The future Mrs. Vinehamner (and Salvia! Lots of Salvia!)

I finally found something I like about Miley Cyrus…

And then the world forgot about Afghanistan for a few days.

Steven Tyler and Justin Bieber publicly asked her to call them. Mainly because they wanted to know where to get some. And Steven Tyler needed to know what Salvia is, too.

Billy Ray Mulletfuck, like a Yokel Yoda, had the following to Tweet on the topic: “I’m so sad. There is much beyond my control right now.” Well, that was actually an apology to his fans on Twitter. Both of them appreciated his thoughtfulness.

You hypocritical hillbilly horse-humper! Your crocodile tears would hold a lot more water if the man who brought us “Achy Breaky Heart,” and stuck his daughter on the pole weren’t saying it. Don’t believe me? I wouldn’t recommend watching the entire video, because it means that you’d have to listen to the fucking song, but the last two seconds, THE LAST TWO SECONDS, are the most telling thing about this performance.

But the first thing we have to do, darling, is get you past that gutter drug, and smoking weed, as God intended. A brief aside.

Salvia sucks. (factorum)

If they were worth a shit, people wouldn’t still be smoking weed by the acre — The prophet Hagbard on the legal smokeables you can buy in High Times.

I have a slightly used quantity of Salvia, which has been sitting on my desk since July. Anybody who is of legal age, can contact me about it. I have taken a total of two little pinches from it, and it’s not that it’s too strong, I just have no desire to try it again.

I came relatively late to Salvia, literally, a couple months ago. Just like Miley! With a few exceptions, I’m still usually up for new drug experiences. I should have known it sucked because you can buy it in places like Cig Mart, Smokes 4 Less, and the other usual “class establishments” where you can get off-the-beaten-path varieties of Pall Malls. Since parents’ groups were against it (because it’s legal for anyone over 18) I knew it was at least worth a try.

The price of it corresponds to how “powerful” it is. And in a world where fifty bucks gets you a medical marijuana prescription, and another fifty (or less) a pop will get you an eighth of decent shit, it doesn’t make economic sense. Even when you use hillbilly math.

Naturally, I wanted to start at the top. Maximum strength. 20x. “Shamanic Grade.” The guy at Cig-A-Rama knocked $20 off the price because I thought $40 for something that was most likely going to amount to nothing was a sucker’s bet – I don’t give a fuck what the PTA says. “Plus,” I said, “I’m only trying this shit on a lark. I can get some good weed for that kind of money.” And for the four glorious weeks it was open, there was a weed collective about two doors down.

Shamanic grade… Must have been a bitch coming from the tribe with an overabundance of people with an extra chromosome.

It looked like the remnants of a bowl of weed in a little coke baggie. It actually looks like gunpowder. Nothing to write home about. “Why that little shit! I’ll never buy cigarettes in there again… I mean, first, I’ll have to start them. THEN, I’ll never buy them there,” I promised myself.

Admittedly, it does have hallucinogenic effects. In my case, it blurred the dividing line between reality and television to the point where even Kung Fu Panda seemed really deep. But it wasn’t trippy, so much as it was uncomfortable. An animated jaguar with the voice of Deadwood’s Ian McShane spouting bastardized Eastern philosophy is a little hard on the Central Nervous System when you’re fucking sober. The next time, I was watching a South Park, and I felt really sympathetic toward Kyle because he lost an egg.

All of this would be lovely if there wasn’t a purple and gold (Laker colors! Yay!) striped hyperspace tunnel, constantly pin wheeling to the right, reminding you that you’re in an artificial state. In my experience, good hallucinogens sort of sneak up on you. I guess it sort of does that. You’re so jarred by the body effect, that it takes a couple minutes for your mind to catch up with your altered perception.

As for the body effect? If a picture’s worth a thousand words, a couple minutes of video at 30 frames per second is more math than I want to do. So let’s let Daniel Tosh do the heavy lifting for me.

Notice that Salvia Eric falls to the left. That’s because you feel as if your body is being pulled left, like you were hyperactive puppy trying to go in the opposite direction of your master. I don’t mind saying that the scientist in me would like to experiment with a lefty, to see if they feel as if they’re being pulled right. So unlike quality hallucinogens, you have to sit wherever you start – it fucked with my motor skills that much. [I, for one, prefer the beach or the mountains. Or Disneyland.] Don’t worry, it doesn’t last long enough to fret over being sedentary for too long.

It’s not a constant, slow pull to the left, either. Otherwise, it would counter the right-leaning pin wheel, and all would be well. It’s like a dramatic yank, always to the left.

“Bad dog.”

