during midterm week.

That class needed a clown, in the worst way, but it sure wasn't me. Surprised? Well, you shouldn't be, although I came close a few times. This was a morning class, and Mr. Matrimony was occassionally late. That's when I was quick to offer the most plausible hypothesis for his tardiness:

"Oh, you know why he's late. He probably had 'trouble' trying to 'get out of bed,' today. heh." [I even said it with air quotes].
"Gosh, Matthew, stop being gross."
"Whatever, Suzy. I'm not being gross. They're consenting adults, and she packs his lunch. He owes her something, you know. Besides, I got an A in Health, so I knowwwww how these things work. Don't try to play me."

Oddly enough, Suzy and I didn't go to Homecoming, together, that year. I'm still unsure why. I was a nice guy!

Head trauma and old age, notwithstanding, there's one story he told which I will remember for the rest of my life. It was a friday morning, and someone made the mistake of asking for a story. All I could think of was "CAN A MAN GET AN EDUCATION, TODAY?! My future, awaits." But I kept it to myself, and decided I'd actually listen, this time:

"You know, my wife and I are still learning about each other. I try to do nice things for her, too. For example, I know she prefer the toilet paper to come down from the bottom, rather than over-the-top. Every time I see a roll over-the-top, I change it, just for her. However, she knows that I like it the other way. So when she sees it like she wants, she changes it. And we go back and forth with this all the time, but we finally figured out what was going on."

I'm just mad that my final exam had nothing on it about toilet paper or Krispy Kreme. Few things I remember most about school weren't on exams. I suppose, if I ever become a teacher, my legacy will involve making an essay exam out of odd things like the inconveniences that I'd endure in marriage; things like lovingly placing peanut butter in the refrigerator, even though everyone knows warm peanut spreads better.

TheBigShowAtUD©

And to think, I started this blog SIX YEARS AGO, today. I'm old.

There Are No Stupid Questions

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 15:50:29 GMT

Long before soft drinks had no calories, I imagine my educators must have congregated in the teachers' lounge to discuss the stupid questions I asked. "Can you believe what Matthew asked me, today? That kid will never make it. At least he dresses well." It's my guess that in the interest of encouraging class participation from students like me, some teacher invented that oft-spoken line "It's ok to ask; there are no stupid questions." Yeah, right. There are lots of stupid questions. Over time, I learned to avoid asking them in front of people who'd look at me, like "You poor man! At least you wear nice shoes."

That's when I learned to make mental notes of my questions, so that I could hide out in the library and ask smart, attractive girls for answers, hoping they wouldn't laugh at me (yeah, right).

Somehow, people thought I was smart, because of the questions that I didn't ask. They'd say "You seem so perceptive and thoughtful, like you're just taking it all in and ruminating." Naturally, I told the truth and said "Naw, I don't even know what 'ruminating' means! I just didn't feel like talking and being a moron, today. You can't imagine what lunacy I considered asking earlier." I've found that it's generally not the question, itself, that's dumb; it's either bad timing or that the inquirer makes known that s/he lacks knowledge that such a person ought to have. It may not be a stupid question, but had you not been playing online poker in class, you'd have heard someone up front ask that question five minutes ago. It may not be a dumb thing to ask, but a person your age ought to know that, by now.

Common knowledge, as it were.

It's a lonely place to be when you don't know what's going on, yet everyone around you clearly does. All you can think is "This does not seem like the opportune time to ask 'What's going on?'" I was thirteen, in a foreign country, on an educational tour with my eighth grade English teacher and a handful classmates who were certain their mothers just wanted to be rid of them for ten days. We were in a cemetery somewhere in France, and there was a large crowd of picture-taking men and weeping young women by a particular tombstone. There were flowers, everywhere... and Yours Truly was clueless.

Parting the sea of people twice my size, I reached the sacred spot, and quietly asked a teary-eyed women whose grave it was. She kindly told me before walking away, but I can still remember standing there with my patented "You must be kidding me, I still don't get it" look [see profile picture]. As much as I wanted to ask who this person was, I didn't, lest it be that I ought to have known, and would make someone within earshot think that I had failed at life. I made a mental note to find out, one day, but I forgot.

Fast forward to ten years later. There I was not studying for an exam. Instead, I was uploading a new profile picture to this very site when I suddenly remembered that day in the French cemetery, and that I had forgotten to find out who that must-have-been-really-famous-guy was. A few clicks here and there, and I had my answer:

Oh, that's Jim Morrison. Wasn't he someone important?

