BACK WITH A BANG

Dudes and Dudettes!

You gots to check out this youtube link!  It will show you how you can download the new Batman movie in it’s entirety.  Rough visual effects of course, but awesome nonetheless!  Must watch:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZ5TajZYW6Y

Ah Ha!  You just got Rick Rolled.  I have entrapped you in my web of lies.  Now, if you will, allow me to sink my fangs into your flesh, inject you with venom and wrap up your lifeless body for an afternoon snack.  Allow me to get on my high horse for a second; a glorious immaculate bejeweled steed with a flowing white mane, not unlike Shadowfax.  Oh what a beautiful horse he is, and I shall call him, “Illegal Downloading is Wrong.”

You see there’s been a lot of talk in the media recently about the “entitled generation.”  Now, while I feel it’s unfair to generalize an entire generation as lazy narcissistic maniacs, I do see the nuances as to why this title has been bestowed upon me and my fellow millennial brethren.  One of these, you guessed it, is their justification for illegal downloads.

My generation seems to think that they are somehow entitled to these free nuggets of entertainment, often stating that they are simply “sticking it to the man.”.  Yet knowing that many of them are God-fearing individuals it boggles my mind that they can consciously continue to do indulge in the booty of piratebay.com, or is it .org?  I mean, it’s stealing, period.  It’s one of the Big 10, people!   No, not the lackluster collegiate sports conference; it’s one of those rules that Charlton Heston brought down from the mountain.  It’s funny; some of these people are convinced they would melt like the Wicked Witch of the West if they took a sip of Frappuccino, yet they guiltlessly indulge in mass breakage of a religious law embraced by people even beyond the Christian faith.

What you think an Illegal Downloader looks like.

But they actually look like this...

...and this...

...and this...

...and even this!!!

If my smacking of the Bible over your head hasn’t worked yet, or the Mormon Guilt hasn't kicked in (if you happen to be LDS), allow me to make a few more pleas for your eternally damned souls. Because we all know illegal downloaders will be cast off forever and ever and ever with fire and the brimstones and all that jazz:


Uno: 

1.       I know a lot of you think that when you purchase a piece of entertainment that your money is simply going to some big wig Hollywood fat cat or record executive who swims around in his gold coins like Scrooge McDuck does in his money bin.  Sure, the big wigs will make their money, that’s the nature of the beast.  Unfortunately your actions are robbing people that make a very modest and humble living.  There is a little thing called "royalties" and “residuals.”  These are a payout percentage that is allocated to different participants of a production (i.e. talent, writers, etc.) based on the sales/viewership of said production.  Every time a person purchases a song or show a royalty/residual fee is given to these peoples.  And, mind you, these aren’t’ just going to the Marquee actors and writers.  That's right, the guy who played “Prison Inmate #2” is expecting to get royalty/residual checks in the mail so he can pay his rent and feed his kids.  Bottom line, your purchase affects a lot of people who depend on that income to live.

     

      Dos:

2.      Yeah, sticking it to the Hollywood machine feels good.  But you know what else sucks?  Big Oil.  But you wouldn’t go fill up your tank at a gas station and then take off without paying.  Big Pharma sucks.  But you wouldn’t shoplift your meds.  Suck it up and give in to Capitalism.

      Tres:

3.      Film and Music are are artistic mediums.  Countless hours are put into pre-production, production and post-production.  Little people slave away drawing storyboards, doing re-writes, prepping sets, doing effects work, coordinating distribution, and so on.  Music, the same.  It’s hard work.  Illegal downloading would be like you completing an art piece you had meticulously worked on for 18 months,  having it ready to submit to the gallery for sale, only to find there were duplicate copies made and distributed for free from a suburb in Toledo.  Your original piece never sells, you starve, you die.

      Cuatro:

4.      Retail sales.  Companies need to sell product to make a profit and pay their employees.  A process that doesn’t work if people steal.

      Cinco:

5.      Know the quickest way to get your favorite show cancelled?  Illegally download it. The less money a show makes and the fewer viewers it has, the quicker it gets the boot.

      Seis:

6.      Here’s a practical argument from my brother (a recovering illegal downloader).  Illegal downloading often gives you an excess of entertainment options.  Paying for it actually makes you more selective about what you watch, which at times may cause you to seek other avenues to direct your mind power.

Now I must apologize for being a Preachy McPreach Face, but I had to get this off my chest.  I have thousands of motes and beams in my eye that need pulling out and most of you are better people than I will ever be.  In fact if some of you were able to curb the habit of illegal downloading you would probably be taken up into heaven to live with Enoch and company, who probably live a Utopian lifestyle and probably abide by the Law of Consecration. Living there, you will have no need to illegally download because everyone will share of his or her talents freely.  Also, under the Enoch regime the film and music industry is wholesome and their creators are simply paid by the smiles of their patrons.  It is beautiful.  Oh, and Café Rio is free!