The only thing I can liken it to is an attraction in the Penny Arcade on Main Street in Disneyland. You’d put in a dime, and hold two metal posts, one in each hand. Servo-motors would purr, and a miniature generator would light with a charge. It would slowly run an electrical charge through your body, a needle measuring your “manliness” by how many volts you could take. The thought that somewhere in the 1920’s adults considered this “entertainment” says a lot. I was twelve and had a dime to blow at Disneyland. What’s your excuse?

Finally, every last sweat gland on your entire body empties itself.

…and you listen to Bush. Was there no paint handy to huff?

L.I.T.? WTF???

Of course, it’s now headline news. Why? She didn’t get arrested. Salvia is legal for people over eighteen – and if she were smoking a cigarette, I think the “outrage” would be slightly less. The only thing she really did wrong was that she let somebody take some bytes of a private party. [And trusting whatever little weasel took them.] Very dumb, if you’re famous – and to date, not perceived as out of control. Regardless, people who speculate about such things wonder whether or not she’s becoming an L.I.T. or Lindsay in training.

I say: not yet, you assholes! But keep trying!!! Keep dog piling more and more photographers on top of her, making her world smaller and smaller, until she’s left with nothing but take-out food and a heroin addiction!

The problem is that a significant portion of her demographic, or more to the point, their parents, aren’t quite ready to part with their Hannah Montana sheet covers. Now, lazy parents have to explain the very complex chain of hypocrisy that is America’s drug policy, or at the very least, they have to explain that big kids get to do big kid stuff, and that the baby tee and the belly ring only make you look old enough. Many parents don’t like the hard questions.

They like the dilemmas that can be wrapped up in a half hour on a Disney shitcom. Explaining why you can do some things at 18, others at 21, others at 18, but only with a prescription, and then still others and your age doesn’t matter… it staggers the mind, and I don’t even have anyone I need to explain it to. The kid with the subscription to Bop! Magazine – her parents’ heads must have popped like Yul Brenner’s in Westworld.

It’s tricky, playing to an audience of children, but having adult proclivities. Just ask Paul Reubens. But just like the shitstorm over Pee Wee’s pee wee, Hannah Montanna’s bong toke is really a whole bunch of nothing.

And I should lighten up on Bush. She was raised on “Achy Breaky Heart.” Bush must sound like the fucking Velvet Underground. In fact, that got me thinking. I’ve never really thought about dating a woman that much younger than me before. But I make bad decisions, word is that she’s into older men…

Ancient Jew flees from proletariat. Drunken nutcracker threatens crowd. Good time had by all.

On November 28th, I was thinking of calling one of my Wiccan friends, so I could grab her tit to compare, and see if the legends were true.

That’s an Old Testament book you imbeciles!

Perhaps the unseasonable cold, high winds and other miserable conditions were my punishment for seeking out an assignment, mainly to laugh at it, and most definitely not with it. Were the Gods and Goddesses of the Snark Universe telling me that a well of snark-worthy targets of this magnitude is not easily won? Usually, winter coats in Southern California are a prop – and that’s even during the three months out of the year when you can wear them and not look insane.

"Did somebody call for a big bag of hot air?"

And you’d really think that between the balloons, fossil fuel emissions, and “celebrities,” there’d be enough hot air wafting down Hollywood Boulevard to make everyone comfortable, if not, toasty warm.

Of all the rituals [Some call them “traditions.”] I don’t understand in American culture, parades would have to be

Who?

in the top five, if not number one. Think I’m being a stick-in-the-mud? Try the following exercise: pretend you’re describing what a parade is to an alien using as few descriptive words as you can, and without talking about its history and/or the emotions a parade is supposed to evoke.

“Well, a bunch of people line up on a street. Then a bunch of things and people go down the street, very slowly, so the people can wave at them. These things include famous personages in automobiles; young people playing instruments; people on horses; giant balloons; and floats.” 

Next, try describing a float. “Well first, precariously assemble a bunch of boards on a slow moving vehicle, so people can stand on them…” We can play this all day. Digressing in the opening paragraphs bodes badly for the rest of the piece. Soooooooo…

If the Hollywood Christmas Parade is on December 21, 2012 - those aliens are goin' straight home

I recently covered the Dance of the Dead that is The Hollywood Christmas Parade. “Aw, man. I don’t know what I’d do if I got that assignment,” my writerly friends said. Oh, no. I didn’t get this assignment. There’s no J. Jonah Jameson hollering at me through a Hitler moustache in the offices of a major metropolitan magazine. I don’t usually have an editor screaming at me about, well, anything. I asked for this assignment. More to the point, in the absence of things like an editor, or even a department head, to play middleman between me and the subjects I cover, I have to make up my own gigs. So I did the legwork to score this one – not that it was particularly hard.

