Astro Profiling

There's racial profiling.  Anybody of color has been a victim of it in some form or the other.

There's status profiling.  If you don't drive a Porsche, Mercedes, or a late model BMW, you've been a victim of it.

And then there's astro profiling. If you're a Capricorn (as I am), you've definitely been a victim of it.

You get into a delightful conversation with a pretty girl. You both have similar interest and enjoy the simple things in life, like a good brew of coffee. She appears attracted to you, and vice versa.  Then, out of the clear blue sky (or, in the case of Seattle, the gray wet sky), she drops THIS question upon your lap:

"So, what sign are you?"

Your innocuous reply, "I'm a Capricorn."

This is generally followed by a pause, which is then generally followed by an "Oh".  Mind you, not a delightful "oh", but more along the lines of a unpleasantly surprised "oh".

What the f**k is THAT supposed to mean????

Is it MY fault mommy and daddy decided to play Battleship in April and not June?  Am I moody? Yes I am.  Are there non-Capricorns in this world who'd trump my mood swings without breaking a sweat? Yes. there are.  Yet, within seconds the girl has my profile pinned 1-2-3 like Andre the Giant versus Richard Simmons. Instantly the chat morphs from "like to know ya" to "been nice knowing ya". And why? Because I was born after December 21st rather than before?

Don't get me wrong.  My ex-neighbor Natalie worked up an astrological forecast for me last August.  I went in with an open mind, and came out a believer -- not due to her hot Aussie accent, but due to the fact that everything the chart told her would happen in my life has come true!  Of course, there is a difference between truth and fact, with truth being in large part perceived and self-fortified.  Yet, I'm sold on PROPER astrology.

But the hocus pocus "just-add-water" Instamatic Astrology that psychotic flower child pulled on me?  Maybe it's a good thing the discussion ground to a halt.  Perhaps -- and I'm just assuming here -- if the relationship had grown beyond a coffee chat to something far more serious, can you IMAGINE the woman applying the wonders of Instamatic Astrology to everything in our lives?

"Honey. Let's go to that new restaurant down the street."
"Are you kidding? The rising moon five degrees from Jupiter's aura says we stay in and meditate!"

"I wonder what's on TV tonight?"
"The sun is aligned with constellation Sagittarius, pulling on a transiting Venus.  Watching the television is the LAST thing I want to do when THAT combination is showing."

"I love you."
"Phfff.  That's just Pluto and Neptune rising with the moon. When that happens, lies and deceit dominate. You don't know what you're talking about."

....!!!

Wow. Did I dodge a bullet there!

Story About Aliens Combat Birthday..... what?!!!

I consider myself neither liberal nor conservative. More of a centerist, I share both likes and dislikes with the fringes of American politics.

So when I say most left-side television political analysts either look like they fell out of a dryer, an AA meeting, or a Dungeons and Dragons tournament, please take note that it's a dead-on, clear as day observation, and not some right winger propaganda to push the glory that is FoxNews.

Current TV is a perfect example.  Listen, I'm not a tie guy myself.  But if I'm on the boob tube, with millions watching (or, in the case of Current TV: 3,987), I'd prefer to look my best.  Perhaps Current TV has a standing law forbidding ties or expertly-fitted coats. Not 100% sure... don't 100% care.  If you flip on FoxNews, you'd think they had a looking-good contract with Ralph Lauren and Neil George Salon.  With Current TV, maybe Kmart and Supercuts.... maybe!

With the cat above, however, I'd roll the dice with Big Lots and Fantastic Sam's.

"What The Flick"?  How about "what the f**k"!!  Where is it written that liberal telecasters NEED to appear disheveled and aimless?  Is there some field guide that clearly points to a rule stating "all righties must appear as if they're closing million dollar deals en route to the financial district in a BMW, whilst all lefties must appear like they've got a baloney sandwich stuffed in their pocket and a Huffy parked out back".

Aside from Jon Stewart (who does, in fact, wear a tie in accordance to the looking-good code), there appears to be no rhyme or reason to what a democaster's going to wear night to night.  And those guests... really????  Gavin Newsom had a couple on the other night discussing automobile technology.  Once again, the memo must've read "wear what you have.... hair brushing and make-up optional".  Whereas Fox attempts to maintain a sense of etiquette and flair, Current and MSNBC just, well... exist.  Littered with skinny guys wearing glasses and a grab bag of sport coats a couple sizes too large for them, jeans, frazzled hair, and a voice perfectly suited for the words "I told you so", they are the polar opposite of the well-groomed right, well-behaved right.  Which, in hindsight, must be their orchestrated plan of attack.

