You’re Hotter When You Don’t Talk

Let’s face it, we can’t always have it all. A girl with great looks AND brains? Truth is, those girls are few and far between…and usually taken. I’ve dated girls before that were great to look at, but had little to offer in terms of stimulating dinner conversation. Usually I would discover this midway thru appetizers. I quickly realized that there really was nothing below the surface. The type of girl you would be proud to show-off to your guy buddies, but embarrassed to introduce to your female friends. Some say beauty is only skin deep and over time that beauty fades, but dumb is forever. That’s probably true, but at 18, Miss Teen South Carolina has many years before her beauty betrays her. Besides, she’s in a BEATUTY pageant, not a Spelling Bee. Who really cares if she can’t respond to a simple question with just the smallest amount of intelligence, right? Well apparently the entire world cares or at least the entire web is getting a good belly laugh out of this.

WARNING!
Watching this may hurt your brain.
(We already know hers has been suffering for nearly 2 decades now.)

Q: Recent polls have shown that a fifth of Americans cannot locate the U.S. on a world map. Why do you think this is?

A: I can’t repeat her answer as it would actually make me stupider for uttering such scatterbrained nonsense. Therefore I leave you the video clip of her response, in its entirety, unfortunately.

I have a question, can anyone tell me where "Such As" is locatetd on a map? Is it part of the Asian countries? I'm confused now too. This is one of those times when “Saved By The Bell boy” Mario Lopez should of stepped aside and let me host because I would of said…"Thanks Miss Teen South Carolina. And without a doubt I can say, thanks to you we are all now dumber for listening to that." However, I give props to Mario for not busting out and laughing in her face. I would have had a hard time composing myself. I love how the "time is up bell" saves her from her own pain...and ours. Maybe she’s just one of those girls we should admire like we do small children. Onlookers could pass by and ask “does she talk?” My response would be “not if I can help it, I actually prefer she didn’t.” Just like children, maybe some pretty girls should just be seen and not heard?

Remarkably, Miss Teen South Carolina is ready for college. Rumor has it that she’s choosing to be a Graphic Design major. Whew, I’m glad she doesn’t want to major in geography. Actually, on second thought, it might not be bad for her to brush up maps. Ok, who are we kidding? She could probably brush up on every subject! Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for improving upon one's weaknesses. But there comes a point when you have to take a good long hard look at yourself in the mirror and come to grips with reality. The reality is this – she’s hot, she’s not smart. She needs to just focus on her hotness, embrace it and stop trying to play the “I have looks AND brains” card. It’s not working for you, sweetheart. You’re more like a Jessica Simpson, much cuter when you don’t speak. Stick to that rule and it will be smooth sailing for you in life. Trust me on this. After all, you did place 3rd in the Miss Teen USA pagent, despite not being able to form a single sentence that made any sense. Proof that Americans don't give a shit if a pretty girl is dumb.

SIDE NOTE: I do realize the girl is young and it was her first time on national television. That would make anyone nervous. So if all that gibberish was just nerves talking, than I suppose I can understand that. In fact, I even forgive her for speaking moron. After all, she’s hot so we all know society will never hold anything against a hot chick. And by the way Miss Teen South Carolina, if you need to cry right now, I’m offering up my shoulder for condolences…as I’m sure every other heterosexual man in America is too.

Please Remain Seated In An Upright Position

Claustrophobia is closing in. I take a deep breath, only to suck stale air into my lungs, longing for a fresh summer breeze to rustle my hair. A stuffy cabin filled with stagnant air is where I find myself. Tainted oxygen that has been recycled by the bodies of hundreds before me. The noose around my neck, digging deeper and deeper into my jugular. Beads of sweat beginning to form where I imagine drops of blood soon will drip. Under a bright blue shirt collar, I attempt to loosen its vice-like grip from around my throat. Pulling at the tie that clinches to me and holds on for dear life, I struggle and gasp for another breath of that stuffy, stagnant, stale air.