“Hi! I’m from Pasadena Parenting Weekly, and I want to cover your show.”

“You mean, someone’s actually interested?”

Only in America: Mini. Blue. Angels.

It was really out of nothing more than morbid curiousity that I thought it might be interesting, if nothing else, to catch up with something I used to like as a kid this holiday season. Older, wiser — rather, more cynical and jaded — I thought it would be campy, and even Huell Howser-esque, to cover the parade. I probably haven’t watched it regularly in at least twenty years, and the one time I did happen upon it, I didn’t recognize a single person, save for the withered mummies they bust out of the mothballs and trot down Hollywood Boulevard every year so they don’t go all “Norma Desmond,” on the community at large.

Who?!

Since that one magical time, when I witnessed the roll out of all the WB’s mid-season replacements in float form, I’ve been calling it “The Cavalcade of Has Beens,” which really only covers half the story. Actually, they should change the name of the parade, again. I suggest The WHO??? Parade. In order to be a “has been,” you actually have to have been in the first place. Think of it this way: E! Entertainment Television has a potential TWENTY FUCKING FOUR HOURS A DAY of entertainment “news” programming to fill, and they sure as fuck weren’t down there.

The only people who had a less fortunate position than myself were the reporters from "Bop!"

The press kit confirmed that 2010 would be no different from years past, at least when it came to “star power.” Mostly, it was people from soap operas and Disney shitcoms. It was almost cute the way the person who did the press release figured out a way to say, “Um, we got nothin’ folks.” The name of the show would go first, then the “talent” associated with it. As if seeing the title Hannah Montanna is going to make us forget that we don’t know who Jason Earles is. The anomaly, on paper at least, was Danny Trejo. Mainly because he actually has a career, and I know who he is.

I also took the assignment because I thought it would be relatively easy, which in truth, coming up with 200-500 words is pretty easy. I could have adapted the press release, and just called it a day after the “Red Carpet.” Pardon me, I SHOULD HAVE adapted the press release, and called it a day after the red carpet. The fact that the event staffers didn’t think to put out at least some fucking hot water, paper cups and goddam fucking Folger’s crystals should have been a portent of doom.

Actually, no. The first portent of doom was the pirate balloon, and its staff.

Where I come from, pirate = rum

“That’s crazy,” I said. “They’re so hard up for sponsors, they’ve turned to the Captain Morgan people!”

What if you went in there, and instead of Santa, it was Tom Cruise?

Not quite. Since the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce cut the parade loose in the early 2000’s, the City of Los Angeles has had to turn to alternative sources for funding – dead horses don’t flog themselves, you know. And if the annual appearance of a Winter Wonderland on that dead-ass lot next to Hubbard Headquarters on Hollywood Boulevard says anything at all, it’s that Scientologists are all about Christmas. Well, X-Mas. Well, Holiday. The pirate, and his inflatable treasure chest, were advertising L. Ron Hubbard’s series of fiction “Stories from the Golden Age.”

"Yar! Would ye be wantin' a free personality test, matey?"

This is what happens when Rip Taylor farts

Nothing serves as a better reminder of where one is at on the entertainment reporting ladder — or perhaps where the publication you work for is in the pecking order — than being stationed next to the reporters for Bop! and Teen Beat magazines. So to take a tally, freezing fucking cold, no coffee or cocoa, and I’m standing next to mall-lings. To their credit, they kept their cool when Rip Taylor accosted them.

Mr. Taylor pauses for a moment to discuss his interpretation of Lear with the girl from Tiger Beat

Digital camera technology is a beautiful thing. You can crack off a shot to give a looney his attention pill, just so he’ll leave you the fuck alone, and it barely makes a dent in your memory card. Personally, though, I actually have a soft spot in my heart for Rip Taylor. I’ve seen a lot of episodes of Love Boat and $64,000 Pyramid. Though his reason for being (semi) famous is pretty retarded, I can at least point to definable shtick.

Who???

So after being outside the back of a Scientologist bookstore, clapping at the likes of Erik Estrada so I don’t get thrown the fuck out, we are directed to the Press Pit. “Sweet,” I thought. “That must be where they’re keeping the Saint Bernards wearning the collars with a little keg of brandy on them.”

I’m not a diva when it comes to reporting. I’ve stood back and made bunny ears behind my counterparts who berate event staff. Nothing sets me off quicker than, “Don’t you know who I am?” BUT… if you don’t understand the value of a couple bagel plates and some shitty coffee, at least realize that the best place to put press and photographers is WHERE THE FUCKING LIGHTS ARE!!! EVEN BETTER – WHERE THE FUCKING LIGHTS ARE, AND WHERE THE CARS ARE STOPPING TO TALK TO ERIK ESTRADA!!!

