A Rarity: Post from Arkansas

Defying stereotypes and conventional wisdom, I am sitting here writing a post from North Little Rock, Arkansas. I know, I know. I'm surprised there's electricity here, too. I'm out here for two weeks for a military course, the details of which would give you a coma. Suffice to say I am not happy being here, and the course is merely the tip of the iceberg.

Do I have to?

There is nothing here. Seriously. Literally. Suicidally. North Little Rock, the aptly named suburb north of the Arkansas River from Little Rock, is a depressing shithole that reminds me of the poor, run-down areas surrounding New Orleans. Yards are overgrown, cars are rundown, and the buildings are shabby and in disrepair. But enough of that. Let's get to the good stuff.

Little Rock, NOT North Little Rock

The guy next to me in the course, who has been here a few times, told me of North Little Rock Mall. Having nothing better to do last night, I decided to check it out. So I followed his directions, and shortly came to a strip mall called North Little Rock Mall that consisted on A JoAnn's Fabrics and a Smoothie King. I wanted to kill that dude.

Luckily, right down the road I found a Blockbuster. Having nothing better to do during these two weeks, this was a lifesaver. I went in, and noticed the latest Lou Diamond Phillips blockbuster called Lone Rider. Once I got past the captivating and original title, I noticed it also starred Vincent Spano, who is of course Jesse's older brother. He graduated from Bayside when Mr. Belding was still vice principal. As it turned out, I didn't rent this epic saga, although I felt really bad for Richie Valens.

LDP

I really wish I had remembered to bring my camera, because there's just certain things that mere words can't convey, like the sense of utter hopelessness that radiates from this area. I'm not sure what Little Rock is like, I don't think I'll be going there. Maybe it's better, but probably not. Maybe that feeling comes from the fact that this area is prone to tornadoes, severe flooding, and remembering it's in Arkansas.

A state which, by the way, really sucks. Crossing the Mississippi River from Memphis, the first two miles of the state was flooded. That's not an exaggeration. Immediately after that I saw Wal-Mart. Then another one. And another. One every exit, in fact. And apparently, North Little Rock has two within two miles of each other. Although one is a (trumpets) Super Wal-Mart.

Well, I've only been here two days so far. I'll get back to you wierdos after I experience some more the The Natural State. And by the way, when I checked the site right before I wrote this, I was the 500th visitor. That means people are actually reading this drivel. I like that. Keep up the good work, ya bastards.

Good Idea - Bad Idea

Good Idea - Spending the weekend on the Rappahannock River with friends.
Bad Idea - Waiting for Boss to shower before we left. Seriously, for a dude with no hair it takes him an epic amount of time in the bathroom (and I do mean epic, I finished The Iliad while waiting).

Good Idea - A day on a boat.
Bad Idea - Splashing owner of said boat while boarding with all the grace of a wet St. Bernard.

Good Idea - A cooler of ice cold beer.
Bad Idea - Letting Boss convince me that a 24 oz. Steel Reserve could fall under the "Good Idea" umbrella

Kryptonite on steroids

Good Idea - Smoking a Black & Mild to deter bugs
Bad Idea - Smoking a Black & Mild when you already have a righteous chest cold

Good Idea - Playing cards to wind down the day
Bad Idea - Playing drinking games with cards after the aforementioned Steel Reserve

Good Idea - Eating Sheetz to cure what ails you
Bad Idea - Eating Sheetz to cure what ails you

Blue/White 2008

The sun rose early that morning, crowning over Mt. Nittany and washing the Sacred Ground in its light. Beaver Stadium responded in kind, redirecting the light off its windows, beams, and flagpoles. The Bryce Jordan Center tried to do the same, but realized only shitty teams play there. Somewhere between the two, the caravan arrived.

I haven’t been to the annual Blue and White Game at Penn State since 2005, a fact that I made sure everyone in attendance was well aware of. I wanted to make this a good tailgate, and had to make everyone aware that it had damn well better be.

Our tailgate area was in the grass next to the stadium, a lush section of turf that I credit to the Turfgrass Management majors. Within the first hour I had my sandals off and was prancing barefoot through the dark green shoots. That lasted until the dogs started peeing everywhere. Then I had another beer and the sandals came off again.

