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Sunday, November 29, 2009


In what may be considered a cinematic equivalent of a high colonic, I achieved a not-so-little tactical miracle this weekend. In hindsight, the experience could have, should have, ended my life on this planet. Alas, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and today I own the kind of invincible feeling one attains after surviving a terrifying wreck with but barely a scratch.

I watched the Humphrey Bogart classic Casablanca on TCM... then followed it up IMMEDIATELY with the Deborah Gibson classic, Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus on SyFy.

My Facebook status update three-quarters into my experience?.... "It's like munching a raw sardine after devouring a pint of Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream".

Truer words, never spoken!

In an age of horribly awful direct-to-video films, this one stands alone as the zenith of how NOT to make an action flick... or a film of any other type, for that matter. After enjoying a movie most critics consider one of the greatest American films of all-time (usually just behind Citizen Kane and The Godfather), double-tapping it with a flick that uses what appears to be locker room as both a destroyer command deck and a Japanese sub interior just screams fatal aneurysm. Add Deborah (Debbie) Gibson and a perpetually-inebriated Lorenzo Lamas to the mix, toss in a sprinkling of garbage effects -- some reversed and used again, pretending to be a completely new and exciting effect -- and top with the kind of script that offers an amazing workout for your neck and arms (due to confusion-induced head-shaking and baffled shoulder-shrugging), and you've got a classic for the ages.

Former teen pop icon Deborah Gibson stars as a brilliant marine scientist....*.

Really, MUST I continue after that?!

Former teen pop icon Deborah Gibson stars as a brilliant marine scientist...........*. Shit.

One more time.

Former teen pop icon Deborah Gibson stars as a brilliant marine scientist............... and Lorenzo Lamas portrays, apparently, the head of a covert government agency, though it's never made clear exactly WHAT agency it might be. The only clues are that it functions out of what appears to be a basement, its employees all wear Dickies work clothes, and Lamas seems to possess a direct phone line to the White House.

Maybe FEMA. I'm not 100% sure.

There's the wise old scientist/father figure/hero character, played by somebody who could easily pass for a Dennis Hopper/Christopher Lee love child. There's a world-renowned Japanese scientist who has sex with Gibson no sooner than two seconds after meeting her.... and bears a striking resemblance to a Chinese fella. The soldiers all wear Foster Grants... even indoors! American submarines all look like the Red Oktober, and no ship (it seems) is owned by a particular nation, the subtitles describing them as "U.S. led" or "Japanese led".

But, the Coup de Blech is when mega shark bites off a chunk of the Golden Gate bridge (perhaps the best effect of the film), which signifies a sudden dejection and utter failure to all of the principle characters because "thousands of people" are now dead. Funny, I didn't seem to notices a marathon being run across said bridge. How, with one bite of one section of one bridge can "thousands" of San Franciscans suddenly die?? Perhaps the shark destroyed the spirit of the city by attacking its great landmark? Or, perhaps it's a really crappy film? Thinking.... I'll choose the latter.

A close second to the above plot point is when Gibson conjures up a brilliant idea (since, naturally, she's a "brilliant marine scientist"). While trying to devise a solution to this mess, her eyes light up with a manic anticipation. She turns to the father-figure old man scientist and yelps "Thrilla in Manila. We'll get them battle each other!" Of course, there's two inherent issues with this dialogue:

1) SyFy viewers might not know what "Thrilla in Manila" means. A more appropriate sports analogy might have been "Lakers/Celtics. We'll get them to battle each other".

2) Debbie Gibson doesn't know what "Thrilla in Manila" means. A more appropriate pop analogy might have been "Britney/Insanity. We'll get them to battle each other".

When the plan succeeds, we find ourselves at the bottom of the ocean on a "U.S. led" submarine, it's interior a combination of Atari joysticks and painted cardboard (high tech cardboard, no doubt). The creatures battle each other to the death, and plummet to the bottom of the ocean abyss. The problem? We're already on the ocean floor! Apparently, there's a "special and super-secret" floor designed especially for dying supercreatures who just battled to the death at the bottom of the ocean right in front of a U.S.-led submarine.

I love bad films.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

A Tofu-Free Thanksgiving

Debbie, Donna, and Deanne -- three yoga buddies spending their Thanksgiving in the company of themselves and their families, prepare a mouth-watering dinner for those who wait.

As the men spending the waning hours prior to the delicious feast gorge themselves on a semi-entertaining NFL contest, and the children play in the backyard with the energetic family dogs, Donna checks the status of the scrumptious bird as the clock ticks away the final minutes of doneness.

