Forever Holds Forth on ER and Clooney

For someone who does not have a job and really nothing else to do, my inability to keep a consistent blog is abominable and inexcusable. I am just going to cut to the chase: I have been watching an atrocious amount of television. And I mean that in the fullest sense of the word; the time I have spent staring at a two dimensional box is nothing short of an atrocity committed by someone who has been given the gift of life. And for that I am unapologetic, because it has been awesome.

The week and a half I spent with my parents only renewed the love/hate relationship I have with the show "Bones." I hate the fact that I watch such a terrible show, but I still love it in spite of myself. The good news is that my father told me that the simmering yet unresolved lust between Bones and Booth is supposed to spill over this season. Preparations for the viewing party have already begun.

More to the point, and the reason why I am writing right now, is that last night I watched the final episode of ER. I used to watch this show in grade school. Since then I have graduated grade school, high school and college, started a career, had a career, retired, and taken up inconsistent blogging. Through all of this, the show has kept a steady beat. Remarkable. While the cast has turned over at least twice on this show, the character I immediately associate with ER is that of Doug Ross, played by George Clooney in the show's first several seasons. Within months of the show's premier he was holding the world hostage with his good looks. When he buzzed his hair--probably the most basic and popular male hair cut ever--it immediately became known as the "George Clooney cut." So instrumental was he in the popularity of the show that when he announced he was leaving ER to embark on a film career I immediately forecasted the final season of the show. I was off by about a decade.

Impressively, Clooney's only role of note before the show was Jackie's love interest "Booker Brooks," on the television show "Roseanne." (I used to watch a lot of Roseanne when I was younger). ER launched his career and for that we should always be grateful. We rely on understatedly handsome, middle-aged white men to serve as the bedrock of pop culture. Without an alpha male, chaos would ensue. Think of American history without Bogart, Newman, Redford, Harrison Ford or Sean Connery. Who would have stepped into the breach if not Clooney? Brad Pitt is too pretty. Matt Damon's friendship with Ben Affleck has always dimmed his attractiveness. Eric Bana's career had yet to take off. We would have been leaderless throughout most of the 90s. I don't even want to think about the possibilities.

It should also be pointed out that George Clooney, from his television parts as Booker and Doug Ross, to every character he has played in film, has always had the role of a self-assured, roguishly attractive bachelor, i.e., himself. I say that without bitterness. I know there aren't a lot of roles for snarky, 20-something oafs without ambition, and I am ok with that. But this just goes to show you how powerfully attractive he is. Movie people just film him being him and we pay to watch. The allure is almost biblical, like we should turn into a pillar of salt if we turn our eyes to him. I have gotten way too sidetracked talking about Clooney, as tends to happen. Back to ER.

"Close your eyes when you look at me!"

While watching ER last night I did manage to note a few things. The first is that whenever it's raining, they always bring the patient out of the ambulance and then discuss the patient's condition while rain just pelts the injured person. Somehow this is the only hospital in the country without a covered ER dock and despite constant practice of offloading patients in thunderstorms, the staff still hasn't figured out that they can move the patient inside while asking if they're still alive or not.

Secondly, in case you missed it, Ernest Borgnine had a part. I thought he was long-since dead. The man is 92 and is still acting. He was actually born during World War 1. This is incredible. Somewhat heartbreaking, is the fact that he had to play a man whose very old wife was dying. Clearly there is a need for old actors to play old people near death, but at what point do you throw your hands up and say, "I get it. I'm going to die soon. Could I get a role where I am old and not dying....please?" And what sort of direction can you give in those scenes? "Mr. Borgnine, that take was good, but you seemed a little too coherent. Remember, you're almost dead. This take, try to look a little more confused, like your brain is turning to mush. But do keep in the back of your mind that all of your years on the Earth are soon coming to an end and everyone you've known or loved is long gone. But don't overdo it, because your character's brain at this age probably can't process deep thought. And....action!"

Also, Angela Bassett is a smoke show and she's over 50. I'm contemplating putting her on my Top 5 list, which would mean that 60% of my Top 5 would be over 40. (Maria Bello and Diane Lane being the other two mature women). In so doing I would be opening up a Pandora's Box of psychoanalysis that I don't think I am ready for. Anyhoo, it's Friday and I have to get off the couch, but I'll be back soon. I have 10 hours of West Wing coming through Netflix this weekend so I should have some thoughts on how to run a country for Monday.

