Why I'm Not in Advertising.

I listen to news radio on the way to work a lot - for job reasons, obviously, plus the traffic report.

So I also listen to a lot of commercials.

And every now and then, one catches my ear.

The latest is a commercial for an outfit called "Intelligent Energy." I'm not convinced how intelligent they are, though. Why?

Because their phone number is - and I'm not making this up, I swear to God - 1-877-I've-Got-Gas.

They've even got a catchy jingle for the number.

1-877-I've-Got-Gas.

To me, that doesn't say "energy." It says bad Mexican food. Like the kind I get at work from the Mexicanese place, so named because it's the only place I've ever seen where you get a side of sushi with your tacos. The tacos are great, don't get me wrong, but if you've ever had the jalapeno quesadilla, you'd know why they should buy Intelligent Energy's phone number.

Now, I'm not in advertising, and I've never wanted to be, but you tell me there isn't SOMEBODY at that company who listened to the little jingle and said, "Hey, wait a freakin' minute..."?

After all, that's replaced the reigning champion for "What the Huh?" Commerical, which had been an insurance company (no, I don't remember which one - ad guys, take note) that actually was trying to sell a product "that will pay you even if you don't die."

Even if you don't die???

I've got to find that insurance company and buy its product. Clearly, Joan Rivers already has.

Hey, it's worth a shot. Maybe I won't die - and thanks to that special policy, I'll still get paid!

Links:
Intelligent Energy

Hey, insurance company, whoever you are, if you read this, leave a comment with your link! And tell me and my readers how I can avoid death.

My Third Wish: A Prehensile Tail!

Recently, someone asked me what I would wish for if I had three wishes.

I came up with "love." Then "money." Then I got stuck. Fame? Adventure? Bigger equipment? I couldn't think of anything good.

But now I know what I want. A prehensile tail!

In recent years, I've developed something of an obsession with monkeys. Or as I like to spell them, munkees.

(Not the Monkees. They suck. Smash Mouth's "I'm a Believer" cover was so much better.)

Anyway, somehow my obsessive-compulsive streak has gotten stuck on munkees.

For those of you who doubt my obsessive streak, I offer as evidence the Unofficial Raiderfans.net Roster (divided by position, using all appropriate biographical data, plus statistics!) and the $500 I've dropped on Civil War books in the past six months.

Then there are my alphabetized DVDs. And CDs. And books. Just the hardbacks and trade papers.

And so forth.

Anyway, I've developed the largest stuffed munkee collection of any adult I know. And I'm notorious around the office for lightening the mood in stressful situtations by muttering "munkee. muuuuuunkeeeeee. MUNKEE!" until everyone laughs.

Yes, it makes my co-workers think I'm at least slightly unhinged, but better that than they know the truth: That I'm really fucking weird.

The odd thing about my munkee fixation is that I really don't like animals. At all.

I do like fish. Sort of.

I had a goldfish when I was a kid. I won him at the Bloomsburg Fair, tossing ping-pong balls into fishbowls, and unknowingly practicing for my later years as a beer-pong player. Actually, I think my mother won him, which would explain why I was so lousy at beer pong. Point is, fish didn't last, thanks in no small part to some bad advice from the fish store guy my mom consulted with on its care. We buried Goldie in a paper bag under first base in the front yard.

In college, a buddy of mine had a major-league fishtank. I enjoyed egging him on - he always said when I drove him to the fish store, he came with more fish than when other guys drove him to the fish store. So at the least, I like WATCHING fish. I love aquariums. Still, going to the aquarium is different from talking to a stuffed munkee.

My parents had a cat, which recently died, may she rest in peace. Fifteen years is pretty good for a neighborhood stray, and that cat had more personality than most. So I made an exception to my I-hate-cats rule for Shadow. Shadow, by the way, for your comic fans, was almost-sorta named after one of the X-Men. When my folks took her in as a kitten, my mom kept calling her Kitty. So I, the X-Men fan, started calling her Shadowcat, after Kitty Pryde. My mother, seeing a black-and-white cat and having no concept of the comics I was reading (featuring the manic-depressive and mildly psychotic Rachel Summers as Phoenix), though I was referring to Shadow Cat. So Shadow became Shadow.

I don't like dogs, either. I'm kind of afraid of them. I was bitten by a poodle when I was little. So dogs - and French people - make me slightly nervous.