"Almost ready. Can't you just smell the flavor?" gleans Donna.

The others unanimously agree. The recipe Debbie excavated from her cherished Yoga Freak magazine is proving, at first hint, to be quite the success. Deanne lifts the cover from a simmering stovetop pan and takes in the scent of goodness. She sighs in delight.

"The men are going to love it. I can't wait! This is going to be the best Thanksgiving ever!"

Debbie smiles, gushing with emphatic pride, hands pressed together. "Namaste."

All gather around the dinner table, silverware and condiments in place, the wine already flowing at the distinct request of Wild Bill, husband of Deanne and known drunkard. The children sit, traditionally, at a square fold-out table to the side of the dining room, eagerly anticipating a re-fuel for another post-dinner round with the dogs. As if on cue, the three women exit the kitchen, approaching the table in unison with a feast fit for the ages, and all activity stops. Every eye in the house is now keenly focused on the star of the night, the Thanksgiving bird.

But not quite in the manner one might assume.

As Deanne presents the bird as the table centerpiece, Howie, husband of Donna, rubs his mouth in sudden confusion. "What's that.... stuff on the turkey?" The other men lean forward for a closer inspection of the strange fuzz.

Deanne giggles in delight. "It's roasted alpaca fur, silly. And, it's delicious. You'll love it."

"Excuse me? Alpaca what?", asked a shocked Mitch, husband of Debra and fellow lover of yoga. But just as the question is asked, it's lone answer slams into his brain like an asteroid to a planet. "What the fuck! I thought that was a JOKE!!!"

But as Donna politely asks Mitch to lower his tone, Howie and Bill grow increasingly restless. They can't remember the time Mitch last blew his top. "What joke? What's with the alpaca fur? And what's that funny smell?", growls a surly Bill. An incensed Mitch is all too happy to fill his buddies in on the details, as disgusting as they may be.

"It's a fucking Yoga turkey!!! A YOGA TURKEY!!!!"

"Smells like cooking sherry and.... um.... hay?", adds a befuddled Howie.

"It's the stuffing. A 72-grain spackle with puree of fermented raisin and splinters of bamboo!" answers a twitching Mitch.

Bill can't contain himself. "Holy shit! You bitches trying to KILL us??"

"It's delicious and nutritious!", as Donna defends both herself and her sisters of cuisine. "My mouth is watering just thinking about it. Yum!!!"

Howie lifts the lid of the dish next to the turkey. Floating in a purplish stew are ten turkey feathers.

Mitch grabs Howies arm. "Don't touch that! It's turkey feather marinated in guarana, algae and prune juice. It'll kill you on contact".

A crying Deanne: "No it won't! You don't know what you're talking about. It's yummy and good for you. Children in India eat it!! Mmmmm, delicious!!!" She turns to the children, and in her best Stepford Wives impersonation: "Here, child. Won't you have some delectable Yoga Turkey, with a side of mashed Rafflesia root and turkey feather gravy?"

The mortified children sit silently stunned, and in Deanne's increasingly warped mind, silence is as good as 'yes'.

But as the three turn toward the hungry children, the men leap from their seats and rush to counter the Yoga Offensive. They grab the children as easily as rag dolls, except for the inebriated Bill, who whiffs at his first attempt, cold-cocking his child with a stiff forearm.
This "delicious" meal will never see the stomachs of these children.

"C'mon," exclaims Mitch. "I think Taco Bell is still open!"

As the six depart, dragging the seventh, the women stand amidst a feast fit for an army, now simply a battalion of three. The longer they proudly hover atop their masterwork of cuisine, however, the more they begin to realize:

"Shit. Were we really going to EAT this garbage?", questions Donna. She turns to Deanne for an answer, but Deanne no longer stands beside her. Sticking her finger into the gravy to sample the goodness, she's since queasily darted to the bathroom and is currently killing it with the neighborhood sewer system. Donna and Debbie glance at each other.

Suddenly, Taco Bell, is sounding mighty good.

So is Pilates.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009


Crossing over to what, I'm not exactly certain.

The term "crossover" defines an automobile which combines the best elements of two current styles, such as an SUV with the comfort levels and ingress/egress of a family sedan.... but this time our favorite throwback automaker has gone too far (and I mean "throwback" in the sense of shit build quality and poor design, just like the good ol' days of American auto manufacturing) . Whereas Ford and GM continue to impress with exciting new models -- this could be the first Los Angeles Auto Show in quite a while where GM and Ford products might steal the show -- Chrysler simply trudges along with these galactically brilliant flashes of sheer genius.

