July 2007 Archives

"I'm really excited, I've never done one of these midnight movie openings before!" my friend Nicole told me on the phone Thursday night. I replied, "Yeah, I haven't been to one either...in like three weeks."

This time, it was The Simpsons Movie, a slightly different animal than Transformers. Indeed, the crowd gathering for the movie told you as much. Instead of the college kids and young males from 21-35 that made up the preponderance of the crowd at Transformers, the Simpsons seemed to be skewing slightly younger. Specifically, high school kids.

At the AMC-24 in Omaha, they do not stop you from bringing in outside food or beverages. Unlike most theaters that would probably deny your entrance if you dared to sneak in outside Junior Mints (the horror!), the AMC just looks the other way. In fact, you can walk in with a basket of food in plain sight and they don't even say a word. I'm serious.

I've always wondered if you could bring a cooler in. You're going to be there for a couple of hours, might as well pack some sandwiches, a few Coke Zeros.

Wednesday, I was standing in the lobby of the country club where the graphic design luncheon I was attending was taking place. One of Gilby's co-workers, who by coincidence just happens to be an old college buddy of Cliff Glypha's, came in. Stubbs plays volleyball in the 7:30 league -- right after our team -- and I'd seen him the night before, heckling our terrible loss in the third game. I tried explaining that he had to understand that we'd won the first two games and that we did not, in fact, suck, but he wasn't having any of it.

When I discovered after the game that Stubbs was friends with our opponents, I profusely apologized and asked him to relay the message to them. What for?

One of my teammates is a stickler for the rules, a real by-the-book type. Math people, stereotypically, are like that. Well, I'm not like that. Long story short, the other team was a player short, and planned on playing with three guys and two gals. According to the rules, you're not allowed to play with more guys than gals. Personally, I could give a flying f***.

But she tried to enforce it, and it made the other team pretty mad. She gave them two choices, to play with four people (two and two) or forfeit. They told her to stick it, played with five, and were pretty pissy when she said they then had to forfeit the games.

Monday night, I whipped up a batch of really, really ridiculously hot wings. I have no idea why. Usually too-spicy foods make me borderline-sickly. It just sounded like a good idea at the time, kind of like casting Jimmy Fallon and Queen Latifah in a movie together.

I guess I was cooking those wings because I was excited to watch the Twins game -- excited because they were playing in Toronto, and when that happens, I get to watch Canadian TV for a few hours. I'm a dork like that. The novelty of watching a Canadian TV station -- with Canadian commercials! -- made me excited enough to cook up really, really ridiculously hot wings.

As I was sitting down to watch the Rogers Sports Net telecast, Dick Herculanum called and asked if I wanted to meet the guys at the Homy Inn later that night. Sure, I said, not knowing that the wings were about to turn my stomach into a veritable punching bag.

I might be crazy, but I think I have the better deal watching Twins games on digital cable's Extra Innings package than people who get all the Twins games locally in Minnesota, even though I have to pay $150 a year for it. Why? Because they use the home team broadcast every game, meaning I get to watch local channels from across the country with their local commercials, which is kinda cool. And seeing the local broadcasts' graphics packages intrigues me.

Because I'm a guy, every time I take a trip somewhere, I time myself and see how fast I can get there. Its a personal race against myself. The most competitive races are always when I go back home because I've made the 164-mile trek hundreds of times, and with that big a sample size, my times run the gamut. My previous best had been 2:47, a time I thought would never, ever be beaten.

Now, when I first started making the Fort Dodge to Omaha drive 10 years ago, it took me just over 3:08 to accomplish in my old Buick Skylark. Over the years, I've shaved seconds from the time and as I've had better (read: faster) cars, trimmed minutes from the time. The better times generally come when I have to take a mammoth crap; this tends to make the pedal foot heavier. The 2:47 time, though, which had stood for a couple of years, came when I was racing my brother back.

