Onward?

Howard Schultz recently released a new book entitled Onward: How Starbucks Fought for its Life Without Losing its Soul. Gag me with a stick. Worse than that eye-rolling title was the decision to give every Starbucks employee a copy of the book-which is, essentially, 328 pages of pompous, self-congratulatory, hogwash. When I first learned of the magnanimous gift that was to be bestowed upon me by employer, I thought "what the hell am I going to do with this piece of crap?" My initial idea was to shoot the book into the exosphere, watch it burst into flames as it fell back to Earth, find the cinereous remains of Howard's affront to the English language, brew them at work, and serve it to the next jerk-off customer that gave me any lip. Even though some of my more shady associates could undoubtedly get their hands on the equipment necessary for such a space launch (you know who you are), my funds were unfortunately lacking. So I settled on selling the books (for some reason another co-worker didn't want her copy and released it to my care) at a used book store and spending what I was sure would be meager earnings at an independent coffee shop. Brilliant in theory, my plan was harder to implement than I thought. At the first used book store the clerk offered me $1.80 for one copy. When I thought I could get a better deal, he directed my to the next closest store. At that store, the clerk took one look at the books and responded with "yeah, I don't want these." Worse than his response was the way he delivered it with a total air of contempt. He looked at me like I was a crackhead trying to sell a stolen dvd copy of Gigli at a pawn shop. At that point, I recalculated the numbers for my exosphere plan thinking maybe it wasn't as far out of reach as I originally thought. As a last ditch effort before I simply chucked the books into the nearest dumpster, I went to one more used book store. As I browsed the dvd section of Ed Mckay and contemplated buying a copy of Bubba Ho-tep (starring Bruce Campbell as a mummy-fighting Elvis) I saw that the clerks had decided the fate of my book selling plan. At the register, the guy informed me that they would buy one copy for $1.95 worth of store credit. I was completely deflated. I told the guy he could just keep both copies and that I was "sick of hauling them around in my car." When he heard that, the clerk graciously offered my $4 in store credit and said he would take both copies. I jumped at the offer, and later used the store credit to buy a copy of The Life of a Useless Man by Maxim Gorki. About two weeks later I was back at Ed McKay and wandered over to the business section. I found my two copies of Onward...right next to a third copy. I guess I wasn't the only employee who couldn't afford the space launch.

As someone who frequents independent coffee shops on a somewhat regular basis (frequently even), it's hard not to notice the anti-Starbucks paraphernalia and attitude that seems to have found a niche in the independent coffee merchant's decor. Forgive me if I find this mindset a little childish and perplexing. First of all, let's call Starbucks what it is: it's the McDonald's of coffee. Starbucks mass produces coffee products in a short time with relatively consistent results. You won't find any coffee artists at a Starbucks, in fact, most of the time you won't even find baristas that have pulled shots on a manual espresso machine. What you will find, however, is a pretty good product at a reasonable price. Here's the thing, if independent coffee shops want to become wildly successful with numerous locations all over the place, then they should be emulating Starbucks not deriding them with their decor and snarky attitude. If the goal of the independent shop is to create coffee beverages that don't remind the consumer of an assembly line, then Starbucks isn't really their competition in the first place. People that want high quality espresso from highly skilled baristas aren't going to Starbucks anyway. It would be like a Lamborghini dealership lamenting the fact that a used car dealer opened a lot down the street from them. There's a place for McStarbucks AND legit coffee shops. So get over yourselves independent coffee shops, and stop pretending like you wouldn't trade places with Starbucks in an instant.

Easy A

I recently watched Easy A, and I was left with one burning question: why does Hollywood insist on casting twenty-somethings as high schoolers? Emma Stone-22, Amanda Bynes-24, Dan Byrd-25, Penn Badgley-24. None of those actors played a convincing teenager. In fact, I haven't seen a less convincing teenager since 59 year-old Luke Perry graced us with his character Dylan on Beverly Hills 90210. It's not that I wasn't willing to get over the age of the actors-I tried. It's just that when everyone in the movie plays a sarcastic, jaded, and cynical know-it-all, well, it gets a little tired. It's like everyone of the actors was asked to reprise the role of John Cusack in Better Off Dead...except they all missed the mark. The movie was topped off with every possible stereotypical role that is found in most modern teenage movies. There was the overly judgemental Christian group which behaved in the typical anti-Christian manner. Lord knows what would happen if Hollywood actually portrayed Christians displaying Christian ideals? And of course there was the gay teenager who couldn't reveal his true sexual orientation for fear of bullying (because all gay teenagers are persecuted). Finally, we had the stereotypical "cool teacher," who was able to connect with his students by trading sarcastic barbs and dropping pop culture references with the most cynical of the bunch. The only character missing was the nerdy girl who turns out to be really hot after a makeover. Maybe they're saving that stereotype for the sequel: Easy A-The College Years. Thanks Hollywood, for another teen comedy that was totally worth watching.