I unbutton my suit coat and fold it neatly for storage in the overhead compartment. I immediately wonder why I wore it onto the plane fully knowing I would need to remove it in order to preserve its crisp well-pressed shape upon landing. I settle into an aisle seat. 11B is where I will remain for the next hour or so. A short flight, but one I now wish I would have sprung a first class ticket for. I’m not a snob. I don’t mind rubbing elbows with people from all walks of life. I just enjoy a little leg room. A man needs to stretch some before committing to a group of fancy government officials breathing down his neck for the next 48 hours. Mental rest and relaxation does not exist when I travel to DC for work. And as my knees hit the back of the seat in front of me, I soon realize that physical R&R won’t be had either.

I grab my copy of SkyMaul and begin to flip thru, trying to pass the boring boarding time. I gaze up watching as each passenger files in, one by one, taking their respective seat. Ever since 9-11, my attention is drawn to locating where the lit up emergency exit signs are...you know, just in case. I observe the whereabouts of heavy metal serving carts that could substitute as shields or weapons, if God forbid something terrible should erupt. Post 9-11 days, I’m more aware of who gets up to use the bathroom. Who looks nervous, who has an attitude, who is overly kind or just suspicions in any way. I’m surveying the plane and making a mental note of anything out of the ordinary. It never hurts to be a little paranoid, right? I’m not afraid to fly. I’m just realistic.

I usually smirk during the overhead announcement that instructs how my seat cushion can be used as a flotation device. How I should politely inform a flight attendant if the crazy dude 2 rows back has a homemade bomb strapped to his chest and is reciting some religious babble to himself in a foreign language. How I should help other passengers out of the plane when flames are shooting from inside the cockpit . Tell me again how I should use my oxygen mask when the plane loses cabin pressure and I freeze in a moment of confusion due to those around me screaming in pure terror that we are all going to die!

In the event of a real emergency, they want you to remain seated and to stay calm. Basically, they want you to sit down and shut up as the plane spirals out of control and plunges into the earth at 300mph. Rrrrright. I’ll try to remember that. Truth be told, if it’s my time to go, then I’ll go. If the plane is going down, I really don’t want to be the sole survivor. It would freak me out to no end knowing that everyone else was meant to die except me. I couldn’t come to grasps as to why I was spared, why I was so special, why I was left to tell this tale.

It’s just pass 6AM and we are about to take off. I close my eyes and lean my head back. Once again, I lack sleep from the prior night due to my continuous battle with insomnia. Perhaps the rumble of the engine will soothe me like a lullaby. Just as my eyelids grow heavy, it hits me, the sweet scent of flowers. It’s a light welcoming fragrance that blows thru the cabin where the only air circulating before came from two irritated Japanese business men coughing in my direction. I begin to perk up a bit. I come fully to my senses when I see the prettiest little frame and face to match. “I’m 10A” she says standing over me with a motion to scoot by. I think to myself “Oh yeah, you’re a 10 alright.”

I rise and stand to the side so she can take her seat next to me. Long blonde hair brushes against my chest as she slides by. She smells heavenly and I've always been a sucker for pretty girls with luring scents. She turns and thanks me with a flirty smile. She has a great smile too? I’ve hit the jackpot! Just as I was cooling down, she is heating things back up again. I’m not complaining though. And I’m definitely now thankful I’m “stuck” in coach. Not to worry, I will be cool and calm. I'll remain seated and in an upright position.

That breath of fresh air has arrived. It’s going to be a good flight.

McDonald’s McCardiac

From the pages of "That’s Just Fucking Disgusting!" comes the Monster Mac. It's a monster-sized McDonald's hamburger named "The Double Pounder" or as I refer to it "Heart Attack On A Plate". Now brace yourself when I say this, it is stuffed with up to 8 meat patties and 9 slices of cheese! (My stomach is starting to turn, for the worse.) As if Americans weren’t fat enough already…but wait, this burger isn’t being offered in the States. It’s being offered to Aussies! Hmm. Australia, are you trying to take away America’s coveted Fattest Country title belt? I’ll have you know we will put up a good fight! We will come out swinging with the heavy hitters. And believe me, there are enough morbidly obese fighters here than you care to know about. We take pride in the fact that some Americans allow themselves to get so chubby that they actually need a wheelchair to cart their immobile ass into McDonald’s. Sad, but true.