Along the two-lane highway, we'd pass each other, be passed, rinse and repeat, for over 140 miles. When we hit I-29 and its luxurious four lanes (two in each direction!) we raced to the river. 2:47, an unbeatable time.

I always figured if I were to beat it, I could maybe, MAYBE do 2:45. Much quicker than that is insanity. Do the math:

164 miles, if you went 60 MPH and never slowed down or stopped, should take you 2:44. Of course, all those two-lane highways wind through small towns, and depending on the route, you'll have to stop at stoplights and slow down to 25 MPH around 15 times. Suddenly, you're looking at 3 hours. 65 MPH, which is 10 over the limit for 90% of the trip, makes up the difference. 2:47.

So its always seemed to me that 2:45 is probably the best you could do. I was wrong.

When I was 15, our family took a vacation out to Colorado, and while we were there, my parents visited some old friends of theirs who now lived in Denver. I remember this night vividly because the guy claimed to know John Elway. Apparently he worked for a company that had done some consulting work for Elway's car dealerships, and to further drive home the point that he knew him (probably because I wasn't as impressed as he felt I should have been) he showed me his office phone which had Elway's number programmed into it.

Big deal, you know John Elway and could call him at home. The fact that this was 1993 and he was still known simultaneously as the greatest one-man-team AND the guy who always lost in the Super Bowl did not play into my lack of being impressed. It could have been Joe Montana with his four rings on that phone and I'd have been no more impressed. I will admit that if had been Kent Hrbek or Kirby Puckett's number in his phone, I would have wished for a chance to talk to them, but I wouldn't be impressed by a guy who had their number.

I've thought of this story from time to time, and often wondered why a person would brag about knowing someone famous. Seems to me that once you do that, you become "that guy", riding someone else's coattails for personal gain.

Thursday night, I was out at the Nomad Lounge after work for some drinks with fellow designers; an event called 'The Mix'. Cliff Glypha opted to stay home and play Xbox 360 instead, Dick had family in town, and Continental was working late. Gilby was there though, along with about 25 other people. Shortly after I got there, a couple of ladies I'd met back in April at one of these events came in and stupidly, I didn't recognize them. I'd only talked to them for two hours, so its not like I should be expected to remember them. That seems to be a pretty unreasonable expectation, honestly.

"Hi, I'm Max!"

"You don't remember us?"

There is one more part to the story of our trip to Miami...and its probably the funniest part. I had to wait to tell you this, or to show you any of the photos, until I'd first shown them to Continental, which KILLED me while I was writing the three-part saga last month. I know what you're saying: how in the hell could there be MORE photos from Miami? And how could you have told a story in three parts and left out the best part?

I had my reasons. Just know that Act IV, my friends, is the "Secret Song" to this trilogy. The easter egg. Not a crappy secret song like the one at the end of Limp Bizkit's "Significant Other" album. A good secret song like the one at the end of U2's "Greatest Hits 1980-1990" album. Here's the backstory:

Before we left for Miami, we had a party at Continental's office while he was out of town. The purpose was to get photos of all of us wearing the Texas Flag sequin vest that we planned to give him -- and then include a photo album of those photos with the vest.

While we were at his office, the Fireman's Girlfriend decided to borrow Continental's Justin Timberlake bobblehead doll. I'm not going to get into the ins and outs of why he has a Timberlake bobblehead, but suffice it to say he does, and we borrowed it. She told me, "JT is coming to Miami with us!" I figured, that will be hilarious, right? For like five minutes, not a second more.

I have never been happier in my life to be wrong. And oh, was I wrong. W-R-O-N-G. JT came everywhere with us: through security at the airport, buckled into a seat on the airplane, to the bars, to the beach, to nightclubs, into bed, everywhere. And us being designers, we took photos of all of this.

Unfortunately, the first day's photos -- mainly the airport ones -- were lost forever when two Nebraska cameras were destroyed on the second night of the trip. Luckily, enough photos from our other cameras survived to tell the tale of JT in Miami.