A tree car for the tree huggers. What clarity!

Lo, I'll play Devil's advocate and suggest this "mule" simply exists for the purpose of aerodynamic analysis (drag coefficient). Or, a quality explanation might have these tree branches acting merely as camouflage, something that is very real in the world of model testing and design patent legalities.

But Hell, folks.... this is CHRYSLER!!!! Which means only one thing: Look for the 2011 Chrysler Woody Crossover at your existing Chrysler dealership sometime around next September, just beyond fire season.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Ruin'd by Disn'y

I can imagine how it might be within the darkest regions of Northern California: Cute teenage faerie, conditioned by years of coddling and positive affirmation, seeks to realize what all have been alluding to as long as she could recall, and ventures south for a new life as a budding starlet.  Destination: Mouse House.

But the further south she flutters, the colder such a realization becomes -- her Technicolor dream now tinged with sepia. She can only fly tens of miles per day, from town to town, rather than from tree to tree.  She grows tired and slightly confused.  It's common knowledge faeries are as stupid as the tree stumps they play upon, and her initial conclusion from a state map left by some wayward traveler was that Los Angeles is only 9.5 human inches away, as simple a trip as there can be.

She arrives in Los Angeles after pulling several tricks in Santa Barbara for some food and shelter (sparrows can be quite hospitable for the "right price"), but now a new villain called smog envelops her, limiting her flight to only several miles per day, rather than tens.  Her eyes runny, her clothes brown with soot, her hair as interwoven and matted as a rastafarian, she finally finds her trek come to an end at the Disney Studios.  Tinkerbell is legend in her parts, and this little faerie is seeking to take her rightful place as the heir to this most storied creature.  She is going to make it in this town.  She... is going to be a "star".

She... didn't know anything about "animation" or CGI.  Because, of course, faeries are stupid.

The long and winding trip home, almost ended prematurely by a brisk Santa Ana wind gust, is torture for her.  Disillusioned and unfeeling, she pulls twice as many tricks northward as she did southward, her nadir being a pole dance at a local squirrel dive in Wrightwood for nuts and a half-eaten Payday bar.  But, as a shameful return to the hallowed forest of her upbringing draws closer, she discovers (quite by accident) the joys of marijuana as she rested upon a smoky VW high.  A rocking 1966 VW Bus, painted in the worst Dutch Boy yellow and blue. A pair of UCLA rejects traveling north to apply at UC Santa Cruz.  Unbeknownst to these two wasted fellows, the faerie hitches a ride, both upon the rack of their Volkswagen as well as upon the smoky remains of their Jamaican Gold.  It takes the edge off. It enlightens her.  Failed expectations?  Shame?  

Screw it.  

As her ride comes to an end, she finds a discarded sandwich bag and hauls off a load of weed from the half-unconscious co-eds.  Her first criminal act!  How delightful.

She makes it back home, and there is no shame in her eyes.  She comes face to face with her expecting parents, and there is no defeat in her heart.  Her friends attempt to console her, and there is no inhibition in her mind.  In a brief span of several minutes, she maims her sister by tearing off her wings,  has hot faerie sex with her BFF's boyfriend, and becomes the unquestioned diva of her domain when she shivs the reigning "hot shit faerie" with a concealed rose thorn.  Caring what others think is no longer a requisite for living, since in her enlightened mind what she's really been doing all of her life is merely "existing", conforming to social norms, following the clique.  Now, SHE is the clique, and all who follow may gain access to her stash. All who oppose... may suffer a terrible faerie fate.

This cute teenage faerie, once conditioned by years of coddling and positive affirmation, seeking to realize her dreams of stardom in Hollywood, is now the undisputed crime lord of Marigold Forest.  And within these darkest regions of Northern California, all is right with the world.


I've got WAY too much time on my hands.