This is what the parade looks like when you don't work for Hallmark Movie Channel

No, the more than aptly named “Press Pit” was a two-level set of plywood risers, the likes of which I haven’t seen since being in chorus in the sixth grade. They were being guarded by another volunteer, who was at wit’s end, trying to get a large family of Latino people to understand that it wasn’t just a really cool place for them to sit. She finally resorted to “liberating” a couple of traffic cones from LAPD when their backs were turned. Any moron could have told her that her wall wasn’t going to work. Too many gaps…

This is all before the parade began, mind you.

Larry King was the Grand Marshall, which was another reason whoever organized this clusterfuck is brain damaged. This is not me being “catty.” There’s a very real danger of Larry King croaking at any given moment, and you don’t want the last memory of the man being the entertainment business equivalent of the Zapruder film. This is funny because, even before he hit the Press Pit, the cops parted the crowd on Highland, and the classic car in which he and his Mormon wife were riding, made a beeline for the end of the parade route.

Ladies and gentlemen, Grand Marshall Larry King, and his lovely wife, Shawn!

“Boy, those people are going to be PISSED when they find out that the rest of the parade is about an hour and a half behind him,” I thought.

Hot... but, WHO???

From there, well, that’s the funny part. From there, I don’t have a lot to say about the parade that hasn’t been said, or assumed, before. Just one continuous line of WHO??? This had to be annoying to the volunteer in charge of the Press Pit. Because we eventually stopped asking each other, and started asking her. When your job, at its very core, involves knowing more than your fair share about people in the popular culture, asking “who?” repeatedly will usually result in your being exiled, and your editor getting a very nasty call from pissed off publicists. At the Hollywood Christmas Parade, it became a running gag.

Machete improvises?

I think it’s pretty well established by now that I’m no prude. What I am saying is that the Christmas Parade is an old school tradition; and in terms of structure and execution, a very, very old Hollywood tradition. There are a lot of people who would shit an ever-lovin’ brick if they knew that one of the participants had double-teamed Lindsay Lohan and her onscreen mom in Machete. I could see him getting around that with the old guard by playing up his role in the Spy Kids movies. Plus, the guy is as clean as a whistle in real life.

The really weird one was UFC fighter, Tito Ortiz. The fact that he beats the holy shit out of people for a living is one thing. Again, it’s something that’s kind of moot in this entertainment landscape. There was a time when WWE was considered “fringe.” I like UFC well enough. Most of the time, it’s two jock shitheads who probably fucked with people like me in high school beating each other to an early grave. Add a PE teacher into the mix, and I’d never miss a fight!

Tito Ortiz takes time off from beating the shit out of Jenna Jameson to wish his fans a merry Christmas

No, if my eyes didn’t deceive me, his “baby mama” was riding with him, and that would be (former) porn star, Jenna Jameson – who, just because she doesn’t do “features,” anymore, doesn’t mean she’s not involved with the game. Then again, she’s more successful than any other producer they could get to participate – without making him Grand Marshall. And I gotta be honest. I think they should have MORE porn stars in the parade. Let’s get it all out on the table, people! Nope, the real problem for me, porn and violence being their bread and butter aside [After all, is there a more fitting symbol of Hollywood than that?] is that: HE WENT TO JAIL FOR SMACKING HER AROUND EARLIER THIS YEAR! She even filed for divorce and dragged his name through the mud in public. They eventually backpeddled on the story and reconciled, but you’d really think that somebody would have realized the potential PR nightmare involved and called Hulk Hogan and his amazon daughter. Maybe they did, and the Hulk-ster wanted money.

“What do you mean, ‘It’s a charity event,’ brother?”

I actually heard somebody say "Isn't that cool how his lightsaber is a zigzag pattern?"

What I really enjoyed was the balloons. I enjoyed them for many reasons, none of them were because they’re awesome, or they remind me of Christmas. The majority were half-inflated. I love the image of a parade producer cutting costs, and sending out the balloons as soon as they looked close enough to “right.” It was most likely, however, that because helium expands, which gives the balloons their lift, the cold weather made it possible only to barely keep the balloons afloat.

"Who you callin' nutcracker??? Ah'm shick of you, anyway..."