This is a funky Flash photo gallery that I generated from Flickr, and I'm not entirely convinced its the best way to view these but what the heck, its worth a shot, right? Be sure to click the photo to read the captions. And now, without further ado, I present to you...JT Goes to Miami.

You bet.

Another post in the "Randomly Occurring Periodic Post About Something Design Related" series, to fulfill my Monthly Quota.

This might very well be the dopest Stop sign in the world. It has to be dominant for me to pull over and take a picture while on the highway -- because doing so cost me precious minutes off my self-competitive time. Truthfully, I'd spied this gem the previous trip and didn't pull over for that very reason, but this time I had no choice. Its just too good.

So I pulled over and it was only then I realized I didn't have my camera, because I'd loaned it to Mr. Continental Frutiger for his weekend trip to NYC. We were originally going to trade camera-for-camera, with him taking my pocket-sized Elph and me taking his giant-sized Rebel. Canon. Goulet. A big camera is great for big-camera things, while a pocket-sized camera is great for everything else, if that makes any sense. It doesn't? OK then, lets just move on.

We were going to trade one-for-one, but then the Fireman's Girlfriend took his camera instead, because she erroneously believed the status of a fancy digital Rebel would make her look more awesome at her high school reunion over the weekend. Well, I let her borrow Continental's because it would have been absurd for her to spend $700 for a camera just to show off. I can see Cliff Glypha rolling his eyes right now as he reads this, and it is hilarious. 

She had CF's blessing, don't get me wrong. And I didn't figure I would need the camera, or any camera for that matter. I didn't figure on encountering Hammertime.

A recent issue of Consumer Reports rated light beers. Their "Consumer Reports Best Buys" were a surprising trio: Busch Light, Natural Light and Keystone Light. These beers were rated as having the best combination of price and taste, which I can't argue with. Although I do have to question the motives of any reviewer who describes a beer as having "fruity and floral notes".

Incidentally, Bud Light was one notch above them, and Miller Lite was several notches below them. Michelob Ultra was the top.

I bring this up because Thursday night I ended my "American-style light lager embargo". For Pete's sake, that was a rather Machiavellian theory, wasn't it? Oh, but it worked. You bet it did.

Now that I'm back in Omaha, and its $1 beer night, that silly embargo had to be broken. And broken it was. Every Thursday home Royals game, $1 beers. Cheap beer and baseball, even if its between the top farm teams of two perennial losers (Cubs and Royals) is a damn bargain in my book. In any book, really. Well, any book that doesn't describe a beer as having fruity and floral notes. You bet.

My fights with inanimate objects are both legendary and numerous. There was the time I fought, Rocky IV style, with the shower at the Hotel Fort Des Moines that refused to switch from "tub" to "shower". There was the time in 10th grade that I wrestled a desk in Spanish class and was pinned in the second round. There was the time I hit a golf ball which ricocheted off a tree and smacked me in the head, at which point I attacked the tree before passing out. And on and on.

Generally speaking, its tough to incur physical battle damage when you fight an inanimate object. It is inanimate, after all, and therefore unable to inflict direct pain. Generally speaking.

Yet there it is, bulging from my forehead like the marble-like-sphere inside Douglas Quaid's face in Total Recall. A lump not quite as big as a Susan B. Anthony dollar, not quite as small as a penny. How did this happen, you wonder? Well, I was doing something that ranks between moderately and somewhat awesome, and that's going to have to suffice.

Much like my friend Nicole, I miss propaganda posters. Luckily, those rascal Iraqi insurgents have access to Photoshop. And no, it does not make one a bad American to say that. You bet.