The Bloody Mary bar opened early, immediately followed by beer pong. Some of the guys we were tailgating with had the Drinko board going, with proceeds benefitting the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Proceeds from beer pong benefitted the Get Pennypacker Drunk society. Donations were large and tasty.

Everything went well. I saw some good friends, people I hadn’t seen in a while, and nothing got out of control. Even the mandatory flip cup game was mild, despite Steve’s glorious proclamations from on high. There were even only two high-lows doled out. But the one was AWESOME, we thought dude broke his neck. It was well executed by myself and Jason.

Don't interrupt him, just look how happy he is!

Towards the end of the day, the cars started to leave. Around this time, certain individuals decided to behave like their canine pals and piss in the open field. Since most Penn State tailgates bring in extra uniformed and undercover cops from outside State College, this probably wasn’t the best idea. Hell, a few years ago I got busted by undercovers for taking a slice of pizza from an unmanned tailgate.

Overall, a great time. I didn’t get too drunk (rare), I hung out with some good friends, and the next day my sandals smelled like piss. Dog or human, I’ll never be able to figure out.

A Retort

Well, Mr. Danforth, allow me to retort.

(clears throat)
(adjusts package)

1. Coors Light. Get to know their audience. We’re talking NASCAR-watching, Skoal-chewing, wife-beating, shotgun-racking, pickup-loving, Mossy Oak Breakup-wearing, trailer-living Americans. Do they go to bars in the middle of the day? Do they order more than one beer for themselves? Do they have a bunch of friends with similar work ethics? Do they need to be told when their beer is cold? The answer to all these question is a qualified ‘yes.’

2. Taco Bell. Bacon DOES trump all. Beauty is in the sizzle.

3. Tropicana Pure Valencia. I’ve caught you jerking off to The Food Network. And I’m talking about the close-ups of seared tuna steak, not Giada De Laurentiis. So don’t tell me that hot, sweating fruit doesn’t put a banana in your pants, buddy. And I don’t know about you, but I wanna fuck that juice.

(adjusts package)

4. I actually agree with you on this one. Dammit.

HMNIG Hits Milestone: 389th Hit

Everyone's favorite Website That They Don't Know About Yet has hit a huge milestone: we got our 389th site hit.

I know what you're all thinking: no way that many people read this slop. Well, I got news for you: they don't. When the writers check the page every half hour to see if one of the other writers has put any new filth up, the totals add up. In fact, one day I single-handedly put 32 hits on. So, doing the math: total readership is up to eight people. Awesome.

Open Letter Wednesday

The issue with which I take umbrage this week involves so many different people, I don't know who to address. Listen up ad agencies, this week's ire is directed at you...

To Whom It May Concern:

Y’all are starting get under my craw. Last night I endured a four commercial stretch so immeasurably terrible I nearly popped my eyes out with a grapefruit spoon. Each represented problems I’ve long had with ad agencies. Allow me, if you will, to play Joe Everyman and take you to task for ruining America.

Coors Light Code Blue kicked off the run like the tines of a fork on a ceramic plate. To summarize, man orders bucket of Coors Light, bottles are blue (signifying they are cold and ready to drink), man calls friends, friends drop everything and join him at the bar. My questions: Why is one guy ordering a bucket of beer in the middle of the day, and a work day at that? Why does everyone he calls beat feet to join him in his alcoholic afternoon? This brings up an important issue, that being the idea of drinking responsibly. How can Coors display the “Please Drink Responsibly” message with a straight face when everyone in the commercial is shirking responsibility to down some Rocky Mountain refreshment? It is patently absurd and a middle finger to the collective intelligence of the audience, though making a label that turns blue to tell the drinker his or her beer is cold enough takes care of that already.

Listen, I know Taco Bell can trot out any lame commercial and still sell the bejesus out of there Maybe Mexican. Hell, they could have Pol Pot, Stalin and the current line-up of “talent” on MTV kicking puppies and hawking the Cheesy Gordita Crunch and I’d buy one. However, the commercial for the new Bacon Club Chalupa is plain disturbing. Two attractive young women go to a bar and one is armed with said Chalupa in hopes of drawing the attention of a gentleman caller. Seriously? It used to be that a pretty young lovely with low self esteem could just spread her legs, now she has to provide snacks? What kind of message is this to girls in America? Sure, you might be beautiful and funny and intelligent and have a lot to offer in general. You might even put out. But bacon trumps all that, so plan accordingly.