 

 

Barely. If there was one upshot to the shitty positioning of The Pit, it was that the high winds made it virtually impossible for the handlers to control the balloons. The nutcracker was the best because it was one that managed to retain its shape after it was off camera – which was a feat. The only thing with more hot air in it was Larry King, and he knew better than to hang around. This apparently made it very difficult for the volunteers to control, with hilarious results. By the time it got to our end of the route — in between buildings, creating a SERIOUS wind-tunnel — the volunteers were struggling to hold the balloon back from crushing the people who were in front of the Souvenirs of Hollywood trinket shop and tourist trap. He looked like a drunk trying to pick a fight with the crowd.

A caption would only spoil the magic...

I did not tough it out. I did not finish the parade. And there was a point, where the end WAS in fact, in sight and still, I just had to go. The siren song of Canters’ matzo ball soup, and half a Reuben sandwich were beconing. My feet were fucking killing me, I was tired of seeing celebrities get to the edge of the carpet (yes, about twenty yards of Hollywood Boulevard were covered in red carpet) only to have the driver gun the engine just before the single unit of cheap klieg lights whose generator was already running low.

WHO???????????

A balloon of Horton, from Horton Hears A Who, was just getting off of the carpet, and looking to finish off the work that the nutcracker began.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself, Horton. It’s time to leave.”

…and I heard him exclaim, as he skulked out of sight YOU’RE ALL VAPID MORONS! TIME FOR SOUP!!!

Boo… part one: Ghosts suck. Happy October, everybody!!!

Ghosts suck. You heard me. Of all the “monsters” in this world, ghosts are the worst – and by that, I sure as shit don’t mean the scariest. Not by a long shot.

For the record, using simple logic, this ire has to be predicated on a belief that ghosts, the afterlife, the great beyond, whatever, exist. Right? So understand that, critical as I may be, I’m not in any way, shape, or form saying that if you believe in ghosts, you’re a fucking idiot or something. I’m just not in the mood to discuss metaphysics. At least not right now – and it’s not because I’m worried about the ghost, or ghosts, I believe to be residing in my current place.

The ones here suck too. Maybe even worse than the average ghost. They just make loud noises that startle me while I’m meditating or writing. Give me a little homework to do, and it will feel just like high-school. Hiding in the clothes drier was my little brother’s favorite trick – give that one a shot. Go nuts, you spectral fuckheads.

When I say shit like that, my friends – believers and “non-believers” alike – say, “You better be careful, man. You don’t want to mess with that shit.” Did I miss a meeting, or something? Have I busted out the black candles and started a seance? Why are people so afraid of ghosts? All they can do is haunt you. And what does that really mean?

• They knock a lot of shit over.
• The move shit. Like, three inches. Generally, not when you’re in the room.
• Animals have not only the ability to detect them before you, they have a visceral, hate-filled reaction to them.
• They startle you by being someplace that you don’t expect them to be.
• Worst case scenario, they knock you around a bit.

I’ll even acknowledge poltergeists and possessions. [Who the fuck am I to say they aren’t real just because I don’t have any experiences with them? I’ve never seen a Kudu up close, either, and I still believe they exist.] It’s just that, in the face of a wide pool of anecdotal information, they’re the exceptions, not the rule. And when you piece together the evidence, ghosts are more like the non-corporeal version of a bad roommate. Kind of like living with every asshole in Animal House, all rolled into one.

Take for instance, this “chilling” scene from last year’s big thing in horror, Paranormal Activity:

This ghost obviously isn’t too powerful, otherwise, this stunt would have involved a bowl of warm water. That’s right, it’s even lamer than the oldest sleepover prank in the book. Perhaps pulling the covers away from somebody’s feet was the way you really fucked with them in 1874. Sure, it’s fucking creepy – but mainly because somebody’s there in your bedroom with you and your girl. The only real “harm” to come from this is that she’s going to have to take a longer shower in the morning to defrost her feet. That really sucks.

What ghosts really are is fucking annoying as hell. The “scary” thing is that you can’t see the asshole(s) doing whatever annoying shit they do – and if you think about it, that’s more something to get over, than to be afraid of. Let’s take a look at another scene from Paranormal Activity through a different window:

 

Don’t get me wrong, that’s freaky as shit. However, where’s the ghost really going to take her? To the gates of Hell itself? Highly unlikely. On another side of the prism: you don’t have to go to college to have lived with people who thought it was funny to drag your ass out of bed in the middle of the night, just to fuck with your world.

Look what happens when I take the audio from a random scene from another classic (ahem!), You, Me and Dupree. The scenario and the audio don’t quite match up, but it’s not quite the point anyway. I just wanted to replace the sound of blood-curdling screams with annoyance toward a roommate:

See? Now it’s a situation where the asshole simply has to go. Depending on the severity of the haunting, and the potential for grievous bodily harm, [For example: the goddamn ghost keeps dragging you toward the stairs.] sure, you could call a religious official, but why? Being one myself, I can only encourage a spirit to “go to the light.” What if the ghost has really overstepped some boundaries? Then what do you do? I say call in a spiritual professional who’s got no problem with revenge. Whether or not they’re a hoax is almost irrelevant, call a practitioner of the Dark Arts.