I just saw a horrible commercial. Worse yet, it was a PSA. Even worse than that, it featured Wanda Sykes...noooooo! Has there ever been a less funny comedienne? Better yet, has there ever been a less funny comedienne that has managed to extend the shelf life of a horrible career by becoming a mouthpiece for some social issue? I would argue "no" for both of those questions. But Wanda Sykes's lousy acting and grating voice are not what prompted me to dust off my neglected blog. It was the message that her lousy acting and grating voice were trying to convey in her PSA that compelled me to action (such as it is). In the commercial, three teenage boys are sitting at a booth in a restaurant and laughing at the cheesy decor of the place. One of the kids points at a small statue of a Chef Boyardee-esque Italian cook and says "That's so gay!" Another kid responds with "that's really gay!" Enter washed-up comedienne. Upon hearing the offensive language of the boys, Wanda strides over to the booth and implores the young boys to "Please don't say that." "Don't say that something is gay when you mean that it is dumb or stupid...it's insulting." She further illustrates her point by using "sixteen year-old boy with a cheesy mustache" to describe something she thought was stupid. Well played Wanda, well played. I guess no one ever pointed out to Wanda that the word gay meant "in or showing a joyous mood" long before it was used to describe homosexuals. And yet, I don't see people in joyous moods telling Wanda "Please don't say gay when you mean someone is a homosexual...it's insulting." Maybe Christians should run a PSA in which they could tell Wanda "Please don't use the rainbow as a symbol for homosexuality, it's a sign of God's covenant to mankind and when you do that it's insulting." The point here is not whether you think homosexuality is right or wrong; rather, as soon as you have the speech police running around telling us what we can and cannot say, we lose our freedom of speech. Furthermore, get over it! Nowhere in the founding documents or current laws of this country does it say that we have the right to never be insulted or offended. Hey Wanda, language evolves, words and symbols get co opted by groups for various reasons and causes, if you don't like it...tough. Maybe you can construct some Orwellian world in which you decide what words can and cannot be used, but until then I guess you'll just have to see if your agent can book you for some more PSAs. Maybe next time you could film one on something that actually matters? When it comes to acting and comedy just take the advice you gave at the end of your PSA and "knock it off." We'll all be a little less insulted.