Nonetheless, I ended up with a dog. Figures. Actually, my parents ended up with a dog, winning - or really, losing - a custody battle with my ex-fiancee when we split.

So my parents have my ex-fiancee's dog. You wonder why I drink.

Morgan is a dachshund, bred for hunting small animals, and amusing people with their funny bodies. He's a purebreed, which means he cost me a fortune and looks like every other dachshund.

He's curious, like other dachshunds. He's clever, also like other dachshunds, especially when it comes to finding things he can eat. Note I said "can eat," and not "should eat."

Unlike other dachshunds, however, he is not only almost nauseatingly cheerful, he's dumber than a bag of wet mice.

He's got a small brain and smaller bladder, which is why my parents have to walk him every few hours, and why they'll probably resent said ex-fiancee until the end of time, especially when it's raining.

I could tell story after story about Morgan. He's got a very long tail, which is constantly wagging, and I've always said when the tail stops wagging, it will be time to bury him in the back yard. But you know what they say about dachshunds with long tails? Yup, we couldn't get him fixed soon enough. When he was a puppy and still living with me (and her), he used to greet whoever came home first with a raging erection, necessitating two things: 1. Standing back for several seconds before entering the house; and 2. Keeping paper towels between the kitchen, where we barricaded him while at work, and the door. Once, a friend of mine rushed in, scooped him up despite my cry of "Don't!" and then groaned and said, "He peed on me."

"That's not pee," I said. It's a wonder he didn't drop the dog. Not that Morgan's not capable of falling on his head on his own. He does it occasionally, I think just to amuse himself. He's about six inches off the ground, and he hits his head on things.

But for those of you saying, "Hey, enough with the dachshund erections. What about the munkees?" I'll get back on topic.

(stream of consciousness, remember? you were warned.)

Munkees, you say, can be scary. Like the chimps that just MESSED UP that dude recently. Last wire story I read, they were trying to reattach his nose, and then the reporter sort of remarked, as an aside, that he'd also lost his testicles and a foot.

I'm thinking, if that were me, I'd be like, Doc, screw the nose, I can get plastic surgery. How 'bout we put back the foot and at least one of the nuts, huh?

Well, I'm prepared for such situations. I have a special sweatshirt. It has a hood that protects me from evil munkees.

Well, it protects my not-so-inner child. The one who chirps "MUNKEE!" around the office.

The adult in me would run like hell, or at least curl up in a ball and cover my nuts.

I don't want an evil munkee, though. I want a cute little munkee that follows me everywhere and uses his prehensile tail for good, not evil. Or a robot munkee. A robot munkee would be very cool, because it wouldn't require food, or hog the bathroom.

I mean, let's face facts. An adult carrying around a stuffed munkee would scare people. An adult being followed around by a small pirate munkee would get girls.

My munkee could watch TV with me, and get beer from the fridge with his tail, and curl up in bed with me, like Morgan does when I'm home visiting the folks.

I'm starting to think I really, really, REALLY need a girl. Or I'm getting cabin fever and going stir-crazy.

But it's late, I'm tired, hungry and slightly unhinged.

You want a daily, or at least near-daily post? Some days you get cool stories, some days you get dachshund erections and munkee obsessions. Forgive me.

Links:
Raiderfans.net, home of my Unofficial Roster
Smash Mouth, because the Monkees suck
Look up Shadowcat at Marvel.com
Dachshunds, AKC-style
Build-A-Bear, where I got Mookie, my favorite munkee, on his debut weekend (free $2 banana accessory!)

By the way, for those of you wondering if my obsession ever pays off, or if it's just a worthless brain defect, let me just say this: When I went to Mardi Gras last month, the girls LOVED the squeaking-munkee beads! Not as much as I loved the shotgirls at 711, but that's a whole 'nother post...

The Oracle of Delphi. Delphi Auto Parts.

Yeah, I know. I didn't write anything this weekend, either.

I was traveling again, this time spending my three-hours-each-way drive not headed to Maryland, but home to my parents' house in Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania.

I know, you're thinking... A Jew, going home for Easter? Just coincidence, I assure you. I didn't see a single rabbit or egg, though my dog chased a squirrel and I had duck for lunch on Sunday.

Duck!