If you want to be cool about it, you could issue a warning:

A preacher is the least of your problems, you bastard son of a pirate whore! You should be so lucky to have a kindly, old Irishman sweat for a couple hours while encouraging you to go to the light. I know practitioners of witchcraft! If you don’t watch your shit, my friend, I’m going to have a fucking warlock imprison your ass in an amulet, then donate it it to Jan fuckin’ Crouch!

So this holiday season – go out and get nice and afraid of something that deserves your fear: serial killers, suburban kids who actually think they’re vampires, Republican heavy metal fans, whatever. Have a ball! But make 2010 the year you tell all the ghosts in your life that they can stick around if they wish, but you won’t acknowledge them, or their bullshit, anymore. And if they really want to push it – this isn’t like the year they died. We’ve got phonebooks now, and an exorcist is just one option.

Bring me the head of the State Farm Insurance Spokesdouche

*Warning I am fully aware that, ironically, this rant will inevitably lead to more click-thru’s on State Farm commercials, and pointing that out will earn you a smack in the face.*  

I’d really like to taint-punch the people who coined the terms “Generation X” and “Slacker.” And by that, I don’t mean Douglas Coupland and Richard Linklater (or by extension, the writers of Back to the Future). I mean the clownfuckers in the marketing departments of the corporations whose sole purpose on this planet is to think of new ways to sell soda and shoes to people in their 20’s. A major difference between the vast majority of Baby Boomers and the generations behind them is that very few of us, if any, think of being roughly the same age as a good reason to go on a back-slapping jag with one another.  

Using generational iconography and politics as a way of moving cheap, disposable crap to people who probably don’t have the money because they haven’t developed the good decision making circuits in their brains yet – but are of legal age to mire themselves in credit card debt – is hardly new. The hat trick isn’t so much in denying all commerce with corporations – which is pretty much impossible – as it is adapting to commercials to the point where they become white noise. I’m just glad I’ve lived long enough to see the music of my parents’ generation used to sell really strange shit.  

You can’t enjoy that kind of irony without your chickens eventually coming home to roost. You can only laugh at “Revolution” in the Nike commercials, or at Buddy Holly’s “Oh Boy” as it gradually devolved into Toyotahon’s “We make it easy on you” jingle, before karma catches up to you. Then again I can’t recall a time when a song I like hasn’t been used to try to sell me something. I just have to come to terms with the eerie fact that “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” at some point, will probably be used to sell Bean-o. “Here Comes Your Man,” is already the goto song in commercials for romcoms.  

Like a recurring anal cyst, the State Farm Insurance spokesdouche is there

 

Maybe that’s why State-Farm Insurance has adopted a new approach to try and get me to buy the same insurance my parents, and grandparents, bought. We “slackers,” as adults, have to get responsible. It was our frivolous spending that got this country in the hole in the first place… And we’re too bloody smart to fall for gimmicks like talking lizards and urbane cavemen. But a heavy handed message like that isn’t bound to win many fans. Rather, folksy, nebulously 30-40 year old, working-class-but-in-a-Tom-Cruise-way Eddie Matos – whose favorite movie is clearly Singles – lays out a simple, practical plan for chaotic and troubled economic times: the easiest way you can save money is by buying their insurance.  

But let’s not confuse working actor, Eddie Matos, with a corporate character. After all, I and many of my actor friends would jump at the chance for a national commercial. Eddie has to be loving life now. He probably bought his boyfriend a new car. Thus, I call him The State Farm Insurance Spokesdouche.  

I’m sure you’ve seen the commercials:  

Why cut back on conspicuous consumption when you can just buy insurance? That alone will secure your future. Especially when the country goes (even further) tits up; there’s a wide-scale disaster; and everybody and your grandmother is trying to cash in their policies at once so they can move the fuck to Canada??? Don’t go granola! That requires discipline and personal responsibility! Go vanilla!  

However, the commercial above isn’t the problem. In fact, I’m either looking like a collossal asshole, or a very obsessed freak, by now. I’m not saying that I’m not either of those, but what I am saying is that the marketing and advertising departments couldn’t take their own advice, and be frugal with their money when it came to their budgets. Either that, or younger people are still having to make the choice between food and rent, and a full-package insurance plan – and the dinosaurs at the top are so out of touch, they think the answer to the problem is throwing more commercials out there.  