Sex sells, period. In fact, I’ve written on the subject and the idea that it is as good a propaganda tool as there is. We’ve gotten to a point where everything is sexualized. Food porn is all the rage, and as somewhat of a foodie I can tolerate it when it appears where it belongs, i.e. Top Chef and other food related programming. I don’t want to see it in commercials for juice though. Of course I’m talking about the commercial for Tropicana Pure Valencia. Seductive voice over, extreme close-ups of perspiring fruit, pools of juice exploding with delight, you get the picture. Here is what I want to think while watching a juice commercial, “Mmm, juice. I bet that would be tasty with breakfast or after a long night of drinking.” Here is what I don’t want to think, “Oh man, I wanna fuck that juice.” See the difference? Is it wrong that I want my juice to be a thirst quencher and not a dirty whore?

Of all the commercial tactics that piss me off, using British actors for voice overs to convey luxury is my most hated. ALL BRITS ARE NOT SMARTER AND MORE DIGNIFIED THAN AMERICANS! They just aren’t. It is a stereotype that is pandered to far too often and could just as easily be turned on its head with the Brit-as-drunken-hooligan stereotype that doesn’t get as much play. Come to think of it, if some company were brave enough to hire that archetype to sell me a car I’d be signing papers today.

It is truly unfortunate you, advertising agencies on the whole, can’t evolve past the same styles on which you have relied for years. Some companies are so successful, I’m not sure why they even need to advertise, especially if they are going to continue to produce crap ads. Given that it has been this way since time immemorial, I should get used to the formulaic nature of the industry. But I don’t want to, and you, as advertisers, shouldn’t want to either. Sell me a car because I need to drive, juice and beer because I need to drink and Taco Bell because I’m stoned. Is that so much ask?

Ready to buy,

Brunswick P. Danforth

Stop Multiplying

I read today, by accident, that the uglier Simpson sister may or may not be having a baby with the homo from Fall Out Boy. And Beyonce may or may not have gotten pregnant by Jigga's spizza. All of which leads me to believe the world is going to end.



At the risk of sounding irrational, let me explain. First, the facts:

1. Women have babies.
2. Celebrity women have babies.
3. Women love celebrities.
4. Women love babies.
5. People are stupid.

It is a slightly well-known fact that women have babies. Women also love celebrities. We stand at a point in history where every wipe of every celebrity ass is documented in twenty-three different mediums within four minutes of said event. Therefore women know enerything there is to know about these people, including their kids. They love them. They want their own. So women have kids.

It doesn't help that every B-list hack is celebrated for reproducing, even though any retard with an IQ higher than a ham sandwich can put the round peg in the round hole (although he may get the wrong hole). This, in my opinion, has made women think that pregnancy and motherhood is something that should happen NOW, and multiple times afterwards.

And so the planet is turning into a poor Bolivian farming family. Everyone wants kids, and lots of 'em. So they start popping out fuck trophies like they're an assembly line. Pretty soon the world population is tipping 10 billion.

Which brings me to my initial point. Celebrity babies = we're all gonna die.

Open Letter Wednesday

This week's recipient, Sean Penn, who recently pulled off an incredible feat...

Sean Penn
c/o ID Public Relations
8409 Santa Monica Blvd.
West Hollywood, CA 90069

Dear Mr. Penn,

I’ve had some time to digest the recent developments in your personal life, and I am still baffled. You were filing for divorce, had a girlfriend, and then called off the divorce. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by this considering the dichotomy that exists in your day-to-day; you are a respected actor and filmmaker, yet at the same time you are a self-aware, pretentious, douchey blowhard. That said I have to applaud your divorce/reconciliation for two reasons.

