At one time in my life, I wanted to be a journalist. The video below is a good example why that did not happen:
Back in 2004, I took a a TV news class and was assigned to produce a news package for Student run news show “Rock U News.” It was to be a feature story about something happening around campus. I had a few weeks to complete the package, but was struggling for ideas. Namely, ones that could be produced easily.
I waited until the last minute, and still had nothing. Then, a friend asked if I wanted to attend the Pittsburgh Pirates home opener. Assignment, or not, the answer was yes. But there was still the issue of my news story.
My ride was set to leave in an hour and I had to do something. My solution? I shot my friend Devin for 15 minutes as he edited a 2 minute movie he was entering in a contest that involved movies using major kitchen appliances. I also made him do random things around my apartment for b-roll. After adding in a few stand-ups of myself, wearing appropriate journalist attire, to narrate this bullshit story, my gem of information was nearly complete.
The Pirates won that day, and I edited the piece in about 90 minutes. It shows. I ended up with a B on the piece, which was more a product of lazy grading than the quality of my work. Afterward, I knew my future in journalism was doubtful at best and it sunk in that my only option was a career in reality television.
Note: This was originally written for my friend Talia’s website, Three Day Rule. It’s the place to go for dating advice.
A while back I tried internet dating on E-Harmony. I wasn’t getting a lot of tail and figured it couldn’t hurt. I was wrong, as E-harmony led me to the most painful date of my life.
I matched up with a lucky lady during the holiday season. She looked pretty cute, and she didn’t use the fat girl angle in her photos, so we arranged a meeting at The Grove.
I waited at the spot of our rendezvous as a girl who resembled my date approached. Her face reflected the bright holiday lights of The Grove, like an icy sidewalk next to a department store window. She introduced herself as I shook her hand and smiled, my thoughts consumed with the shiniest face I’d ever seen.
Why the shine? A bad facial? An unorthodox blackhead cleaner? Did she get a huge
cut and have to cover her entire face with liquid Band-Aid? I never found out.
We grabbed crepes at the Farmers Market. The conversation was lively enough for a first date. Things were quickly derailed when I mentioned that I didn’t have cable and that I watched TV online. This was around the time of the Writer’s Strike, and it prompted her to freak out on me for daring to watch shows on the internet, since ”
that’s what this whole strike thing is about.” I calmly gave her the correct information and explained why she was wrong. She couldn’t comprehend this and the subject was quickly changed.
We finished our crepes and deliberated what to do next. I wanted to go to a bar for drinks so we could continue the conversation. She wanted to see a movie. I objected on the grounds that you can’t have a conversation during a movie. It’s a horrible
place for a first date. She wouldn’t relent.
At this point, I knew I’d never see her again, but lacking the balls to end the date early, I agreed to the movie. With one amendment, I thought to myself: There’s no way in hell I’m paying for her ticket.
She chose the craptastic Christmas movie “Fred Claus,” making my night even more miserable. I allowed her ahead of me in the ticket line, making her purchase her ticket separately. Before you think I’m cheap, know that I paid for dinner and was prepared to pay for the bar tab. When she insisted on a movie, I cut my losses.
She revealed another annoying trait walking through the theater that was worse than the shininess of her face: Squealing like a school girl after passing a movie poster that interested her, or seeing an actor she liked. This behavior continued during the movie, when her throat squeaked with excitement upon the entrance of every well-known actor in the film.
We promptly walked back to our cars after the film. Being a gentleman to the end, I asked her which floor her car was parked, intending to walk her to her vehicle. She said five. I told her I was parked on seven. She got in the elevator and pressed the buttons for the fifth and seventh floors.
The doors parted and we said a quick goodbye. I was relieved that the date was over and that I no longer had to squint my eyes. I got to my car and drove to the Powerhouse in Hollywood for some beers with friends. The only way to cope with my night was by dulling the pain with alcohol.
It was the worst date of my life. She nearly ruined my Christmas and her shiny face will forever be scorched into my dreams.