So if you want to ever live in Enochville, stop being a big donut and pay for your shiz.

LEGAL DISCLAIMER:

To Whom It May Concern:


My client, Mr. Hammond, feels inclined to reinforce that while all his entries reflect his personal likes and interests, his writing is sheer hyperbole, pure exaggeration.  Blogging, for him, is a creative writing exercise done for his own and hopefully your entertainment.  Mr. Hammond sees it as an opportunity to explore his ability to craft the written word.  He asks all readers to just relax, have some fun.  If you are weirded out, Rooster Cogburn put it best when he said, "I can do nothin' for ya' son."


Warm Regards,

Walther P. P. K., 
Dewey Cheatum and Howe Law Firm, LLC
Toledo, Mississippi
456.934.8940

SOUND BYTES

Music is the most important element on the Periodic Table of Elements.  Unfortunately it is not one of the elements on the Periodic Table of Elements, but if it was, “Mu” would rival “O” as the most important, beautiful, life-sustaining element of the bunch.  Everyone loves music in one form or another, and if you don’t you probably don’t have a soul and probably hate children/small puppies and can’t see your own reflection when you look in the mirror.

I for one love music.  It feeds my soul.  It feeds my soul to the point of obesity. I’m talking “trucking around Wal-Mart on a motorized cart shopping for Looney Tune character nightgowns and sequin-decorated cat sweaters” kind of obesity.  Apparently this affinity for music has been passed down to my first-born.  In fact I may have created a monster.  He obsesses over music; listens to it all the time.  Music is like his toddler crack, and he’s not satisfied until he gets his fix. I’m afraid his little stereo could go up in flames at any moment due to over use; alas, the boy’s music addiction is a topic I’ll address another day.

You see I pride myself on being a rather well rounded music listener, a music connoisseur of sorts.  I can do rock, alternative, country, show tunes, new wave, world, classical, techno, singer songwriter, hip-hop, rap, new age; you name it.  (R&B and Adult Contemporary can burn in the eternal flames of musical hell. Curse you! Curse you I say!)  In turn, I strive to expose my son to a smorgasbord of musical treats.  Most recently, it has been chiptunes. 

Chiptunes, is music that derived from the 8-bit era of video games.  These synthesized sounding tunes are composed using complex computer algorithms that are coded to mimic the sounds of actual instruments.  The results are some of the greatest musical compositions of the last 500 years.  That's right, eat your heart out Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and Bach.  Do you hear that Beethoven?  Of course not, you’re deaf (and dead), but if you could hear, it would be the sound of your own hand slapping your forehead in "why didn't I think of that" envious adoration of this musical medium.

Beethoven Coveting

It's time for the classical “masters” to move over and make room for the likes of Kinuyo Namashita, Hirokazu Tanaka, and Koji Kono.  These men are masters of musical composition in the same way Mario is the master of chubby-super-powered-princess-saving plumbers.  They not only excel at orchestrating and writing incredible music, but they have an uncanny ability to translate their masterpieces into nerd. You see, Handel would never have been able to translate his Messiah into ones and zeros because he was first and foremost an ivory tickler.  Chiptune composers are required to be total geeks on two fronts!  They are modern maestros whose talents are the glorious love child of music and engineering.

Koji Kono, before retiring to the Nerdery with his calculator.

Mega Man 2, Metroid, The Legend of Zelda, Super Mario Bros., Metal Gear, Life Force, Contra, Castlevania, anyone who has played these games know how enduring their music is.  These songs stay in your head for days at a time, they burn their notes upon the fleshy tablets of your heart, drowning out all remnants of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. (Which is a fantastic song by the way. Could use some electric drums though.)

Maybe I’m crazy.  Maybe my Mother’s prophetic warnings have come to fruition.  Maybe video games have melted my brain.  And maybe, some day in the future, my brain will have to be scooped out of my skull with a ladle, and my vital organs will have to be hooked up to machines.  Some day I may simply stare at the wall while being spoon-fed pre-masticated peaches and soiling my man-diapers.  But if this is to be my fate, do not cry for me.  For somewhere, in what’s left of my brain, I’ll be hearing some sweet and familiar chiptunes seamlessly looping; making me feel at home, keeping me company.  And I will begin to lightly tap my soft slipper on my wheelchair’s foothold, and the nurses will begin to celebrate.  They’ll call it miracle.  A nurse will kiss the crucifix attached to her necklace while another will light a Santa Domingo prayer candle.  Tears will flow and embraces will be given freely.  I will open my mouth to speak and everyone will stare with wide eyes in anticipation.  Using all the energy left in my being and through indistinguishable mumbles my mouth will begin forming syllables.  Everyone will lean in closer to hear; it will be silent enough to hear a pin drop.  Suddenly, like a bolt of lighting I’ll joyfully exclaim, “Muh…Muh…Muh…Meeega Man 2 was an ah....awesome game.  Rrrr…rrrr…rrrr…Really good music.”  The nurses will then clear the room in disappointment, the last one will pause long enough to turn off the light, leaving me in the dark.  Moments later in the darkness, with my renewed ability to speak, I will begin humming this:

THE FIRE WITHIN

I am a lucky man.  Not only have I found myself forever hitched to a charming, amiable, and rather witty little blonde/brunette/red-head from the Happiest Valley on Earth, but I have also been graced with a female counter-part who knows her way around the kitchen.  She works in food the way other artists might work in oils or clay.  It is her true medium; a master.

Me, on the other hand, well, let’s just say that me no so good in the kitchen.  I’s afraid to cook!  My culinary repertoire consists of mainly frozen entrées, cold cuts, and dry packaged goods.  And sadly most of these items would only be considered “food” in the academic sense due to their ability to be ingested and somewhat digested by the human body.  I feel, however, that pig tongue and horse rectum is virtually indistinguishable from poultry once it is processed into paste, shaped into Mickey Mouse silhouettes, heavily breaded, deep fried, frozen, and then reheated in the microwave.

Catsup, or “Ketchup” for the layman, is the vinegary, tomatoey foundation of my severely warped food pyramid.  Catsup has the ability to make even the most questionable substance a delicious snack.  Got ten-day-old Thai food that’s beginning to sprout cotton?  Slather that baby with the scarlet red Condiment of the Gods and let the world know that you won’t be deterred by reasonable food-safety protocol.  Plant your utensil into the gooey mass with vigor and confidently exclaim, “I Declare this Thai Food to be delicious!”

One particular weekend, my cooking woes came to a crescendo when in my wife’s absence the only sustenance I provided me and my toddler son over the course of three days were two Little Caesar’s five-dollar pizzas.  At this juncture, nearly seven years into our union, it became clear to her that her husband may be a lost cause in the food department.

But my wifey, like the merciful tender-loving woman she is, would not give up on me and soon had an epiphany.  “I shall buy that worthless turd a grill,” I imagined she thought to herself as she watched me awkwardly fold handfuls of lunchmeat and stuff them into my pie-hole.

Long story short, she put on her internet-savvy-shopper hat and picked out the perfect grill for our city dwelling circumstances.  Soon the curiously large box arrived and I found myself graciously declining the gift with a slew of excuses.  After I bit of swaying, the woman convinced me to spread my wings and fly. Fly into the land of Grill-Believe, where the roads are paved with greasy bratwursts glistening in the sunlight, where the rivers flow with A1 sauce, and the smokey clouds precipitate flakes of seasoning salt that gently fall on petals of sliced tenderloin flowers.   A place where pigs, chickens and cows alike join hooves and joyfully skip to the slaughterhouse to the tune of some joyful song, probably by The Carpenters.

Needless to say, I hitched a ride on the midnight meat train, and it changed my life. The moment the first smell of propane graced my nostrils and my face felt the warm embrace of the grill’s blue flames, something changed inside of me.  A stirring surged through me that awakened my inner homo-sapien, cro-magnon and lumberjack.  I felt the hairs on my chest tingle and heard wolves howling in the distance. I returned the beasts’ calls by howling myself, all the while renting my shirt and pounding my chest.  In fact, this may or may not be a reenactment of what happened:

The thrill of the grill had taken hold of me.  The simple premise of me, fire, and meat evoked a hunter/gatherer sensibility that I never knew I had in me.  It changed things.  Before I knew it I was serving me and my tribesmen fully realized meals.  Thus allowing my Squaw to put up her moccasins for once and enjoy the fruits of her warrior’s bounty. 

Darwin's theory revised.

So now when I am at out filling my satchel with grillable goodies and scouring the coffin coolers for a fresh kill, my heart is heavy with gratitude.   Not only for my woman but women everywhere who have helped their husbands rediscover their ancient selves and evolve…backwards.

Grillin' like Bob Dylan.

Feeding the cubs.

What's the saying? "Give them meat before milk"?

I LIKE SPORTZ!

Being raised in an ultra-rural community in SouthEastern Idaho had its advantages.  For starters, the community pool (irrigation ditch) was open round the clock.  As you immersed yourself in the cool refreshing pesticide-ridden waters only later to burn yourself as you climbed onto your lopsided tractor tire inner-tube whose black rubbery surface had been baking in the sun, you often wondered, “What is that smell? Is this thing covered in engine grease?”   After that you’d wonder, “I wonder what’d be like to go to a professional sports game?”