Thanks, School... for teaching what I really needed to know in the real world, like identifying the grave sites of world-famous rock stars. That's a much better skill to have than how to use the "Y=" function on a TI-83.

TheBigShowAtUD©

It's Not Fun & Games Until "Your Mom" or "Your Face."

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 22:01:24 GMT

Back when I was shy, unassuming, and noticeably shorter, I received an invitation to join my school's debate team. After skimming it like the speedreader I was, I promptly discarded the flyer into the nearest trash can. I thought to myself "Recycling will never catch on in states that don't pay!" Naturally, my primary concern about joining the debate team had nothing to do with any apprehension toward arguing the finer points of international diplomacy, global warming, or the exhorbitant salaries of professional athletes. No, I just don't like public speaking. Yes, present tense, because I haven't changed that much since in the past fourteen years: I'm still shy, unassuming, and I don't recycle.

[You know you're getting old when you can talk about how things were fourteen years ago.]

Irrational fear of public speaking aside, I still enjoy a watching a debate. I can argue, too, but if you've been reading my blog for even a week, you can surmise that I'm not the arguing type. There just aren't enough issues that'll cause me to be upset enough to convince you that you're wrong. I'm about as likely to debate most things as you are to drive through a "do not enter" section of a one-way street:

"So, I think the legal age of consent should be sixteen, in all states."
"Yeah, well I've honestly never thought about that a day in my life. And shhh, Sportscenter is on."

That's me, in a lively and heated debate. Can't you tell? Yet another reason why I'll never run for office: not enough time for Sportscenter.

I'm not a fan of arguing until my heart rate skyrockets for a topic over which I have no control beyond having my own opinion, but I sure like to see other people do it. They seem to like triggering the onset of a heart attack; I can think of better activities that have the same effect. Now, far be it from me to gain much enjoyment watching other people fight, but I'll make an exception for the portion of the heated debate that is not-so-academic as it is personal and unstructured. It's that part of an argument - especially between people who dislike each other, or don't have much life experience - when the facts have been uncovered and discussed (or ignored) - and now it's time for name-calling; argumentum ad hominem, galore. No more statistics, Gallup poll fndings, or "Well, in my experience..." or even "My brother always says..."

I remember one time in law school, I was shooting the 6 ball into a side pocket at some college bar I'll never visit again, when some debate ensued over... something like... whether John Kerry's supposedly cold-hearted intellectualism would make for bad diplomacy (really, people argue this in their free time, and not even for course credit). A friend walked up to me asking what was going on:

Yo, what's this about, over here?"
"Well, not only am I having the pool game of my life, but those two having a political discussion while drinking. Must be an election year."
"Aw, man, that's mistake number one. That's worse than going home with a stranger the same day as a bad break-up!"
"You're telling me. Hey, I think you're just in time for one of them to insult the other's family. It's all downhill, after that."
"Yeah, I think one of them just said 'your face' or was it 'your mom'? It was one of those. Buy her a drink!"

Why do people resort to name-calling and the like in a discussion over conflicting opinions that are really of no consequence to anyone but the holders of those opinions?

Am I the only one who doesn't think agreeing to disagree is a sign of weakness of conscience or inability to persuade?

Really, though, I'm just terrified of public speaking, that's why I'm not a litigator; otherwise, I could be that guy on Law & Order making defense witnesses cry in court. I'm capable of bringing out the feelings in people who have them. Serious.

In other news, "Your Mom" is a fine prosecutor, these days. It must be that she decided to have her drinks after arguing.

Does Your Mom Talk To You This Way?

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 20:37:13 GMT

**Mom calls me at 7:30am. I'm very displeased**

Hello? Honey, are you ok? I feel like maybe you're not.
Yeah, I haven't slept much, because I can't stop coughing. How'd you know?
I'm your mother. I know everything. I sure hope it's not...
It's not swine flu, Mom.
Go take your temperature. There's a thermometer in your kitchen cabinet above the sink.
How'd you know there's a thermometer in my kitchen?
I put it there, silly. Go get it. Be careful going downstairs; I know how you are in the mornings.

**I found it. I swear I didn't know it was there. She's sneaky**

Found it.
Insert.
I know. Wait, which end?
Which end? Matthew, don't be gross. You know it goes in your mouth. It's not the kind of thermometer that goes in your....
I know... I meant... nevermind. It's in. Hey, I don't know if I'll be able to read the numbers. They're small.
Matthew, how many times do I have to tell you to get contacts, already?
Um, you usually say to get glasses.
Well, I had a dream that you wore glasses. You're not a glasses person.
Thanks.
Try the electronic one next to it, then.
There's an electronic one?
Yes, Matthew. The rest of us in the world are happy to welcome you to 2009.
Yeah, yeah.