First, you managed to stay with Robin for 17 years, the past 12 in holy matrimony. That is no easy feat in Hollywood. Kudos, sir. But no sooner had word of your impending divorce become public and you were stepping out with HMNIG’s Most Perfect Possessor of a Pair of X Chromosomes, Petra Nemcova. Kudos again. Fast forward a month or so and the divorce is off, so what gives? To be honest, I’m not all that fascinated by Pearl Jam being the driving force in Robin and you rekindling. No, I’m fascinated, and downright flabbergasted, by how you made this all happen in the first place. To summarize, a decision was made to divorce, you tossed a few fucks into HMNIGMPPPXC, and then convinced the missus to give love another go. Whaa whaa whaaat? Who are you Sean Penn, and what magical power do you wield?

Secondly, and on a more serious note, you helped further the cause of same-sex marriage. Stick with me here as I explain. The religious right and everyone else that opposes gay marriage have some ‘splaining to do. One can’t cry about sullying the sanctity of marriage when things like this happen. It doesn’t work that way. These folks love to show up to protest civil unions or anything resembling dude on dude or lady on lady marriage, yet I’ve never heard about protests happening at divorce proceedings. Where’s the outrage there? As long as the divorce rate (45-50% for first marriages, 60-67% for second, and a whopping 70-73% for third*) is higher than the rate of those that stay together, sanctity of marriage cannot and will not be accepted as a viable argument against gay marriage. Sure you can show me in the Bible (a book that can’t possibly be taken literally at every turn) where it disapproves of gay anything, yet can you show me a passage that allows for adultery? And on the subject of adultery, that shit is in the Commandments. Moses talked to God Himself to get that scoop. Last I checked not one of the 10 said anything about same-sex marriage.

You should really write a book or at least an essay on the topic. You’ve given hope to a wide range of folks, from those suffering from Restless Penis Syndrome, guys looking for extra-marital coitus without consequence, and all the Jim’s that want to marry John’s and Joan’s that want to marry Jane’s. You are an inspiration to many Mr. Penn, and despite my own disdain for you as a person, I tip my hat to you.

Learning about Cuba, and having some food,

Brunswick P. Danforth

*statistics from Americans for Divorce Reform

Why I Suck

Because I didn't post a Why You Suck yesterday. I'm off my game. I'm off the wagon. I'm off the map. I deserve punishment, because the four people who read this page deserve a weekly post to be there every week on the day it's supposed to be! DAMN ME!!! Actually, I've been gone most of the week preparing for a Middle East expedition. We will be looking for the Valley of the Crescent Moon. All we have to go on is a map, a map with no names. According to the second marker, the starting point is Alexandretta, or the present-day city of Iskenderun, Turkey.

Apparently, now I'm off-topic. Anyway, this week I suck. But don't worry, there's plenty more out there for me to hate.

Open Letter Wednesday

It's Wednesday again and you know what that means. Yes, more mind-numbing hours of American Idol, but also another open letter. This weeks recipient, that fickle mistress, Mother Nature.

Mother Nature
8 Omnipresent Circle
Land-of-Whimsy, The Ether 10009

Dear Mom,

I don’t mean to be disrespectful, really I don’t, but you’re being a bitch. I don’t know why you and Father Time are fighting, but you have to figure something out for the sake of your children. If you had doubts about the marriage, you should have divorced a long time ago. Rarely does having another kid, let alone another billion, help the relationship.

The bickering has to stop. It’s April for crying out loud and I don’t know whether I’ll need a parka or UV protection on a day to day basis. I get it, you’re both stubborn and you don’t want to give in to him, but you need to pick your battles. The two of you need to decide a schedule and stick to it. It isn’t his fault he is tasked with overseeing a man-made creation, just as it isn’t yours that you are responsible for the weather on this crazy rock. The least you can do is compromise.

I’m confident we can reach a settlement that both parties are happy with considering no pre-nup was signed. Papa Time basically gives you all winter to go nuts as is, and March and April already have their own bonkers weather related –isms. All we, your spawn, are asking is for some consistency; we can handle the April showers, so long as they are of the rain, not snow, variety. And would more 65 degree days in April be too much to ask? It is spring after all. I won’t speak for all of us, but I’d be willing to allow more intense summer storms and would turn the other cheek to an occasional October cold spell, so long as you continue with an Indian summer day here and there.