As we approach legendary game show host Chuck Woolery’s 69th birthday on March 16, I’d like to propose a way to cement his already enduring legacy. Something so simple, yet so profound, that it will shake the foundation of the English language to the core.
I propose substituting “ChuckWoolery” for the dated, tired word “Tomfoolery.”
First of all, who the fuck is Tom Foolery and what did he do that made him important enough to get a noun named after him? Considering the word means foolish, nonsensical, trivial behavior, Tom Foolery couldn’t have been a productive member of society. In fact, he was most likely the bane of the existences of everyone he’d ever come into contact with. Someone this despicable should not be in the dictionary.
Granted, Mr. Foolery’s namesake is a word with a negative connotation, it’s still gives him a more profound legacy than 99.9% of the world’s population. One might even argue that the sting of that word has lessened over time and, in many aspects, could mean something positively lighthearted.
Nothing positive should be associated with such a despicable man. That is why I am a proponent of the substitution.
Also, if ChuckWoolery replaced Tomfoolery, there would most likely be a picture of Chuck in every dictionary. While I don’t know what Tom Foolery looks like, I can assure you that Chuck Woolery is a much sexier man. He’s the kind of guy people can look at and say, “hey, that guy’s pretty good looking. His picture belongs in a dictionary.”
It sounds crazy, but think about it. The man hosted “Love Connection” for 11 years. A show that had it’s share of shenanigans, and one that has given us all hours of entertainment. He coined the phrase “we’ll be back in two and two.” Woolery also hosted “Scrabble” for six years. The man is brilliant with both people and words, things a man should be proficient in if he has a noun named after him.
Woolery’s “Scrabble gig leads to another reason for the switch out. In “Scrabble,” Tomfoolery is worth 18 points. ChuckWoolery is worth 29 points. That’s an 11 point difference, not even counting the potential double and triple word score possibilities.
Be it physical appearances, higher “Scrabble” point totals, or musical talent (Woolery’s song “Painted Lady” peaked at number 78 on the Billboard US Country chart in 1977), Chuck Woolery is a man deserving of his own word. Let’s give it to him for his 69th birthday. Not only for all of us, but for our children and their children. For in a futuristic Utopian society, when someone does something silly, our great-grandchildren can say “I see some chuckwoolery going on here,” and it will be met by laughs, followed by a brief moment of reflection for a man who has touched us all. It’s a legacy he deserves.
A trend has been growing recently and I’d like to see an immediate stop to it.
There have been several instances in the last few months where I’ve met people wearing baseball caps for all the wrong reasons.
I always enjoy running into a fellow baseball fan, and seeing the hat is an easy ice breaker into a potentially stimulating conversation.
Far too often, however, the conversation unfolds like this:
“Hey, nice hat. Are you a Brewers fan?”
“Uh, haha, ah, I guess, heh.”
This response is coupled with a look on the person’s face that’s a cross between smelling a fart on an elevator and confusion.
If a person reacts this way, they’re not a true fan and only wearing the hats for fashion. They don’t care about the team, and in many instances, don’t even know what team’s hat they’re wearing.
I met a guy who was wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates hat. Being a Pirates fan, I was intrigued since there aren’t too many people who admit to following what has been the worst team in baseball for the better part of two decades.
When I tried to talk to him about the team, he said he couldn’t name one player and only purchased the hat because there’s a “P” on it and his name was Paul.
Well Paul, you should be wearing an Atlanta Braves hat since it has an “A” on it and you’re an asshole.
The conversation got awkward after I mocked him, so I had to retreat. Soon after, I noticed a cute girl wearing a Seattle Mariners hat, asked her if the “S” stood for slut, and promptly nailed her.
When I wear my Steelers, Penguins, or Pirates hats, it’s because those are my hometown teams. I don’t wear them to color coordinate. Hell, most of the time my hat doesn’t even match. I’ve even been known to wear a black hat with a blue shirt, which is a major fashion faux pas. That’s just how I roll.
So if you’re one of these shit heads, please do us all a favor and leave the wearing of hats to people who support the team (and sexually promiscuous women who use them to send signals). Wear a hat to show loyalty, not because it matches your studded Ed Hardy shirt.