So the commercials have increased in number to the point where the Spokesdouche isn’t just a ubiquitous presence, but a fucking annoying one as well. Familiarity breeds contempt – and apparently on both sides. He’s gotten smug. Almost every mug to the camera is a poor parody of Tom Cruise’s “Come on!” look – throwing up his arms in exaspiration with people who try to save money in any other way than buying State Farm Insurance.  

Exhibit A:  

  

I like how they call this one “Lunch With Friends.” Whether they are his circle of friends, or just work friends, they need a beating. I don’t know, assholes, what about offering to pick up your buddy’s meal? Pick on your buddy for trying to save money??? Fuck your mothers in their asses!!! Obviously, though there’s no reason for this guy to do so, he wanted to hang out with those other jagoffs. I hope he learned his lesson.  

The Spokesdouche only adds to the overall asshole subtext to the commercial. Note that, when they cut to him, he’s laughing at the cocksuckers who are laughing at their friend because he wanted to hang out with them, but couldn’t even afford so much as a grease burger in a shithole. Then he blythely states, “The things people do to save money…” which in reality means, “Look at this fuck. His best friends are busting his balls because the cheap son of a bitch brought a sandwich to a restaurant. Buying State Farm Insurance will keep you from having to look like a social retard.” But I still point back to the “pals” If I were busting a friend’s balls, and some fucker dressed like Ross from Friends, chimed in – I don’t care if he’s agreeing with me, I’m going to tell him to shut the fuck up.  

This guy really hates people who bring their lunch to public places. Or maybe the subtext is that State Farm is anti-proletariat:  

  

Look in the background. Clearly, the guy in the beard is a mute, and his friend, Sack Lunch Sam, is retarded. But even a retarded guy knows that fifty bucks a week is a pretty nice chunk of change right now. So Spokesdouche doesn’t even acknowledge their presence. Rather, he heads to his seat while other fans of The Genericton B’s (it’s on the hats) agree with him. And notice, they have ballpark snacks. That’s right! You can save so much by spending money with State Farm that you can afford a 7-dollar hotdog!  

Then, just when you think all the appropriate sharks have been jumped, Spokesdouche revs up the boat and heads for the ramp again. This time, he even steps on the toes of a fellow State Farm shill:  

  

See? It’s kinda kooky! It’s almost like a comedy bit… kinda… except it’s not funny…. and…  

LOOK! HE CAN ANNOY PEOPLE IN TWO LANGUAGES!!!  

  

It feels… oh, I don’t know, just so much more authentic to have him prattling on in a nice marketa, amongst the real people. But just like in the english-language version, he degenerates into picking on even his Latino brothers and sisters. What a prick!  

  

Yeah, great job asshole! Like that kid doesn’t feel bad enough, and the mother isn’t only embarassed by not having enough money to just go to the barber in the first place, NO! These dumb foreigners don’t know the simplest way to save money, AND be able to afford a haircut is to buy State Farm Insurance. Silly immigrants. Will they never learn?  

I like how this one insults not only a guy trying to save money by buying cheaper gas, it insults Latinos again with a character that says, in his best Pedro de Pacas impression, “Que? I cannot hear you.” And it’s another one that makes me wonder if my friends are just exceptionally nice, or nobody in the marketing department has friends at all.  

  

In the immortal words of Vince, The Shamwow Guy, “I can’t do this all day.” My final example has been altered. Not by me, but by State Farm itself. If these terrible commercials, and the constant presence of the Spokesdouche have annoyed you as much as they’ve annoyed me, you’ll notice the change:  

  

What happened here is that they took out one of the weirdest non sequiturs I’d seen in a commercial. The commercial is in english, but just before it fades into the State Farm logo with a bluesy whistle, a waitress brings him his coffee, he looks at the camera and says, “La Familia.” I mean, sure, kids raised in pretty much any city in America would know what that means, but why say it in the first place? Is his spanish that bad and he thought he was saying “Thank you?”  

I don’t know what to state in conclusion, because I don’t really know a conclusion can be reached. The commercials will continue, unabated – of that, I’m sure. Bad will toward his face alone will that Eddie Mato will never work again. He will go to auditions, the casting director will say, “Hey! Aren’t you from those State Farm commercials?” he will say, “Yes,” and he’ll be lucky to escape with his life.  

And the twisted bastards at State Farm already have the next generation in their crosshairs as the oldest of them begins to reach their earning potential. It’s obvious they think young people are doorknobs with this “State Farm agent as genie,” approach. Man, are they in for a surprise or what?!  