St. Patty's Day, a Celebration of Drunks

I'm a few days late on this, but I have been meaning to ponder the allure of St. Patty's Day and the hilarity that the one day of the year we associate with Ireland is a day everyone uses as an excuse to drink. As a friend of mine once remarked, showing wisdom far beyond his years, "there are two things that always live up to expectations: sake bombing, and St. Patty's Day."

I can't think of another country that is so closely associated with a substance abuse problem. Certainly other countries have issues with narcotics. Alcoholics abound in every country and civilization across the globe and throughout time. Mongols used to ferment horse milk to chase a buzz. Can you imagine fiending for a hit of fermented horse milk? Today it's hard to think of a country like Colombia without thinking of cocaine, or Afghanistan and heroine for that matter. However, if I were introduced to a Colombian I wouldn't jump to the conclusion that they were a coke head. I would probably assume that they're an ultra violent drug dealer, but never an actual drug user. Same with Afghans.

Now I am not one to stereotype.* However, I will say that I have yet to meet an Irish person who failed to live up to the popular stereotype of the Irish. I lived with one for six months and she drank like a fish. The sound of her retching in my bathroom late at night woke me up on more than one occasion. On a weeknight we watched a two and a half hour movie together while she steadily plowed through several bottles of wine. She did not remember a wink of it the next day. And I don't mean the details of the movie, but being there at all. She actually asked me what I did that night. I'd often come down the steps in the morning to find Irishmen sprawled about the living room, face down, fully clothed, and completely unconscious. It didn't matter if it was a Saturday, Tuesday, or a Thursday. I was regularly treated to a ghastly display of liver warfare by her and her Irish friends who were all just as hellbent on achieving perpetual drunkenness. Of the six months I lived with her I can't think of one night that she was sober. I addressed this once with a coworker of mine who was also Irish who assured me it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Now, other countries certainly have their own stereotypes that we celebrate. The English have bad teeth, the French hate freedom, Canadians wish they were us, and the Russians lost the Cold War. Although that last one is more of a fact than a stereotype, it is still worth celebrating. But no country is so closely tied with a love for alcohol as is Ireland. Given the fact that all people everywhere like to drink, I think that is something to be proud of.

Well done Ireland, well done indeed.


*Complete lie. I use stereotypes, prejudices, and racial profiling in almost all aspects of my day-to-day. It serves as a good security measure at airports and also makes me feel good about myself.

FU Suffers Existential Crisis, Drinks with Old People

This past week has been an existential cyclone for FU. Coming to Florida in March one is hit with two modes of life that are polar opposites: spring breakers going wild, and the walking dead. The former are enjoying youth in all its carefree vibrancy, the latter are driving Cadillacs at 20 miles per hour whether they're in a parking lot or on a highway. And then there is FU, travelling the lonesome highway in between.

I am sorry if that sounded incredibly melodramatic. I'm trying to post while watching the tournament games and I am finding it incredibly difficult to stay focused. After only 8 games I think I am in last place in both pools I've entered without a hope of coming back, so I am finding myself questioning life. This shouldn't surprise people as I have had similarly bizarre tangents spurred by nothing more than chicken salad.

But Florida is somewhat of an alternate universe to an outsider. I was in the grocery store with my dad the other day and I was a full head taller than everyone else in the store. That afforded me an excellent view of the parking lot of grocery carts that consumed every aisle. Nobody moved with any semblance of having to be anywhere else. I think some people actually stopped and took naps standing up while shopping for peas.

When we finally got back to the house we were graced with a visit by my parents' neighbor who, at 2:00 in the afternoon on a Monday, was sloshed. And not the convivial sort of drunk, but rather the totally incoherent, you-really-shouldn't-drink-when-on-meds kind of drunk. I listened to him ramble for 20 minutes before he had to stumble back to top up his cocktail. I am not lying when I say that the only I thing I understood him utter in that entire 20 minutes was that someone got a paint job for a Bronco. And I couldn't even frame that nugget of information with any sort of story. I think a jet way and a ticketing agent were involved somehow, but trying to connect the dots taxes my brain more than I care to.

Somewhat taken back by this land of short, intoxicated seniors I decided to spend some time reading and not thinking about what was going on in the world around me. Unfortunately, the blender being used for the margarita mix made it difficult to focus on my book. My parents, seeing their neighbor as an inspirational figure, decided it was time for a potion. That was Monday and it hasn't stopped. In fact, there hasn't even been a slow-down since then. All week happy hour has started early and doesn't stop until bed time. I am astounded by how much older people drink, especially given the fact that nobody ever seems to get hungover. It's almost like I am witnessing a spring break for seniors....which makes the road ahead not quite so bad.