I'll let her describe it, because she's better at this than me:

Now, I'll go on record as saying these may or may not actually be real. But because the thought of an Iraqi insurgent using Photoshop to turn George W. Bush into Rob Schneider is just too funny not to believe, I'm going to go forward with the assumption that they are real until someone proves me wrong. Keep in mind I'm discussing these on a purely design nature, and have no interest in the psychological warfare, anti-or-pro-war, or anti-American debates that could happen with these, because I simply don't think that's worth my time. Ahem. Now then...

Ladies and Gentlemen, its Spinal Tap and an Army of Basses, the finale of their excellent live set on Saturday at Wembley Stadium in London.

Only Spinal Tap could get the bassist for every band playing the UK Live Earth gig on stage at one time. Actually, only Spinal Tap would ever THINK of getting the bassist for every band playing the UK Live Earth gig on stage at one time.

When I heard this live on XM on Saturday, I was mildly amused at the thought of 20 or 30 bassists on stage. My friends, they say radio is the theater of the mind, but my imagination couldn't make this even HALF as awesome as seeing it.

At the time, I was fairly certain that none of the basses were plugged in, which I actually thought made it that much funnier. But then I thought that maybe they were going wireless to avoid tripping over each other's cords -- although the sight of 30 bass guitarists getting tangled up in each other's cords would have been hilarious.

Now though, I don't think any of them were plugged in, wirelessly or no. Can you imagine the hell that would be for the soundman? There's no way he could properly mix the sound from 30 basses in a studio, much less on the fly in a 70,000 seat stadium. It would be just one big sonic mess.

So I'm guessing the Army of Basses were not plugged in. Which makes the "jam" all the more ridiculous and therefore, hilarious.

My favorite line is when he introduces the drummer. "On drums, Scruffy Scuffleton. PRAY FOR HIM." I kept waiting for him to spontaneously combust and be replaced by a new drummer in a cloud of smoke. That wouldn't be going to 11, it would be going to 12. And we all know the amp only goes to 11.

You bet.

Monday night, Transformers was released into theaters and of course, I was there for the midnight show. Not because I'm a huge Transformers guy -- as I've said previously I never really got into them much as a kid -- but because of the anticipated freak show among the fanboys at the movie.

As Cliff Glypha so acutely put it, "I'm expecting at least one dude tonight dressed as Optimus Prime made out of cardboard boxes. And it won't be me."

What? A Transformer made out of cardboard boxes? Well, they do exist, although these are pretty exxxxtreeeeeeme examples. Personally, I prefer the "Strong Bad" style costume in this video. Big hands and felt, baby.

Anyway, Glypha went and bought tickets for us over his lunchhour on Monday, so that all we had to do was show up an hour before showtime and get a good seat. Dick Herculanum and I rolled in just after 11pm, and the fanboys were already lining up. I thought I saw a dude in a Transformers mask, but before I could verify it we saw Glypha who, of course, was wearing an Autobots t-shirt.

"So you're 'That Guy' tonight, aren't you?" Dick yelled to him from halfway across the lot. "You're the guy at the Metallica concert wearing the 'Master of Puppets' shirt."

"That's right bitches. I don't even care. Its Transformers!"

Nice.

Might as well cut right to the chase here: the iPhone, when you get a chance to play around with it for real, is a revelation. Until you try to make a phone call, that is. In Omaha, at least, the iPhone then becomes a $600 paperweight.

Saturday night, I was out on another of my disastrous first dates with a new lady friend, and things were not going well. Ordinarily, I wouldn't take the unprecedented step of a first date on a weekend. A weekend night is a big commitment, but I made an exception in this case. This is neither here nor there, however. Just a clarification.

So anyway, during the concert I leave to go to the bathroom between bands. When I come back, I catch her with her phone out IM'ing people, probably telling her friends that her date is the lamest guy in the history of western civilization, and to please rescue her. Her phone: an iPhone.

I did what any self-respecting man would do in this situation: I asked about the phone. "You have an iPhone?"

"Yeah, I left Alltel for AT&T just to be able to use it, and the phone is junk."

Its junk? Really?