You and dad got yourselves into this mess (with help from a quart of Mad Dog 20/20 and Springsteen’s sold out Asbury Park show in ’78) and it is up to you to come up with a resolution. We’re your kids, and we support you, but know that drawing this out isn’t doing us any favors. When most parents fight, they throw dishes; you’re dropping Connecticut-sized swaths of ice into the ocean. It’s excessive and a little scary. Make things right for the kids, always FTK.

Temperately confused,

Brunswick P. Danforth

Starbucks: A Dilemma

There are plenty of reasons to hate Starbucks and Howard Schultz and hate them I do. Aside from ruining the Supes, Schultz also contributed the eight-word coffee order to modern culture and turned coffee into a fashion statement, a ubiquitous accessory in the hands young Hollywood (after all, what better than caffeine to ease a coke hangover?) What happened to a straight cup o' joe, Howie?

"I'd smile, but I'm using all my energy to carry this giant cup"

I prided myself on successfully avoiding Starbucks entirely when I lived in Seattle, except to go into the original to purchase Pike Place Blend, only available at said location, for friends and family. Only available there until today that is. And there, folks, is the dilemma.

The famous, formerly unique, blend was rolled out at stores across the country today with great fanfare. The original, randier logo even adorns the cups. I ordered a cup with great enthusiasm, but later faced a question that has shaken me to my core; with the recent addition of Top Pot donuts (another Seattle favorite) to the menu, is Starbucks making irrelevant the few local touches it still possessed?

Sadly, I think the answer is yes. Part of the charm of the Pike Place location was being able to get something you couldn't at one of the thousands of other soul-sucking outposts. Now anyone can bop down to one of the four Starbucks on one's block and get a cup of PPB fresh-roasted that day in York, PA (as mine was today). To put this into perspective, it would be like Giordano's offering deep-dish pie in Charlotte, by way of Raleigh. There is something inherently wrong with that. And Top Pot? They serve their own coffee, why oh why would they get into bed with Schultz? I can only assume that Starbucks has a horse dong that is both gentle and satisfying at the same time, metaphorically speaking.

We live in an age where people want what is hip and trendy and famous, without having to leave their comfort zone for the experience. Guess what, nob goblins? An old-fashioned and a grande half-caf soy latte with whip from a strip mall in Flint, MI will never be as good as on the Market steps (even if the drink order makes me want to smack you). Until I can wrap my brain around why you, the collective, think otherwise, another piece of me will blacken and die.

Love/Hate List

Another Friday, another Love/Hate List. This one will be abbreviated, since I was actually doing work today.

Love

-Snapple Diet Raspberry Iced Tea has zero calories and tastes AWESOME.

-Utz regular potato chips have four billion calories and taste AWESOME.

-The Rolling Rock I bought last night. Tasted AWESOME.

-Although I blew through three seasons of The Wire in about two weeks, there's still one more on DVD and the final one yet to be brought to DVD. Bodymore, Murderland lives on.

-The Capitals are still in the playoff hunt, with about 19 scenarios existing that would put them in.

Hate

-The dream last night where I was in a toy store looking for Marbleworks (R), wanted to get a train car with a crane on it, and somehow ended up running for my life from The Predator. Yeah. THAT Predator. I don't know if it was somehow related to the intense tooth ache I had or not. P.S., I didn't even know they still made Marbleworks until I wrote this and searched for them. I think I'm going to get some.

-The enormous influx of tourists in DC. Hey, I get it; it's a big tourist town, I have to live with it. But it doesn't mean I have to slow down at crosswalks.

-The content blocker on the network at work. Who says porn decreases productivity? Nonsense.

-The fact there's only two seasons of The Wire left. Boo.

-The phrase "whatevs." It seems to be way too prevalent among people I spend time around. At first it was introduced with a distinct sense of irony, but now I fear it has wormed its way into the group vernacular. Just say "whatever" like the rest of us Valley Girls.

Why You Suck

Today, you suck because you wear these:

Seriously. Are you going seal hunting any time soon? Is that long-planned Arctic expedition finally here? Is this the year you finally win the Iditarod?

No. You own these because "all the girls wear them." Fact: they don't. However, those with low self-esteem and the inability to choose their own footwear do.