The Marlboro iPhone Sleeve

Nearly every day I sit at my favorite coffee hang, sipping my brew, doing whatever it is I'm doing that particular morning.  Several of my buddies own iPhones, as do I, and over time I've observed an interesting phenomenon shared by millions of smokers worldwide: The moment one of us whips out our little bit of Steve Jobs brilliance, it literally takes mere seconds for at least one, but more often than not several, of us to unconsciously procure our iPhones, as well.  
I've seen this occur with smokers as long as I can remember.  Two smokers are having a conversation, and one of them, sans a break in said conversation, will blindly present a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and pull one for a smoke. But, as the conversation continues, and before the first smoker has a chance to light his cigarette, the second smoker will unconsciously reach for HIS pack of cigarettes.  Again, without any pause or break in conversation, as though on instinct. No looking down, no break in eye contact, as natural and matter-of-factly as scratching an itch or rubbing your neck.  By the time the first has lit up, first drag done, the second has cigarette in mouth, ready to rock.  Perhaps this is all due to a strong Power of Suggestion between addicts, a simple nudging of the mind by an outside force to suggest the proverbial "smoke 'em if you got 'em".

Of course, this would suggest iPhone owners are helpless addicts, as well... which got me thinking.

It's called the Marlboro iPhone Protection Pack (though any tobacco company will do). The concept is simple: since iPhones are nearly as addictive and subconsciously controlling as cigarettes, so then why not conceal them in a modified cigarette case?  The case would include a patent-pending Palm Tap® action, which would reveal your iPhone in the same manner a smoker taps the bottom of his or her case to expose a cigarette for removal.  The action would allow the phone to be elevated just enough to read the name of the incoming caller, in the event you choose not to answer.  The flip top would have an opening for your headphones, so you may easily smoke and talk at the same time without volcanic damage to the touch screen.  And it's cool (at least for the Japanese).  

Smokers may voice their support against the totalitarian control of health fascists worldwide by proudly encasing their mobile device within their Marlboro iPhone Protection Packs, and by doing so reveal they own two debilitating addictions, rather than just one.

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Friday, June 12, 2009

Brandon... and the Camry

Okay.  I'm currently in a frustrating artistic rut.  When such an event occurs, it seems that changing thing up a little is always a good thing.  So, what better way to vent my angst than speak of the great pet peeve that is "CamryDriver".

Anyone who has ever ridden shotgun with me understands exactly what I'm talking about, and yes, I intentionally combined the words together to form a singular vision of the greatest hazard facing road-going motorists today, as well as my worst nightmare as a motorcyclist. Worse than the old-people Buick. Worse than the self-absorbed Pruis.  Worse than any Hells Angels or Mongols or two tons of broken beer bottles spread over Mulholland Drive during a torrential rain storm.  CamryDriver will kill you if you're not careful.  CamryDriver does not distinguish between a three ton SUV and a Smart Car.  And, if I were President of the United States, my first act as YOUR leader would be to perma-ban Camrys for the sake of national security.

As individual entities, both the Toyota Camry and its occupant are, for the most part, quite decent.  The Toyota Camry has been, and probably always will be, a solid automobile. People who drive Toyota Camrys probably have been, are, and always will be, solid citizens.  Yet, when combined... well, consider it one of those bombs that detonate when separated chemicals are released and combined.  By themselves, they are inert.  Together... deadly.

Why?  How could two docile elements, alone uneventful and calm,  merge to form a single weapon of rolling destruction?  Consider the stand-alone ingredients.  Initially, they seem exactly what they are.  Nothing particularly unique stands out.  Dig deeper, however, and the truths begin to reveal themselves.

Let's begin with the Toyota Camry.  Safe, ultra-reliable, with the kind of leading-edge styling only a blind man can love.  A roomy interior that's nearly as bland as the exterior, a relatively compact price tag based upon what the vehicle offers,  and a legendary reputation for being the last car you'll ever own.  Sounds like a "can't miss" choice, doesn't it?  Well, that's due largely to the fact that it IS a can't miss choice -- a very "safe" choice, indeed.  You are not going to go wrong with a Camry.

Now, on to the Driver.  An always-working professional, usually with a non-intrusive taste for style.  Somebody who can blend in and disappear in a crowd.  Somebody who is always multi-tasking: maybe a secretary, or a salesman, or a mom.  Somebody who takes several minutes to order a cup of coffee, or the person who's been standing in the bank line ahead of you for several hours, but still isn't ready when the teller calls for them.  An elderly person, who's daughter and/or son purchased the Camry for their dad or mom (or both) based on it's reputation alone. 

Now, combine the two.
When I look for a car, I shop and compare.  I look for styling, standard features, reliability, performance, and price.  I chose my current Volkswagen due largely to the fact that it's an Audi parts bin car, which is a good thing since many of the features on my VW were once (or still are) features found on $40,000 Audis.  I test drive.  I ask questions.  I learn.  But the Camry is a different beast.  Aside from the before-mentioned reliability, there's NOTHING particularly special or daring about it. It's quite possibly the safest choice a car buyer can make, and the perfect choice for the person/people described above. I would be very curious to ask a Toyota salesman how many new Camry owners simply walk in and purchase the vehicle sans any sort of investigative process described above.  I would NOT be shocked to hear, "Quite a few".