Did you HEAR about that Little Wayne character? I meant to ask you what "attempted gun possession" is.
Hm? Oh, well that just means...
And WHY are these rappers always getting into trouble? They're making us look bad, every time.
Us?
Yes, Matthew. Our people. Look in the mirror, sometime. Are you my son, or aren't you?
Um... you tell me. You were there.
Stop being silly, Matthew. Don't think you're too special to ignore paying attention to current events. They affect us all.
Mom, I'm not Lil Wayne. I'm young, black, and male, but I've never been to jail, except on a high school field trip. Statistically, I am special.
Fine.
It's not nice of you to threaten to revoke my black card, like that.
Honey, what's a black card?
Nothing.

Oh! I forgot to tell you! Yesterday, some of us at work learned that the "J" in JCrew doesn't stand for anything, in particular. Ha.
JCrew?
Yes, you know. The store.
Well, speaking of revoking black cards...
Hey, just because I'm old doesn't mean I have to dress like it.
Oh, speaking of... what do you want for your birthday?
Very funny, Matthew. Don't call your mother old. I'm not. Am I? I mean, sometimes, I look in the mirror, and I see an old woman.
Oh, stop. "Almost-sixty" is the new "almost-forty."
Matthew...
I'd say it's the new "almost-thirty," but I'M almost thirty, and that would be awkward.
Matthew!
Besides, the creepers at Macy's check you out all the time. You're not old, Mom. You're going to look just like that for the rest of your life.
Stop trying to charm me, Matthew. I'm being serious.

Can I take this out, yet? The last thing I need is mercury poisoning from chomping down on this thing while responding to your antagonizing.
Not, yet. If I were a gambler, I'd bet that you're too sick to work. But I'm your mother, so I won't take your money, like that. Call Bryan and tell him you're not coming in to work.
How'd you know his name is...
I told you. I'm your mother. You told me his name, once, and I have a sharper memory than my age would indicate. There will be no nursing home for me, Mister. I'll be living in the mother-in-law suite of your estate, you know. I'm not kidding.
Right. My estate, where I'll live with my mother. Can't wait. I'm sure that'll be a tremendous selling point for a woman to marry me.
Well, I've been your mother for your whole life. The least you can do is cover the property taxes for my living space. Is that too much to ask?
You always guilt-trip your kids...
What?
I said... I can't talk with this... in my mouf. Hold on.
You used the old one?
Yes, I didn't feel like unwrapping the electronic one. It's too early in the morning for real work.
That's you, all right.

**Surveys the damage**

Oh, wow.
You've got a fever.
Yeah. 101. Awesome.
I was right, once again. Next time, I might decide to take your money. Anyway, be sure to drink tea, eat, take a shower, and don't watch those trashy soaps, all day, and do not go to happy hour.
Right, because that's what I do when I'm ill. Thanks, Mom.
I say that, because I love you. Have a good day. I'm bringing you a pie, later.
Pie is good for a fever?
Oh, I don't know. But I don't want to eat this by myself. Take better care of yourself. I love you.
Of course you do. I'm the best son you've got.

You Could Make A Better Commercial, Yourself

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 20:04:01 GMT

As kids, my sister and I would watch evening television shows with Mom. Every night, though, she'd put us to bed earlier than we thought other kids had to go to bed. I think was nine years old before I learned that television shows continued after The Cosby Show. I definitely remember being thirteen when I asked my eighth grade friends in gym class "Did you guys know that the news comes on, AGAIN, at eleven o'clock? Crazy!" (they knew, and they felt sorry for me).

We'd often see bad commercials that left us wondering what was being advertised. Shaking her head, Mom would look at us and say, "You two could make a better commercial than that one." My sister and I would look at each other and wonder if she was praising our creative potential, or if the commercial was so bad that two children could do a better job. We're still unsure.

That's why I should be an ad executive or copywriter in my next life. Having learned a few persuasion techniques in this life, I'll convince people that most ads are often too clever for their own good. The purpose of advertising is to sell a product or a service; not to make me laugh or think "Oooh, that's creative! Does SHE come with it?!" and then forget it two commercials later. Commercials fail when they don't make me want to buy whatever the product or service is. Imagine this conversation during a Monday Night Football game:

"Ha, look, it's that UPS guy drawing stick figures on that whiteboard."