You see, SouthEastern Idaho has never been the biggest draw for professional sports teams.  For some reason professional franchises didn’t understand that what we lacked in actual population we made up for in heart. 

Sure, we had baseball teams like the Pocatello Posse, but they were part of the MMLB, Minor Minor League Baseball.  In fact, I’m pretty sure they used potatoes for balls and that this was one of their star players:

Don't let the small frame deceive you, he could hit a spud all the way to Teton County.

The Idaho Falls Braves were actually a step up from the Pokey Posse. Believe it or not they were a legit Minor League baseball club.  Unfortunately they’ve had more name changes than P-Diddy and I’m not even sure they’re called the Braves anymore…they’re the Chukars? Really?  The Idaho Falls Chukars? What the hell is a Chukar? I wish I could have been a fly on the wall during that brainstorming session.

This just in: A Chukar is an Eurasian partridge (genus Alectoris) similar to the red-legged partridge, but with a call like a clucking domestic hen, native to the Rocky Mountains.

Don’t get me wrong. Idaho has its bright spots in the sporting universe.  Boise State? Yes, please.  And can I get a witness for the Snake River Pantherrrrrrrrrs?!!!!!!!!!

Ricks College had some sporting prowess until it subjected itself to heavenly inspiration and focused on silly willy academics.  ISU? Umm…let’s see…we wouldn’t have had the Holt Arena if it weren’t for you…where we'd cheer for the Snake River Pantherrrrrrrrrrs!!!!!!!!

But we’re not talking about College or Division A-2 High School sports teams here, that includes you Utah Jazz (zing!), we're talking about the big leagues.  Growing up, we Ruralings were given free range to select the professional sports teams that our potato-starch pumping hearts desired.  So what did I do?  I split my heart into mini-sports-fan horcruxes and devoted myself to the San Francisco 49ers, the Chicago Bulls (ironically), and Kevin Mitchell.  Baseball was a little trickier for me because, well, I don’t really like baseball, it’s kinda dumb.  So I clung to Kevin Mitchell like I was one of his illegitimate children.  And why did I do this?  Because he caught a ball with his bare hand, that’s why!  His bare freaking hand! And…that’s really all I knew/liked about him.

Alright, it’s time for this post to come to a head. (Who came up with that zit-based idiom? Every time someone uses it I inadvertently imagine a zit popping).  The reason I am writing is to hereby officially declare the City of Chicago and its affiliated professional sports teams as my own.  To show the seriousness if this commitment I invested (yes, invested) in an official hand stitched Dick Butkus Chicago Bears Throwback Jersey. When I suit up “The Butkus”, as it will now be known, may it be a shining symbol to my two boys, a rallying cry of sorts, that we are true Chicago Sports Fans.  And whenever Jay Cutler chokes, the Cubs fail to make the playoffs, or we collectively cringe as Carlos Boozer does that stupid scream when he bricks a shot, we will stand tall with our heads high and be grateful that we aren’t cheering for the Chukers, and that our inner professional sports fan has a place to call home.

Behold! "The Butkus"

SO IT BEGINS...

Greetings Earthlings,

The mother ship has landed and decreed that it is time for Scotty to beam me up into the blogosphere. And what shall I blog about you ask? The premise is simple: I shall write about stuff. Stuff that’s on my mind, stuff that’s on your mind, and stuff that will make you think I’m out of my mind. Some entries may be newsworthy, some noteworthy, others will be unworthy of your time and attention. But one thing is fo’sho’, you will be exposed to the inner workings (of my brain, not bowels…ok, sometimes my bowels) like no one has ever been exposed to before. I’m laying it all out on the table here people, buck naked in every sense of the word, just not literally, that’d be gross.

Prepare for me to philosophize about fatherhood, husbandhood, and living in the hood. These deep introspections will often seek to answer life’s important questions, particularly those involving fictional characters. Prepare for me to embrace my inner nerd, which at times may move beyond embracing and escalate into necking or even the spooning of said nerd.

In summary, I would like to close the way I’ve been closing essays (does a blog entry constitute an essay?) since Junior High writing class by beginning the final paragraph with “in summary” and explain to you why this blog has been entitled “Dad Man”. I am in fact, an Ad Man. I am also a Dad. I’ve been a creative (yes it’s a noun in the biz) for almost four years now. The atypical nature of my profession will provide some interesting fodder for the blog and ultimately/hopefully a little entertainment for you all. Oh, and please, do not fear. Although I am a merchant of manipulation I am in no way a tormented soul á la Don Draper whom constantly wonders whether the very life he leads is a fabrication like that of the ads he creates. (I'm just semi-tormented).

Anywho, I digress. If you made it this far, congratulations, you may have what it takes to endure my ramblings. I have tendency to go off topic…hey, have you tried those Pop Chips? Delicious if you can get past the aftertaste.

A artist's rendering of what to expect.