This month is the 40th anniversary of the Big Mac and what a better way for McDonald’s to celebrate than introducing a new artery clogging masterpiece. Just to give you an idea, the Double Pounder is the equivalent of more than 3 days' worth of fat for a grown man! It contains over 100 grams of fat and over 2,100 calories. That’s about the equivalent of 5 Pizza Hut deep-pan Hawaiian pizzas. Nutritionists are describing the double pounder as "obscene" and "a heart attack waiting to happen".

At about $18, it is not listed on the menu, nor under the nutritional information. However, that hasn’t stopped this burger from getting attention. In fact, it has developed a cult following. It’s become a challenge for teenagers after a video was posted online of a 17-year-old boy ploughing his way through the burger at a McDonald's restaurant. (I’ll spare you the video clip. Just trust me, it’s nauseating to even watch, let alone actually attempt to eat.)

McDonald’s is the kind of place that you can almost HEAR yourself getting fatter when they take your order. Now thanks to the Double Pounder, you can almost hear the Grim Reaper creeping in as your heart comes to an abrupt halt when you say "I’ll take a Double Pounder combo meal…and go ahead and Super-Size that."

• Related post of interest 5/11/05 Super Size Me

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For Those Who Can't Unwind & Unplug

As much as I hate to say it (and don’t kill me, I’m just the messenger), summer is coming to an end. We may not be able to accept the fact that our sunny warm days are numbered, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the time we are left with. In fact, just because fall is around the corner doesn’t mean we can’t extend our summertime by traveling someplace warm, sunny, sandy and carefree. Yes, I’m talking about taking a vacation to the beach! Although for some, unwinding and unplugging on vacation is easier said than done. It’s rather sad that these days we are so tied to our wired/wireless world that many of us are simply unable to leave e-mail and the Internet behind. When we set out to dip our toes in a mountain of white sand and crystal clear blue water, shouldn’t the laptop and other tech gadgets be left at home? I say yes, but if you say no, then I may have the product for you – the solar beach bag.

Introducing “The Juice Bag”, a solar beach bag designed for the geek in you. It not only allows you to safely carry your laptop, cell phone, digital camera, iPod and other tech gadgets, but it also keeps them re-charged…via the sun. In a way, it’s an eco-friendly bag too. Instead of standard electricity, this heavy-duty solar beach tote incorporates a high-tech flexible solar panel that uses natural sunlight to recharge your batteries. And if you are traveling with kids, you’ll love the fact that you can shut them up with a portable DVD player or gaming system. Ahh, quiet at last. Now go take in the sounds of the surf.

Taking in the sounds of the surf is what I was trying to do when it rang...“Hey, what’s up? (pause) Well do they have that same shade of red in them? Because if they do you can always wear them with the first skirt to pull out that color.”

Are you fucking kidding me, I thought to myself. Her girlfriend is calling her on vacation to discuss what shoes she should buy? I’m sure there isn’t any such thing as a “life and death fashion crisis” that can’t wait until we get back. Besides, isn't that what the fashion police are for? Go call them. Ok, so I was annoyed. I hated the fact that I’m the tech whore in the relationship, but she was the one that couldn’t do without her most coveted gadget while lying on a beautiful island. I kept my mouth shut even though inside I wanted to pick that cell phone up and throw it. After it rang several more times in the next hour, even she started to get annoyed. I’m going to say what happened next is to be blamed partially on the countless fruity Bahama Mamas we were drinking and partially on the fact that I was feeling neglected. I’ll admit, I can be a baby sometimes when I feel someone isn’t giving me as much attention as I give them. I understand I shouldn’t use either of these excuses to excuse my behavior, but never the less, I am.

It rang once more. Before she could answer it and without saying a word, I picked up her cell phone and hurled it into the ocean. I laid back down on my stomach and closed my eyes. “Feel better now?” she asked. “I can’t believe you just threw my phone into the ocean, David! I was going to just turn it off.”

Me: “I’m sorry, I overreacted. But you’re smiling, so I know you aren’t THAT angry at me. I’ll buy you a new one when we get home, a better one even!”

Her: “I’m laughing so I don’t cry.”

At this point I feel like a real jerk and begin consoling her.

Her: “You’re so gullible. I was about to throw it into the water too, but I will take you up on a new one. Oh and just so you know, once this buzz wears off, I’ll probably be a little pissed.”