Ah, yes. Nothing like Arctic boots and a mini skirt. Speaking of low self-esteem, this is the tragi-comedy of Jamie Lynn Spears in action

After doing some research, I found that Ugg is actually a brand name for a line of footwear, including those vomit-inducing fleece boots. After doing absolutely no research, I determined that Ugg has become a household name, like Kleenex and BubbaGump Shrimp. Why this horseshit remains popular requires more research than the NSF is capable of funding.

As if the boots themselves weren't bad enough (and they were soooo five years ago) some girls tuck their pants into them. I guess they do it because the celebrities are doing it (not a good reason), but they just end up looking like trailer-park hookers. Only without the acid-washed denim.

This picture's fantastic. These three cosmo girls are not only stepping together like they're in a Soviet parade, apparently two of them think they're somewhere above the 10th Parallel. The other one realizes they're actually in Southern California, although that girl is wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up. Now, I could continue to bash the chosen styles of these three teenyboppers, but I'd probably end up sounding much gayer than I intended to when I started this piece.

Overall, I give Uggs two snaps and a NO WAY!!!

Open Letter Wednesday

It is with both joy and sadness that I announce a new feature here at Gorgeous; Open Letter Wednesday. The sadness stems from a recent decision that robs Penn State of a gastronomic legend, the chicken Cosmo. Normally, booze, drugs or a delicious cocktail of both are to blame for the loss of college memories. In this case Pierce Chicken Products is said thief:

April 2, 2008

Pierce Chicken Products
c/o Pilgrim's Pride Foodservice
244 Perimeter Center Parkway, NE
Atlanta, GA 30346

To Whom It May Concern:

How does it feel to be personally responsible for the demise of a 26 year-old tradition? I’m speaking, of course, about the inevitable death of the chicken Cosmo at Penn State this Friday. That deliciously crunchy, shaped and formed patty shaped and formed many a student’s life in their four (or more) years on campus.

The Cosmo appeared on campus way back in 1982 at a time when Joe Paterno still wasn’t eligible for Social Security. Since then the Cosmo has endeared itself to students and alumni alike, and that ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie, considering the Penn State Alumni Association is the largest in the world. I was lucky enough to live in West Halls as a freshman and the Cosmo was on the lunch and dinner menus every day. In fact, since I usually didn’t wake up until the last hour of lunch, it was more or less my main source of nutrition for two semesters. Elsewhere it was a rare treat, so much so that those jonesing for a fix would make the trek to the Burrowes and Curtin confluence for some natural-looking (your words, PCP) goodness.

I left the dorms after freshman year, but I still had friends that lived there, fortch. Oh how I looked forward to tagging along for a Cosmo with a slice of tomato and ranch dressing on those atypical days when ventured to campus for an extended period. But this isn’t just about me. I had roommates that would schedule classes around the Waring Commons dining hours, friends that would attend a different section of their class and those that would skip altogether just for the flavorful, pre-browned all breast meat cutlet (your words again).

Let me get to the crux of this letter though, as this is more than just me waxing reminiscent. I want to know why you are putting an end to the Cosmo, and with it the happiness and memories of hundreds of thousands of people. You say it is because Penn State is the only institution still buying the patties. This may be true, but let’s break down the numbers. According to Penn State Food Service 274,000 Cosmos are sold each academic year, roughly 650 cases a month. Let’s assume these cases sell for $4.00 each (this is purely an estimate); we’re talking more than $31,000 in Cosmo sales alone and I can’t imagine the cost to produce them is any more than $1.00 a case. That’s a pretty hefty profit margin. I’d be a little more sympathetic if these were your bread and butter, but you are the largest chicken producer in the United States, the second-largest in Mexico and count Kentucky Fried Chicken and Wendy’s as two of your main clients. According to your website, Pierce Chicken invented the first fully-cooked fried chicken and launched the wing category. Methinks you aren’t hurting to turn a buck.

In closing, I ask that you reconsider what appears to be a rash decision based on dollars but not sense. You pledge to give the kind of respect one expects in a partner, but to me you’re more like a lover that got us hooked on smack, only to leave because you don’t like our drug habit. For that, you should be ashamed. I believe I won’t be alone in expressing my discontent and I hope my loyal Cosmo comrades can show you the error of your ways. If not, then good day to you. I said good day!

Buttermilk battered,

Brunswick P. Danforth