Dead in the Water

It was September 1999. I had been at Navy boot camp for about two weeks. We were rapidly approaching day 1-6 (first week sixth day), when we would have to take our swim test. I couldn't swim. Day 1-6 arrived, we marched to the building that held the pool. The RDCs (drill instructors) took us to the locker room and gave us some impossible time to change into our swim trunks and muster poolside. I was sweating bullets; I still couldn't swim. We all left the locker room and walked single-file to some bleachers that were to the side of the olympic sized pool. As we walked out, I naturally sucked my stomach in (as there were girls present) but realized that nearly three weeks in boot camp had done wonders for my waistline. Even though I was nearing what I was sure was my personal demise in the clear blue water, I was relived that if I died the medic would look at my lifeless body and think "man that guy had good abs." Once we were all assembled on the bleachers, some scary pool guys came over to instruct us on what we would have to do in order to pass the swim test. The test consisted of jumping from a 12 ft. platform, treading water for three minutes, and swimming around a set of three buoys three times. I was screwed. Fortunately for me, there must have been some other idiot before my time that had also joined the Navy without having even the slightest idea of how to swim and the pool guys were prepared for just such an occasion. As I was listening to the instructions, I had already resigned myself to jumping in and drowning; or at the very least jumping in, almost drowning, and being pulled to safety by some instructor and having my ass reamed for almost drowning. But as the pool guy finished his speech he issued a caveat, "if any of you can't swim, raise your hand and step to the side." Not only was I the first person to raise my hand, it was up before he had even finished his warning. All of us non-swimmers were gathered at the shallow end of the pool. We were taught how to float on our backs and use the elementary backstroke. Unfortunately for me, I picked up the floating technique and the backstroke faster than anyone. When it was discovered how fast I was catching on, I was ordered to the deep end of the pool to start my test. I tried to reason with the guy and let him know that more practice was always a good thing, but it was all for naught. I climbed to the top of the platform and waited my turn to jump. I wasn't worried about jumping; I knew I could splash my way to the side before I died. It was the treading water that scared me. I guess the shallow end guys were not communicating with the deep end guys, because the deep end guys thought that in my five minutes of training in the shallow end I should have learned how to tread water for three minutes. This was not the case. I jumped. If only they had taught me how to tread water instead of just floating on my back. Needless to say, I wasn't able to tread water for three minutes and when I reached for the side of the pool I caught hellfire from some pool guy. The punishment for failing any part of the swim test was immediate removal from the pool and sitting in a corner while holding your knees to your chest. After what the pool guys must have considered sufficient time in the corner, I was given a second chance at failing the swim test. This time we didn't have to jump from the platform but from the side of the pool. I wanted to tell the instructors "jumping from the platform is the only fun part of this process you idiots" but I refrained. I jumped in along with two other people. As I was trying my best to tread water, one of the other two recruits that jumped in with me kept inching nearer and nearer to me. One of the many rules of the swim test was that you were not allowed to touch any other person whilst you were in the pool. As the recruit kept crowding my area, one of the idiot pool guys was shouting encouragements at me like "get away from her!" and "stop touching her!" I don't know if I've ever wanted to smack someone so badly in all my life. After several failed attempts to distance myself from the flailing recruit, I finally was so fed up that I shoved her as hard as I could so that I could get some space and finish the swim test. Of course, I was immediately yanked from the pool and made to sit in the corner...again. On my third jump into the pool, the instructors had decided that I was so inept at swimming that I needed my very own Navy SEAL to accompany me in the pool (Navy SEALS and other special forces guys are constantly training at the pool and get some sort of sick thrill from swimming next to recruits and berating them). The only good thing about failing the swim test was that the requirements got easier after every failure. That last time, all I had to do was swim around the cones three times. As I rounded the second cone, I accidentally turned too sharp a corner and started heading in the direction from whence I had just come. The SEAL started yelling that I had turned the wrong way and he didn't tell me to go in that direction. Too bad for him I decided to stop listening at that point. My thought was that I would just swim around the pool doing my elementary backstroke until they forcibly removed me. SEALS be damned! The SEAL guy gave up before I did and stopped yelling when he realized I wasn't listening. At least, that's what I think happened, all I could see was the ceiling. My backstroke was going well, until I swam into the side of the pool...head first. I grabbed the side of the pool with one hand, and my head with the other. I was certain that I had split my skull in half. As I was in the charge of the SEAL guy, he was understandably concerned; what if some recruit died in the pool while he was supposed to be watching them? As I checked for blood, the SEAL accidentally lost his macho demeanor and asked in a panicked voice "are you alright man?" Thinking quickly, I reached out with my hand as if I couldn't see and said "who...who said that?" The next words out of the guys mouth were "Get out! Get out! You pass!" As I approached the table where recruits were checked off after passing the swim test, the man behind the desk asked "did you pass?" I said "yes, yes I did." I was a swimmer.