Me: gulp.

I later borrowed some kid's scuba goggles and went searching for the water-logged phone. And surprisingly, I found it! What are the chances of that? Of course it no longer worked. Let us remember this…unlike your Visa card, a cell phone you CAN leave home without it. Although not many of us do leave home without it and it seems we will no longer have to, thanks to products like “The Juice Bag”.

The Work Of A Photo-Realist Artist

I like freaky weird art. I find that I’m often drawn to it. The stranger it is, the more intrigued I become. Anything deep and out of the ordinary catches my eye. I enjoy trying to figure out what the artist was trying to say, as eccentric as it may be. I like coming up with my own personal interpretation to it, as well hearing how other people see it. It fascinates me and I think you can learn much about a person by the art they create and the art they posses or wish to posses.

To some, a picture is worth a thousand words. To others, a photograph fails to express the subject as much as a sculpture can. One London man has come to the conclusion that photography pretty much destroys the physical presence of the original object. Therefore he’s turned to fine art and sculpture. His name is Ron Mueck. He is referred to as a photo-realist artist and these are some of his latest creations. Simply amazing pieces!

Born in Australia to parents who were toy makers, he labored on children's television shows for 15 years before working in special effects for films. In the early 1990's, still in his advertising days, Mueck was commissioned to make something highly realistic. He wondered what material would do the trick. Latex was the usual, but he wanted something harder, more precise. Luckily, he saw a little architectural decor on the wall of a boutique and inquired as to the nice pink stuff’s nature. Fiberglass resin was the answer, and Mueck has made it his bronze and marble ever since.

A solo exhibition of Ron Mueck’s work was recently on display at the Brooklyn Museum in NYC. From New York to Paris, if you ever get a chance to see his work in person, be prepared to be blown away.

I Like Your Face, The Serenade

When a boy serenades his puppy first thing in the morning, is it time to call the mental help professionals? When a boy serenades his puppy in an old fashion Italian-style singing voice complete with violin backup in the back ground (correction - playing in his head), has it gone a bit too far? When said boy is actually an adult man who ends the serenade by kissing his little buddy’s smashed in nose and telling him he doesn’t just “like” his face, he LOVES it, is it wrong? I say it’s not, but I do feel that a certain puppy should show he was completely moved by the serenade. He should express his love and appreciation in a different manner, other than yawning in the serenader’s face. Of course it’s better than burping in my face, which he has done before when I tried to kiss his wrinkled forehead.

I’ll be honest, just like I’ll never win a Spelling Bee, I’ll also never be awarded a Grammy for my lovely singing voice. Although, maybe I’m a lyrical genius? Ok, maybe that’s not the case since I couldn’t even impress the dog, but I’ll let you decide. Here are the lyrics I made up on the spot…

I like your faaaaaace innnnnn the morning.
(hold out the "ing, then keep this same tone for each line)
I like your face at noon.
I like your face in the evening.
I like you face the whole day thru.

Perhaps sharing this silly/crazy side of myself with the entire World Wide Web isn’t the best decision I’ve ever made. Although, it can’t be any more embarrassing than the time my “kinda sorta not really girlfriend” caught me cuddling Diesel up and telling him I loved him. “Umm. Am I interrupting something?” she inquired in a tone that carried a note of sweetness mixed with shock and surprise.

I think she’s just kinda sorta (maybe really) jealous.

You Can't Judge A Book By Its Cover

They say you can’t judge a book by its cover. That you must open up to discover the story that lies deep within, the words that suck you in. The idea doesn’t just applied to reams of paper bound by leather. It applies to people as well. I imagine she spends her day sitting in a dusty library with only the sound of crinkly pages turning and the quiet mind-numbing hum of overhead fluorescing lighting. An effervescent musty smelling breeze meets the dim shadows that dance around every aisle corner. Alone with her own private thoughts and dreams, she reads. She dreams of doing what she loves, writing. She reads when she should write.

