here, in my expert opinion- being a seasoned woman driver and all- is my punchlist for who needs to be run off the road– i mean avoided. see any type of promo of the following, and pass them on the right (because chances are they are driving in the left lane with their left blinker flashing).

1. religious radio stations

2. political bumper stickers (the more left wing, the more dangerous)

3. pro-life bumper stickers (i’m not saying my that there is anything wrong with being pro-life or that i am against it. i am just saying that those who display stickers that preach this belief are treacherous drivers)

4. any of those ridiculous stickers that brag about how proud the driver is of their child’s success in a public school

5. any of those ridiculous stickers that make fun of the drivers that are proud of their child’s success in a public school

along with the above, avoid anyone with stickers claiming to have a broken horn (“watch for finger”), confederate pride, supporting anything remotely canadian, a picture of calvin (from calvin and hobbes) pissing on a car company/sports team/anything at all, any mentioning of llamas, answers to issues that require much more depth and word space (ie. global warming, stem cells, ethanol), and any favorable/regretful/neutral mentioning of george w bush.

boom. there you have it.

]]> http://pinzoner.wordpress.com/2009/08/29/crappy-drivers-an-epidemic/feed/ 0 pinzoner http://pinzoner.wordpress.com/2009/04/15/dorm-storm/ http://pinzoner.wordpress.com/2009/04/15/dorm-storm/#comments Wed, 15 Apr 2009 00:45:31 +0000 pinzoner http://pinzoner.wordpress.com/?p=411 ]]> my friend, whom i will call “hugh heffner,” has been singing the praises of dormlife- a series of videos on youtube. so i watched what i think was half of season 1. i dig it. if you ever went to college, dormed, bought beer with a fake i.d., lived in a cell that was your living room, bedroom, study, kitchen, and closet, illegally downloaded music, ate a full meal between the hours of 3 and 5AM and then went to sleep, or wore someone elses sweatshirt home whilst sporting the shoes you wore the previous night, then you’ll probably like dormlife. here’s the season 1 trailer:

we migrate along delaware avenue weaving in and out of college grads, the clinically obese, and the infamous obstacles simply known as “strollers”. there are bagpipes and little girls bucking and jumping up and down whilst sporting the most heinous of weaves. there are the most effervescent shades of green dotted with guinness splattered whites and jungle juice tainted oranges. it’s not exactly new york fashion week.

but at the end of the afternoon, when the last of the bellowing christian elitists throw out the remainder of  pamphlets that will allegedly save our damned souls and the curb cannot possibly cradle another rattling empty, the red sea of debauchery is split. we spill into the street (thanks to the lingering effects of the detours) in a mangled, yet unified wave. throwing our bodies forward, and hoping that our legs will follow, we charge to the bars. in the middle of the road lie parade float debris– candies and beads that were refused, thrown with the elbow forward, or damaged in transit– all of which map our route like some tragic yellow brick road.

tow trucks outnumber police cruisers– not to say that there are a lot of tow trucks. at this point, every cop is backed into some alley way with his car turned off, trying to enjoy his blood alcohol level.

for the most part, yesterday was a success, unless you made the critical error of going to the parade with your girlfriend/boyfriend (i’m sure i heard at least 4 couples call it quits while the female half was wearing what was left of a headband with clover-tipped antennae). the sun was out, only prompting a few bottom heavy lasses to dress like jameson shot girls. the weather was marvelous, the crowd was cheerful, and i only used the phrase “hulk angry” to describe a tipsy female once.

this rambling is all my long winded way of saying happy st. patrick’s day. go orange.

i just dig this guy in an esoteric, middle school-crush sort of way. sigh.

having wanted to be a writer ever since i received my first print-related compliment, i am a sucker for anyone who can write like they speak and speak like they think. anthony bourdain’s narrative is so fluid, it doesn’t require transition words. my (respect? appreciation? obsession?) respect for his existence is too much for words. it’s not just his writing, it’s not just his global free fall, it’s not just his smugness. it’s him.

anthony bourdain has the polite apathy of the cool uncle, the life experience of a homeless vet, and the charm and arrogance of a supervillian. and oh-my-gawd does it work [for me]. he is regal, yet unrefined; profound, yet relatable  (“what can I say, I happen to be an aficionado of the dive bar”). by george, anthony bourdain could narrate the ‘roni lynn deutch, the tax lady’ commercial and i’d stiff the IRS just so i could qualify.

even if you don’t like ”food shows”–this is not a friggen “food show”–his on-going metaphor for all that is ingested is borderline tantric;  he likens food, in all of its masochistic decadence, to deliriously mind-blowing sex. hand check.

and what better way to familiarize oneself with a complete stranger than to read their witty catchphrases- one-liners that have better timing than other sentences and are too bold to be considered a punchline:

“when tony gets hungry, things die.”