Here's why....

The kind of person who buys a Camry, more often than not, is incapable of making a decision based on careful thought and comparison shopping.  Either they have better things to do with their lives (or has no time) and simply want a car that works, or will suffer an always-fatal skull implosion as the vacuum of low pressure inside the brain cavity crushes the skull inward.  The former, that being simply not caring about what they buy as long as it's reliable, is (in my opinion) the minority, relegated to some who can actually drive and the elderly described above, who would be dangerous in a Fiat, let alone a Camry.  It's the majority, the "skull crushers", that terrify me the most.

These people CAN'T make decisions in life, and it shows in their driving ability.  Their mind is either stuck in super-slo frame-by-frame reply mode, or have SO much on their mental plate that they simply miss things... like stop signs.  This is exactly why they purchase the Camry is the first place.

 "Buying a car is so hard.  My brain hurts.  I'll just buy the Camry", or...


The number one reason they purchased the Camry is, they didn't have to make a decision!!!
Ahhh... decision-making.  A simple concept, yet so very vital in the success of steering a 3200 pound weapon-of-mass-destruction AWAY from the rest of us, rather than INTO us.  Why Toyota installs side-view mirrors on Camrys boggles my mind, since no CamryDriver I've ever witnesses actually uses them.  Power steering? Perfect for last-second lane changes, left-hand turns right in front of you, and running stop signs.  Power brakes? Supreme for braking to a dead stop in the middle of the boulevard for absolutely no reason.  Economy? How's 25 BPG (brain-farts per gallon), perfect for barreling out of supermarket parking lots into oncoming traffic without sacrificing brain cells.  When scanning the road ahead of me, especially on my Suzuki, my primary goal is to spot the Camrys and Lexi (plural for Lexus,  basically a luxury Camry,  but that's for another blog) and steer clear of them.

Ask a new Camry owner why they purchased the Camry, rather than a Mazda 6 or Nissan Altima, or the American offerings of the Ford Fusion or Chevy Malibu.  Dimes to dollars, the answer shall more often than not be "Uhhh.  I dunno.  It's a nice car I guess. And it doesn't break down".

Lovely.  And what does a double yellow line mean? 

"Ummm.  It's so we can see it better, 'cause a single line is hard to see?"

Our only saving grace it that these people have conveniently clumped themselves together into an easy-to-spot group, so avoiding them merely requires a careful observation of the road.

And a prayer.,

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Stinky Skin and UGG Boots

Those of you who know me intimately enough to understand the way my mind works (I apologize for that) understand my, apparently,  instinctive need to blurt out whatever is on my mind.  Sure, I attempt to employ a reasonable level of discretion, but usually my idle attempt at whispering beneath the requisite 4 foot radius of wandering ears -- namely the ears of my current target -- fails miserably.  So, I wait.  And wait. And wait some more until the mark is far enough from me so that I may speak in my normal tone of voice without the sound waves straying to the wrong set of ears.

Which, more often than not, bugs the living shit out of my audience of one.

Today, I was taking a leisurely walk with a friend to get some chow.  Before us, two women.... strike that -- two women dressed like teenagers.  Bodies, decent enough.  Faces, not certain, though one turned to show a slight profile for a brief second.  Kinda looked around 35 or so. Then again, perhaps she ages prematurely, and is closer to 20.  Really, it doesn't matter.

What DOES matter were the clothing they wore, and how they smelled.

That smell!  That sickly sweet scent resembling the bastard child of jasmine and vanilla.  It's range!  Easily recognizable from 20 feet, nearly unbearable from 10.  Granted, I'll take the disgustingly sweet stink of whatever these women were wearing over Patchouli any day of the week and twice on Sunday, but GIVEN a choice, I'd prefer a single bullet to my skull.  Don't get the wrong impression: I enjoy a woman who smells nice, especially if they understand pH balance and delicate application of chosen product.  Dumping your body in a vat of molasses-scented shit, however, is quite another story altogether.

When I happen across such an individual, three theories pop into my mind:

A) She has NO clue what the fuck she's doing, and probably runs through bottles of perfume like a drunken sailor runs through bottles of rum.

B) She forgot to take a shower and SMELLS like noted drunken sailor.