She has it twisted. She’s to be the author. She’s to be the signature. If she closes her eyes, maybe she can envision it like I do. Her name embossed in gold foil along the spine. Her face adorning the inside jacket. Her soul radiating brighter with every passing page. How good it would feel to get paid for doing what you love. To make a life out of your passion. When one has a talent, it should be embraced. It should be nurtured and allowed to flourish. It should be shared for the entire world to see. To call out saying, “hey I can write and this is me”…

Lulled by the bath-water warm air my head dips down and for the space of a few heartbeats I rest. My body shivers itself awake with a twitch. Again, leaden eyelids fight a losing battle to stay open and my chin sinks down to my breastbone. This jerky dance of not quite awake leaves my brain cottony and my mouth empty. I walk to the door, shaking my head in attempt to clear it.

I walk briskly, trying to find a breeze or create my own. My golden heels click on the small concrete paths. Sidewalks never widened to accept the girth of the new American. Walkways that remind me what New York looks like in movies. These streets were never gilded or paved with yellow brick. Rather they are grey with flecks of glass and sand making them sparkle in the sun. And abrade young knees like a cheese grater.

The streets are dark and leafy. Colors muted to shades of brown and black bearing only a shadow of their original brilliance. There are no streetlamps here.

I feel like I'm walking in a kaleidoscope. The leaves act as bits of glass, blocking what meager light remains. The gleam makes the environment more liquid than gaseous. I'm not sure whether I swam or walked, but my head was no clearer. I was in a fever dream of Manhattan, lost in a forest of brick brownstones and fluid light.

Stairways lead up to each impermeable brownstone. Everywhere are dark corners in which to hide and kiss. I remember walking here with Lucia; both of us all dolled up more for the world than for each other. I remember how we posed on stairways and kissed, and all I could think was what a good photo it would have been. What a pretty postcard we were.

The streets of the village braid in and around each other. They have no respect for the sensible grid of midtown. They loop and disappear, claiming pretty names and scant real estate.

The destination is my favorite bookstore. The shelves are jammed with original picks; the lighting is bright yet flattering, prices are excellent, and the folding tables outside hold unknown treasures. Doesn't hurt that it is across the street from Magnolia Bakery.

There is a line outside the famed confectionery. I ask the baker/bouncer who stands guard at the door whether they are closing. "Yes, we're closed. Good night" he tells me with a flash of white teeth in the dark night. "Oh, okay" I say, turning to cross the street.

"I was joking! Please, come in!" he yells an apology after me. I see that the bookstore is closing and wave a hand to him, "No, that's okay" I yell back.

My visit to the bookstore is brief. I don't want to keep them open late, so I leave quickly. As I exit the baker/bouncer is waiting for me. He calls out another apology, approaching this time. He wraps an arm around my shoulders,

"Please, I'm so sorry. Come in, I will give you a cupcake"

"Oh no, that's okay"

I get a whiff of the frosting on the humid summer air; the smell of sugar, butter, and fresh baking impossible to resist. I can feel vanilla butter cream melting on my tongue with a sandy crumble of dry cupcake.

"I don't have to wait in line?" I ask

"No, no of course not" He insists

"Well, okay"

Not only can this girl write, but she’s an excellent photographer and I just found out she’s an artist as well! A true triple threat. I wonder if she sees it that way? Perhaps I’m a little biased because I can’t help but be a fan of someone who not only shares a love for that sweet Magnolia depression-era icing, but also sees past the bright lights of the big city and has a true sweet spot in her heart for what makes New York the only place on earth I want to be. The quaintness of the Village and the charm of the Brooklyn brownstones. It's where I'll more than likely soon call home, the missing piece of me. The mixing of new and old. That is what makes NYC unlike any other place you’ve ever been. How could one not fall in love?

Today I celebrate Kira’s new blog by sharing a lick of that buttery cream frosting. Just like you can’t judge a book by its cover, you can’t judge a cupcake on its icing alone. So let me reassure you, her Cupcake post is just the icing, there is still an entire cake to devour and you can do so here at www.ohboykira.blogspot.com

And if don’t think Kira is a good writer, than you obviously don’t have any appreciation for a good book.

(Side Note: If you’re not familiar with the infamous “cakery”, then you are unaware that people wait an hour in line late into the night just for a bite of a cupcake that seems to of fallen from heaven. To receive VIP cupcake treatment is almost unheard of.)