“my house is run, essentially, by an adopted, fully clawed cat with a mean nature.”

“i’ll make fun of the french, thank you very much.”

“it’s not as much an expose as it is a memoir, with some things that seem to have shocked and horrified some of the civilian population.”

“it’s beer o’clock.”

“while strangely uncomfortable with the term ‘man’s man,’ I am honored to be included.”

“i was a rotten kid with a big vocabulary.”

ugh. insert “three” “greater than symbol” here.

um, false, eonline.

you know who octo-bag looks like? mona lisa. boom.

in unrelated news, my brother turned 21 this week. cheers!

as a female, i watched the super bowl for

1. kurt warner, the rags-to-riches story that is so decadent, oprah keeps it in her nightstand next to the lube and…

2. the commercials. you can talk during the game all you want, but prepare yourself for core meltdown if you so much as chew with your mouth open during a media time out.

now everytime i see a snow globe barrel through a vending machine, i’ll crave doritos. nice.

will ferrell’s movie doesn’t impress me.

but the g.i. joe movie? omigaw yes. (tan, stoic, backwards hat-wearing channing tatum will be my get-out-of-jail-free card when i’m married–purely because he is not my type. duh).

and how about michael cera, starring as the small spoon in ‘year one.’  he’s is so adorable with his awkward, “it’s not illegal to picture me naked– you’ll just feel guilty” naivite. other than being the clinically obese, perpetually drunk best friend (chris farley, john belushi), cera has the ultimate type-cast.

budweiser, the silly ho of super bowl commercial history, had me unimpressed with the absurdity of booze-fueled corporate meetings. then, it redeemed itself. (but it almost didn’t.)

gatorade G made my mom’s eyes water:

e-trade made my mom angry that there are no e-trade grandchildren in the near future (if everything goes as planned):

and here is golf baby. i mean, shameless. who doesn’t love babies sporting bite-sized hats.

first, they got into a girl-fight with ann coulter (she’s not racist– she’s whatever the facts say) last week. and whoopi goldberg– you’re a statistic. don’t let your career make you think otherwise. however, i love ‘jumpin’ jack flash.’

this week, they had what should have been a witch-burning turn into a gossip-filled, shart-talking slumber party with susie essman.

essman (a juive) made a comment that mislead the hosts into offering their thoughts; apparently, the hosts think that the world wants to hear their mindless grasp on culture and religion. i mean, why hadn’t we consulted them before?– one is married to a jewish gentleman and another has the last name “goldberg” (but not in a lenny kravitz sort of way). 

naturally, lines were crossed.

exhibit A: “have you seen what these women look like?”

exhibit B: “the way they dress, that’s related to islam, right?”

oh my. how’s that for gran torino-itis.

i don’t believe the discussion was anti-semitic, but it was wildly inappropriate and ignorant. also, it’s a little excessive to compare these bored women to hitler (but i hear barbara walters grows a mean ‘stache during the playoffs). 

to sum things up, the hosts of ‘the view’ are squawking women who have not had natural estrogen in their collective system for at least 15 years. they are at the mercy of hot-flashes and FUPAs and they say things that have no meaning or relevance. what escapes from the holes in their faces should be ridiculed by comediens and then ultimately brushed off. done.

the 00′s (i made that decade abbreviation up. but it means 2000-2009) are the bromosexual invasion– and finally some good can come of it.

rarely do i go to the movies to see comedies (i only watch indie, european, and pokemon films in public. you should too). however, i am making an exception for ’i love you, man’. here’s the trailer.

note the scene when he doesn’t clean up after his dog. spec. tac. u. lar.