Smack!

I told you to duck.

(I know, that only works in person, and not in type, but I couldn't resist. It's late, I'm tired.)

Trivia: How many days did the Feds and Rebs clash during the Seven Days' Battles? Answer at the end.

Back to the title track: While I'm on the subject of driving, I've had a revelation, a glimpse into the future, if you will.

And thus, a prediction: In my lifetime, assuming I actually live to a decent old age and don't die either A) on I-95 halfway to Maryland; B) at my desk at the office; or C) of chicken wings, we will see cars that drive themselves.

And I, for one, can't wait.

Three hours, each way, in the car, doing nothing but dodging speed traps and singing badly and after weekend upon weekend of this, I've realized that I'm really, really looking forward to the day when I can get into my car, tell it where I'm going, and sit back and relax.

I look forward to doing two things: 1. Sleeping - after all, who hasn't driven tired? It's dangerous, for you and others, and I'm as guilty as anybody. I've been going to Maryland on Friday nights after work - that's an 11 p.m. to 3 a.m. drive after nine hours in the office. You wonder why I listed I-95 as a potential Little Big Horn in my film career? Seriously, who hasn't gotten up too early or stayed up too late and been forced to take the wheel? Now imagine if your car would just get you there, and you could kick back and relax.

2. Read. I love to read, if it doesn't show, and I'd have gotten to Day Seven of the Battles and beyond, if I could put those six hours each weekend to better use. I love to drive, but I love to read more. And I love to ride in a car and be able to look at the scenery and enjoy the air, instead of white-knuckling the wheel like I did in the storm today when, with one jackass in an SUV tailgating me, another jackass in a giant pickup slammed on the brakes in front of me just as he entered a giant puddle on New Jersey's fine highway I-78 (your tax dollars at work!). To continue bitching, tonight, on my way home, I almost got run down by Jackass No. 3 of the day, who came zipping up on me at about 95 mph then didn't quite change lanes completely before trying to pass me. Nothing like swerving at 65 mph to wake you up. I shit you not, as he went past me - on the right, no less - his driver's side wheels WERE STILL IN MY LANE!

There's never a state trooper around when you need one. I get pulled over because a $3 light bulb is out, and this idiot zipped away, unscathed, into the night, probably to widow some poor lady by running down her freakin' husband.

But I digress.

The robot car. Look, let's face it, GPS is the first step toward my motorist's paradise. The other day, when we were filming at a new location, the only person who didn't get lost, except those who had been there before, was the one with the GPS in her car. One guy got lost three blocks from the site, that's how confusing the directions were. But that blessed GPS got its owner there without a hitch.

So you've got a car that knows where it's going and knows how to get there. All you need know is a way for it to drive itself.

Now, as anybody who's been to Carnegie Mellon since about 1992 knows, they've figured out how to make remote-control full-size vehicles. Nothing like walking down a Pittsburgh street only to see a camouflage Humvee zip by (this is pre-9/11 when I was there, so it wasn't exactly common) and then after it goes by, you realize: Hey, there was no one driving that Hummer!

(By the way, does anyone else find the idea of naming the ultimate Alpha Male Overcompensating vehicle a "Hummer" kind of funny?)

So the way I see it, between the GPS and the Robot Hummer (put punch line here), we're about a third of the way to a fully automated car, the kind you see in movies ranging in quality from "Timecop" to "Total Recall" to "Minority Report."

Or, if you're honest about your sci-fi, ranging in quality from "Minority Report" to "Timecop" to "Total Recall."

So if I make it to the average life expectancy, I've got about 50 years or so left, give or take. That assumes I spend more time eating Saladworks food than Barber's Chicken Cordon Bleu, but still.

So I'm throwing down the gauntlet, Detroit! (Or Tokyo...) Give me my automated car. I just ordered some more Civil War books, and I've got another trip to Maryland to go!

Links:
Easter on the Web
Bloomsburg, Pa.
Hummer (the truck)
(I'm tempted to put a "Hummer (not the truck)" link here, but my mother reads this blog. Go find your own porn, ya perverts.)
Delphi North America
And a little on the Oracle
(Not that Oracle!)

The answer to the trivia question, by the way, is six. But I'd guess calling it the Six Days' Battles With a Day Off in the Middle would just be too awkward for the history books.