C) She had sex with a drunken sailor and never made it home. Wandering the streets, she happened upon a gas station, purchased one of those christmas tree air fresheners, and fastened it around her neck like some frickin' BFF pendant.

My money is on #3, since her and her friend were dressed, at 11:00am on a Tuesday morning, as though they're in desperate need of some bad-assed rave.  Who the Hell were they trying to impress, passing truckers?  

Then again, if the answer is #3 then, yeah, they most likely were.

Monday, June 8, 2009

An oldie, but...

We'll get to the Camry's and Patchouli-soakers of the world in a little bit. But first, I'll carry one over from TOS (that's The Old Site, for those who still own typewriters).

I pledge THIS -- buy enough of my merchandise, and I’ll utilize the $$$ to fund a scientific project destined for worldwide headlines. I’ll call it “Project Stupidity”.

See, I have a theory, and it’s quite simple: There are two levels, in my opinion, of intelligence -- knowledge and common sense. “Knowledge”, being information smart, and “common sense”, being instinctively smart. It is my personal opinion that a single person cannot attain high levels of both at the same instant. In fact, my hypothesis is that both are mutually attached to a sliding scale -- as one increases, the other decreases.

No dumbass, not like walking and chewing gum at the same time!!

More like riding a bike while talking on a cell phone to your friend while crossing a crosswalk....against a red light....on Ventura Boulevard!!!! Let me explain.

Several days ago I was on my way back from Baja Fresh, standing at the corner of Ethel and Ventura, awaiting the green light to cross. Across the street, at the northeast corner, were two boys on BMX bikes. One looked like some half black, half white, quarter asian mutt with an affinity for Big Macs and porn, the other a curly haired white kid fresh from a shopping spree with daddy’s Platinum card at Abercrombie and Fitch. Both had that WB “plug ‘n play” look (stick ‘em in any WB show, and they’ll fit right in). The mutt looks for an opening, then crosses the street in a little less than a hurry. Fine with me. Kinda dumb, but at LEAST he made an effort to rush across. 

A moment later came his friend.

Let’s call him Chad. Yeah, that’s an outstandingly “fresh” CW name.

Chad, wearing a button down print dress shirt with cargo pants and sandals, complete with that curly unkempt hair so popular with his “kind”, decided it was a good idea to cross at a leisurely pace while speaking on his phone (probably to his “baby” -- let’s call her Hailey).

Chad had found a way to lower the seat of his BMX bike without killing himself, as well as figured a method for dialing the phone he holds in his pedicured hand. Yet, when it comes to crossing a busy boulevard, slowly, talking on his phone, on his bike, against the red light, oblivious to 4000 pound objects made of heavy metal hurling forth at 40 miles an hour towards him only because THEY HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY...well, that’s far too much to comprehend. His brain must’ve flat out shut down due to it’s inability to multi-task so many events at once. But there he was, ignoring the vehicles braking to a stop to avoid hitting the jayriding little prick, and at the same instant risking another car slamming into the back of theirs. At the end of his “mad dash”, he and his friend continued on their way, presumably to Chad’s hillside estate.

It was the kind of situation you’d like to simply walk up to the stupid fuck and clock him with a right hook, just so that “something” hit him. Then, of course, I would’ve hit a minor (I’m certain he was under 18) before midday traffic, and that’s never a good thing. His daddy’s most likely a power player in whatever he does, and that would make the situation worse. Of course, that begs the question: if daddy is so Goddamn successful, then how could Chad be so friggin dumb?

Which leads me to the study. The idea is, the more that's happening inside your mind, the less space exists to crunch "common sense components", or CSC. Like how Photoshop uses empty hard drive space to work complex commands (scratch disk), I believe the same goes for the human mind. The clutter of current information temporarily takes up unused space inside our memory banks. At a certain point, this creates a bottleneck, which slows down the ability of the brain to access information relevent to the CSC. Our boy Chad might be a smart kid (I doubt it, but we'll offer him the benefit of the doubt for argument's sake), but riding his bike while on the phone with Hailey, while probably attempting to look CW cool at the same instant denied his mind the ability to access the necessary information to suggest that crossing the boulevard at a less than leisurely pace against a red light in the middle of the day was an incredibly bad idea.

We could easily call this "Encino Mom Syndrome" (EMS), but that's a Natural Stupidity for another day.

Natural Stupidity... now HERE...

Yep. Now the infamous Natural Stupidity editorial department of is HERE, safe and secure within the megamassive all-controlling world of Google.  Typical.