Then again, I am looking at a very long retirement...

FU

A "Maintenance Day" for FU

A belated St. Patty's day post. The reason for my tardiness is the same reason why right now most of America is walking in an hour late to work and cursing the last four beers they had last night. During my long and illustrious career, I would tell my boss that I had a lot of "maintenance" to do on days like this. I never really understood what exactly "maintenance" meant, but other people in the office used it all the time and so I just followed their lead. Think of Ron Burgundy saying "when in Rome" throughout Anchor Man. That was me, but instead I would try to look really stressed and then complain about being "up to my eyeballs in maintenance." I think it was supposed to mean catching up on emails, documentation, compliance, and general tasks that clients required that didn't result directly in the company earning money. Whatever it meant, it allowed you to retire to your office for the rest of the day and gave you an excuse for not coming out until 5:00. For me, a maintenance day was usually spent playing a Tetris game that was embedded in an Excel spreadsheet and catching up on ESPN articles that I hadn't had a chance to get around to that week.

So what happened on St. Patty's Day? Most people wear a green shirt and head to a bar where they try to drink themselves numb. If it's an Irish bar--something with a name like O'Something or McAnything--the whole ritual is leant an air of authenticity. But FU is currently in "God's Waiting Room" where 70% of the local population carries an AARP card in their wallet. So last night I did what old people do--I went to a dog track...with my parents. My parents apparently know what they're doing when it comes to betting on Greyhounds and in the excitement of their hot streak were buying beers after almost every race. By the time I got home I was ready to hit the sack, but my mom insisted on a nightcap. Next thing I know it's 1:00 in the morning and I am layed out on the floor listening to my mom mock me for having "the tolerance of a high schooler."

So even though we took different routes, I found myself in the same place as the rest of America this morning; in bed, dehydrated, and questioning my decision making. I'll do my best to make it back to you this afternoon with my original St. Patty's Day thoughts.

Stay Strong America-

Forever Unemployed

Clarification to "Bones" Reference

Just a quick clarification on a sidebar from yesterday's post. I commented on a future post regarding the "palpable sexual tension between Bones and Agent Booth." This was in reference to the television show "Bones." On the surface this statement could be a little confusing to an outsider as they picture an FBI agent getting together with a skeleton. In case any of my readers are not avid watchers, Bones is not only the name of the television show, but is also the nickname of the lead female character, Dr. Temperance Brennan. Despite her dry clinical language and seemingly shallow emotional pool, we can only suspect that she is a sexual dynamo. Her sidekick is an ubermasculine FBI Agent named Seeley Booth (see below). For some reason they haven't done the dirty yet and it keeps FU coming back for more.

Temperance "Bones" Brennan.....smokin'

I'll be back later today with more thoughts that are not related to TNT crime dramas.

How to Sterilize Shark's Teeth

As usual, I apologize for the delay in getting a new post up. I have been visiting friends and now family in Florida. A few years ago my parents figured they had reached the time in their lives where it was time to have a place in Florida. Being retired myself, I understand the impulse. Unfortunately, my cash flow right now resembles Enron's so I won't be following in my parents' footsteps. Anyway, during the dreary winter months, my parents escape the gloom of the Midwest by escaping to Florida--the state they affectionately refer to as "God's Waiting Room."

My parents have picked up some interesting quirks over the last several years. For one, they have a glowing love of the television show "Bones." If you haven't seen it, it's awful. Every episode features an outlandish crime that is solved incredibly easily by the forensics team. Unfortunately, I am also hooked on this show after watching 20 episodes with my parents over six days during Christmas. Despite my dad being largely unable to use most everything invented in the last 20 years, he has figured out how to DVR every episode of "Bones" that is replayed on TNT. The result is that he and my mom have frequent "Bones" marathons. This is how my family bonds. So after a few of these marathons I actually started liking these inane plots and characters. Now I can't live without them. One of these days I will treat the palpable sexual tension between Bones and Agent Booth in greater detail. For now, back to my parents.