Xavier Cugat made Roman Polanski look like Ashton Kutcher

The shit that happens when you look up “Charo” on wikipedia because you don’t know the correct spelling of gootchy…

Did you know that Xavier Cugat falsified her age on her work visa? His “protege” was only 13 years old! I taught junior high for a year. It’s a bitch when you can’t find a synonym for “yuck.” I guess abstaining from child molestation gives Desi Arnaz the trump card. Although, it would be kind of funny if the Cug-ster got the sitcom. Can you imagine, “I Love Charo”? Most. Uncomfortable. Sitcom. EVER!

Actually, it’s “cuchi.” I try to make a point of learning something new every day. I’m allowed a fucking mistake or two. I fucking know the BJ and the Bear theme song! BY HEART!

I saw her in Hawaii once. True Story. I don’t mean I was hiking in Hawaii and bumped into her at a waterfall. Didn’t see her snorkeling or tanning. I don’t even mean they were shooting a Love Boat reunion and we crashed the set.

Lono and I paid actual money to see that. We share a morbid fascination with icons of 70s and 80s shit television. To date, there have been only three people I know of that can keep up with me on TV Trivial pursuit: my brother, Carl Cleaver, and Lono.

So it wasn’t surprising that the first thing he told me, upon moving to Hawaii, was that Charo performed regularly at one of the hotels there – to be followed by, “Taj Mahal has a place on one of the islands too, but he doesn’t perform.” That is how Lono is. Naturally, he got to the beaches and rain forests, but anybody can talk about that. It’s, like, right fucking there in front of you!!!

I remember there was some kind of hang-up in getting tickets to Don Ho, but I digress.

You know the old saying, “When you assume, blah, blah…” Yeah. That.

The room was packed, which is not a bad thing. However, Lono and I were two of five people in the room under seventy. Before we get on this “Vinehamner’s an agist” bullshit, the collective age of the room wouldn’t be a problem either. I mean, a conga-line’s a conga-line, no?

We’re not talking about Helen Mirren, Sean fucking Connery, or even those fun-loving seniors you see in commercials. I didn’t know about the world of seniors’ sightseeing tours. The things where they schlub a bunch of semi-erect codgers around in a bus because they worked their asses off for three quarters of their natural lives and goddammit! They’re going to see HAWAII before they die.

That would be a great slogan for the tourism industry:

Hawaii – see it before you croak!

So the rest of the room was basically a George Romero picture without an editor. We had drinks with umbrellas. [Coincidentally, the Charo revue is about the only place in Hawaii you can get a big, colorful drink with an umbrella in it. The locals don’t cotton to that bullshit.] We’d also had several joints, several more drinks at another hotel, and a couple lines prior to even reaching the place. WE WERE SET TO CUCHI-CUCHI MOTHERFUCKER!!! FUCK YEAH!!! CUCHI ON!!! The rest of the room had split-pea soup.

That wasn’t how we behaved, actually. I mean, we started dancing and everything, but it just got depressing watching people fall asleep at their tables. So, of course, we just sat there and drank more.

What can I say about the act? You think Charo’s going to go out there and play “Stairway to Heaven” and blow your fucking mind? Didn’t know about her juggling talent, did you??? SHE’S MORE THAN JUST A BODY!!! Coincidentally, Charo is one of the best guitarists I’ve ever seen. But she only did one of those songs. Frankly, if it was an evening of that, I fucking-ay would tell you it was one of the best shows I’d ever seen.

So the act was, well, cabaret. Not particularly good. Not particularly entertaining. A couple of show tunes (she had a chorus of 4 guys behind her) ; a couple sets of badly written, Catskills material (but I wasn’t exactly expecting Carlin); one very beautiful tune on the classical guitar [I understand Cugat’s attraction to a girl who can wield an axe – but… thirteen, dude.]; and about twenty minutes – I shit you not – of “The Cuchi Cuchi Song.

“Why twenty minutes? Well, the seniors who’d plunked down a lot of bones to be shuttled about in an insulated, pollution-spewing tube across some of the most beautiful land on the globe (hey – just because I don’t tan don’t mean I don’t love the outdoors!), also got a picture with Charo. Imagine a rave where somebody locks the doors from the outside and puts “Barbie Girl” on a perpetual loop. It’s like that, but without the x to get you through.

We were getting excited. She was going around to every other FUCKING table in the place, taking pictures with people. Except the five people who were actually dancing. Little old ladies were pulling their husbands’ heads out of the fucking soup to smile at Charo! It’s like Movieland Wax Musem without the energy! She bounced her geriatric tits at every other FUCKING table in the place. Except the five people that were dancing.

Fuck you, Charo. Fuck you.