"Yeah, this is my favorite commercial, ever."

"And, this is the best part... it's animated."

"That is so cool. Oh hey, dude, don't forget to drop off that stuff at the Fed Ex box, down the street."

Low-cost shipping fail.

That's why I'll make ads that get results. Imagine you've had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day: Your Xanga traffic is down, no one is voting for your featured weblog submission, you didn't get a mini for your birthday, and your best friend just changed her Facebook relationship status to "It's Complicated" - without telling you, first! That trollop! You're sitting there at home, dejected, asking Revelife "Why me?!" but then comes my obnoxiously loud WIDGET commercial, as a sign from [your favorite deity, the scientific method, or intellectual reasoning].

With every widget comes a truckload of promises to make you feel like a winner: your classmates will stop saying "That's what she said!" after everything you say; the love interest you never talk to will tell a friend to tell your friend to give you a note saying that you smell really good, today; and you'll be able to read it til your heart's content, because the field hockey team will stop shoving you into your locker before gym class. Now, you can stop scaring your parents with obsessive violent video game-playing, all because you just want some real control in your life.

You'll jump up from your Goodwill couch and say "THAT'S WHAT MY LIFE IS MISSING! A FREAKING WIDGET!" What's a widget? I don't know either, but having one will change your life, making you the envy of your school. And - most importantly - Kanye will let you finish.

[Can't think of a good ending that doesn't rhyme with "lamesauce." 10,000 credits, if you can.]

TheBigShowAtUD©

The World's Problems Are Our Opportunities

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 22:01:30 GMT

The trouble with problem-solving is overcoming the illusion that some problems have no answers. I, however, am a firm believer that there's a solution for every problem. Unfortunately, not every problem has a simple answer like "next time, take your ATM card out of the machine before you leave;" "well, then, you shouldn't hook up with everyone, like that;" or "maybe you ought to go to bed earlier, sleepy." But most men already know that there are really only two potential answers to every problem: OxiClean and duct tape. If your problem is deeper than that, seek professional help.

Sometimes, a problem is so complex that the answer is truly amazing.

Problem:
"Watson, what's happening to us? We're just some lab rats with no lives, man. What does it all mean?!"
"Well, Crick, I happen to like the thought of someday mapping human genomes! If only we had a Nobel Prize-worthy idea for how this all works together."

Solution:
The double-helix structure of the DNA molecule.

Icing on the cake:
Winning the Nobel Prize. Try to say were undeserving. TRY.

That means there are cures for cancers, AIDS, and exotic flues. I have no idea what they are, though. In high school, I once had a nosebleed right there in the hallway. The principal hosed it down with some spray that kills 99.9% of everything, including HIV. I thought I was really on to something when I told Mom about it.

"Hey, if they have stuff that kills HIV, why can't they use that to cure patients who have it?"
"Honey, that would mean also killing the patient."
"Oh... so... it MIGHT work, though, yeah?"
"Mmmm, promise me you won't be a chemistry major in college. You're much better with English."
"Uh, thanks, Mom. Thanks for letting me down, gently. Dream-crusher."

Since the world is replete with problems, let's be glad for those who daily bring these issues to our attention. Where would I be as a professional without them? The sarcastic among you might call them "complainers" or "whiners," but I prefer to label them "Problem Identifiers," or the pretentiously politically-correct term "Vexation Aggregators." I almost like that one. Think about it: how many things would stay unchanged without the help of protesters and the like? Imagine how they've helped the President set his agenda.

"We're live outside the White House, where there's a sudden protest rally against... uh... stuff. Sir, what is this about?"
"Freedom!"
"Freedom from what?"
"Tyranny and oppression!"
"Uh, ok. You're holding a sign that says 'We don't like it.' What's 'it'?"
"Injustice!"
"Ok.. More from Anderson Cooper 360, after... ok, sir... sir! Put that rock down. Oh, $%#$#."

The world's problems are our opportunities. That's why I grew up to become a problem-solver. Not only because Mom says I am a failed scientist, but also because the world needs more people to take issues from "what, now?!" to "here's what." People pay for that, you know. Of course, there are plenty of people who are paid to "solve" problems: ninjas and mafia hit men, for instance. Let's leave them out of this, though.

How to escape them is not the sort of problem I want.

TheBigShowAtUD©