Another somewhat bizarre development I witnessed earlier today. My parents have become collectors of shark teeth. They walk up and down the beach looking at the sand in the off chance that they find a stray shark's tooth. The first thing you're wondering is, how many shark's teeth are there on the beach? The answer is, apparently a lot. Today's stroll yielded 27. Apparently sharks are constantly losing teeth and growing new ones in their attempt at being the most terrifying creatures ever. If my parents, having already patrolled that section of beach numerous times, still come back with 27 teeth that despite 2/3 of the world's surface, found their way to a small beach in Florida, think about how many teeth must be out there and attached to ferocious, underwater, man-eating monsters. By the time we left the beach today I had already developed the beginning stages of a crippling phobia of the open ocean.

So what happens to these teeth that my parents devote several hours a day to finding? They go into a jar in the cabinet never to be seen again. In a separate jar my mom puts a random collection of sea shells that she also picks up on her shark tooth hunting trips. However, not before they are subjected to a sterilization treatment that would put any ER in America to shame. My mom boils the shells for 15 minutes. In chloride. I don't know why she is petrified of the germs on sea shells, but my mom is adamant in her treatment. I told her that 5 minutes would probably be sufficient and she would have none of it. Using water, as opposed to an industrial cleaning agent, was simply out of the question. But who am I to judge? Maybe after 40 more years of retirement I will be patrolling the beach every day and sterilizing everything I find.

I'll be back tomorrow with more. Happy St. Patty's Day America!

FU

A Cornucopia of Thoughts

While traipsing about Cambridge Square on an unusually mild Sunday, my roommate commented on the amount of seemingly questionable business ventures that had set up shop. There was a door store. Yes, a store that specializes in doors. Eureka! To the owner's credit it had appeared from some brief window shopping that the door store had diversified into kitchen tables and ceiling fans. Although I have to question the wisdom of this move since my first instinct when buying a kitchen table is not to look up a place called The Door Store.

There were also three shoe repair shops. I don't see many shoe repair shops, but I saw three within a quarter-mile of one another. This baffled me. I always figured the era of the cobbler was long-dead, having gone the way of the chimney sweep or the typewriter repair man. Am I in the dark here? Is a good shoe repair guy the same thing as having a good mechanic or talented accountant? Is it that common? Answer me readers!

We also spotted one tannery. Whether or not hides were actually tanned there could not be ascertained as they were closed on Sundays, but this certainly raises some of the same questions raised above.

Another store we came across was titled Bob Slate Stationer. The sign had Bob Slate's signature written above the block letter "Stationer." While a stationary store isn't that uncommon, I chuckled all day thinking about Bob Slate introducing himself to everyone as "Bob Slate, stationer." I couldn't get the image of him at a cocktail party out of my head. "Hi there, I'm Rick, Nancy's husband." "Hi Rick, name's Slate. Bob Slate...stationer."

I have consumed one jar of mayonnaise in one and a half months. I am disgusted with myself and wanted to share this fact with everyone. If I die tragically young you'll have a place to start when trying to determine cause of death.

On a similarly dark note, my friend who is in medical school felt the need to tell me after my "FU Does Not Have AIDS" post that overcoming a serious illness is indicative of someone who has AIDS. (I stated in my post that overcoming the flu was proof that I was AIDS free). Apparently I still have some leverage for landing the nickname 'Magic.'

I just finished a book on the run-up to the Iraq War that included an account of the CIA operations in Iraq in the late fall and winter of 2002/3. As part of the operation, the guy in charge had to be able to dole out large sums of money in cash and so had millions of dollars stuffed in duffel bags lying around his place. I think it was something like $37 million. In case anyone was wondering, $1 million in hundred dollar bills weighs 40 pounds and can fit into a backpack. There's no snarky comment there, I just thought that was interesting to know exactly how much $1 million was. However, one amusing tidbit was that after three months of paying the local opposition group exclusively in $100 bills, it soon came to dominate the local currency and hyperinflation set in. Apparently a cup of coffee couldn't be bought for less than $100 because nobody had any change. The CIA ended up having to smuggle in a few tons of cash in smaller bills over three truckloads. Again, there's no point here, just sharing.

One of my friends has suggested repeatedly that I incorporate pictures into the blog as a means of spicing up the delivery of its content. As a gesture that I am open to criticism and not oversensitive about people questioning my artistic decisions, I have decided to make an attempt to spice it up with some pictures.

On a totally unrelated note, I am no longer friends with that loser.

That's for you Joe.

Finally, I'll be traveling for the next 10 days or so which could mean some pretty irregular posting. Stay strong America, I'll be here.

FU