And just when you think this potpourri of democast gobbledigook is, actually, a "game plan", they hit you with a technical faux pas like the YouTube closed captioning illustrated above. Maybe it's just YouTube, and not them.

But, if you know the YouTube cc'ing stinks of roadkill, then DISABLE IT!!!!

Democaster: Huh?  But it's cool.

Conservacaster: LOL!!!!

The 20 grand Ferrari

A friend who's not incredibly savvy with anything engine-driven noted the above photo posted on my Facebook page, which of course is the new Ducati 1199 Panigale.  He chuckled: "Nice death machine".

My response is not unlike a response from any lover of two-wheeled Saturn 5 land rockets:

"Bikes don't kill riders. Riders kill riders".

His almost immediate response of suddenly popping an unintended wheelie or powering through a turn into oncoming traffic -- in other words, the basic list of every motorcycle horror story you've ever heard -- was just as quickly thwarted with a response of my own: throttle control.  I could have dug in with a sermon of general motorcycle riding dynamics, but that would have gone over as well as Fat Elvis slamming a stoppie on a '68 Triumph while leaning forward over the bars.

This guy didn't have a clue from the word "go".  The fundamental truth is, for roughly 20 to 24 out the door (for the base and S models), one can own THE BEST superbike in the world.   Try pulling a similar trick as a cager (car driver). Hit up glory spots like The Auto Gallery in Calabasas, and ask for "the best of the best".  By the way, you'd better have that second mortgage ready to drop.  In that realm, $24,000 gets you a set of brakes and a wheel rotation. $240,000 gets the salesman talking... and that number speaks only for entry level fare.

There's nothing wrong with Italian muscle -- I've always been partial to the Horse, the Bull, and the Pitchfork... I know, the Maserati logo isn't a pitchfork, unless you once owned a flambe BiTurbo and it caught fire while you were still in it -- but for the price of a service you can own a World's Greatest!

How much does the World's Greatest watch cost?

Or the World's Greatest private jet?

Or the World's Greatest yacht?

For instance, you can own a Ulysse Nardine "Maxi Marine Diver" gold chronograph watch, or you can own the best superbike ever to roll off an assembly line.

The best!  Not the most expensive.  Not the most exclusive.  The BEST.

My friend, dumbfounded and defeated, had only a singular response: "But what if it rains?"

My response: "Switch it to Rain Mode".  I'm not 100% certain he was close to asking if umbrellas pop out of the fairings before stopping himself short, but I would not have put it past him.

Sugar > Nuclear Waste or a Bullet to the Head

Okay.  I get it.  Sugar is evil.  Sugar is the AntiChrist. Sugar is the foodstuff equivalent of Chernobyl. Sugar will kill you if you let it.  Sugar is a major health problem in America.

But, it's not.

And THAT'S the problem.

Certainly, sugar isn't the most effective source of nutrition, nor the most effective means of energy, you may utilize as fuel for your body.   Yet, it's by no means the very worst kind of white powder you can place into same body.  Cyanide, off the top of my head, might be considered a more destructive substance.  Cocaine, as well.... and I can't imagine one person save for Robert Downey Jr. who'd argue sugar as being more damaging to your life expectancy than good ol' Aunt Nora.

I'm very aware of several folk close to me who are flat out addicted to Diet Coke.  Mind you, not favored by it -- ADDICTED TO it!  Their rationale that it's a healthier version of Coca-Cola is,  pardon the predictable pun, junk.  Sugar is a natural substance the body can easily recognize and digest. Sure, it'll make you fat -- if you sit around all day watching your damn talk shows.  Ever wondered what kind of devious dark magic went into making that chocolate muffin in the cafe pastry case?  Unless chickens are evil sorcerers, wheat fields are sources of unspeakable Pagan sacrifices, and the Belgians mix their chocolate batches with potions of bat claw, hair of alpaca, and blood of Himalayan rat (of which I'm not 100% certain is "not" true), then all you must fear of that deliciously mouth-watering muffin is watching The View shortly after devouring it, slumped on your couch, dropping Diet Coke chasers.  Rather, here's a novel thought -- walk!

Your local coffee hut is three blocks away. And you require an automobile to reach it because....?

MSvGO=HQTV

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.

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.

SPY SHOT!!! THE 2011 CHRYSLER "WOODY" CROSSOVER.

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.