Free expression tunnel, sort of

Once again, students at NCSU have failed to realize the importance of free speech. Not that NC State holds the patent on student stupidity; surely, other students at university campuses around the country are engaged in the same freedom killing behavior as well. But at NC State, a particularly disturbing incident involving the Free Expression Tunnel has recently occurred. The Tunnel, which connects the two sides of campus bisected by railroad tracks and is open to graffiti, was recently adorned with some racist remarks directed toward Barack Obama. Certainly, it's disturbing to hear about racist morons spouting their racist vitriol (whether through graffiti or some other outlet) at a place of higher education, or any place for that matter. However, this is not the disturbing incident to which I make reference. Were the remarks stupid? Yes. Immature? Certainly. Cause for students to question the value of freedom of speech? No. Enter the really disturbing incident. In response to the graffiti, university officials had the racist remarks painted over in black, with which I have no problem. The graffiti is continuously changed or removed; however, this was followed by some idiot student who painted "Freedom of speech...but at what cost?" No, seriously, a college educated adult posed that question. Following that query-straight from the pages of 1984-a student in a radio interview stated that "I don't feel safe on campus anymore..." She went on to say that she felt this way because there were racists among us. No...seriously...that was the gist of her comment. First, the comments from the interview. Based on the student's comments, I'm led to the conclusion that within the NC State student body there are students that were/are unaware of the presence of racism. Really? Either this student was incredibly sheltered growing up, or she has been completely oblivious to everything ever. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying she shouldn't feel threatened by racist remarks, and I certainly believe that students should not have to live in a climate of fear when on campus-but she just figured out that there are unsavory characters on campus after the appearance of the graffiti? If that is the case, then I would say that she learned a valuable lesson from the idiots with the spray paint. That lesson being: sometimes people will hate you because of your race, or gender, or appearance, or nationality, or religion, etc. It's not right, it might hurt, we should work to stamp out hatred, but it is a reality. It's time to eschew your Pollyannaesque view on the world for a more mature stance. I hate to break it to you but you're in college now-time to grow up. Now for the particularly jaw-dropping comment questioning the freedom of speech. I have come to the conclusion that many Americans operate under the assumption that we as a people have the right to not be offended. This is perhaps one of the biggest threats facing our nation today. Why you ask? Because it is anathema to the idea of a free society. Trust me, I've read the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and the Declaration of Independence, and nowhere in those documents is the claim made that we have the right to not be offended. In fact, a case for the opposite could be made. The first amendment states (among other things) "Congress shall make no law...abridging the freedom of speech." Yet despite this clear indisputable language, we still have numbskulls pursuing college degrees that question the efficacy of this right on a free society. If this free speech questioning imbecile had been alive during the embryonic stages of our great country, I can just imagine he would have told Patrick Henry something along the lines of, "hey you shouldn't say that, you might offend the British." What a clown. Here's a newsflash for you nerd: inoffensive language does not require protection...offensive language requires protection because of idiots like you who think that no one should have to suffer harsh words or be subjected to opinions that might be different from your own. Finally, let me close by answering the question "freedom of speech...but at what cost?" At all cost.

Why PBR is the worst beer ever

PBR...egh. The three letters in the English alphabet that strike horror in the hearts of all. There are a lot of bad beers out there: Busch Light, "Natty" Light, Bud Light, Ice House, Fat Tire. But the beer that climbs to the bottom and craps all over the trophy of worst beer ever is P...B...R. But why PBR? Because, not only is PBR a truly horrid product made from the cheapest nastiest ingredients, it also has become the official beer of hipsters. Double Whammy! Leave it to hipsters to adopt a simultaneously sickening sweet and vomit inducing swill as their drink du jour. Of course, what can be expected of guys who wear skinny jeans, rock 70s style molestaches, and ride all over town on rusty single-speed bicycles? Look, far be it from me to tell someone what to drink, but the hipsters (through their ability to miraculously swig PBR night after night without being admitted to the poison control center) have spurred the proliferation of PBR to new lows. Reputable bars are actually serving this crap next to six dollar a glass micro-brews! Grocery stores have moved the PBR to the beer aisle and away from its rightful place on the bottom shelf next to the damaged boxes of discount laundry detergent! Still not convinced that PBR is the new Plague? Ask yourself this my friend; have you ever wondered what the initials PBR actually stand for? Puke, Barf, Ralph. Coincidence, or a highly covert disclaimer woven into the name of a product that should have gone the way of the dodo bird many years ago? It's time to take back our streets! It's time to tell PBR that it can no longer hide behind the proud colors of the American flag! Stand up for freedom loving, man-jeans wearing, multi-gear bike riding, anti-porno star-face-lettuce-rocking men that don't back down from a beer that's actually darker in color than a hipsters urine after a night of prepping for the next May Day celebration. The next time you find yourself in the beer aisle, leave the PBR for the commies and pick a beer that won't compromise your dignity...and knock over the stack of PBR 12 packs while you're at it...trust me, no one with a job will care.