Spranda Factory

While at breakfast with my roommate this weekend, I was reminded of my favorite lesson in love…the lesson of Superman II.  My roommate was complaining about the latest in a series of different women’s attempts to “settle him down.”  “Why can’t they just let me be me?” he griped.  “I’m not going to change, and I tell them that right from the beginning.”  At this point I had to remind him that this kind of thing happens to the best of us…even Superman.

Remember Superman II?  It was the one with the three super-villains from Krypton, where Lois Lane finally finds out that her buffoon of a co-worker, Clark Kent, is actually the Man of Steel.  Lois immediately blurts out “I’m in love with you” and Superman sweeps her off her feet, flying her away to the Fortress of Solitude, presumably to close the deal.  Now what happens next is where things go horribly awry.  Superman, who finally looks like he’s about to get laid, decides that he loves Lois so much that he is willing to give up all of his powers so that the two of them can run off and live together like Ozzie and Harriet.  You would think that Lois would derail this bullshit train before it ever hit the tracks but instead she does something completely bizarre.  She lets him do it!  Let’s rewind for a second here and remember that Lois Lane never even liked Clark Kent.  She allegedly was in love with Superman.  But now that she has him within her grasp, she knows that a more docile and pliable Clark Kent would be easier to hang onto than the glamorous and mighty Superman.

So, a now powerless Superman and Lois somehow make it from the Fortress of Solitude to a roadside diner where Clark proceeds to get his ass owned by some cracker in a flannel shirt.  Adding insult to injury, while Clark is lying in a bleeding heap on the floor, patent-leather jumpsuit wearing super-criminal Zod appears on television, calling out Superman.  Clark, in the first smart thing he’s done since the movie started (he should have let that dumbass kid fall at Niagra Falls…you know that undisciplined little monster will grow up to get drunk and drive over a bunch of school children) realizes that he somehow needs to get his powers back.  And what is Lois’s response to this wise decision?  “You can’t.”  Um…WHAT?  Fuck you he can’t!  Lois would rather we all live under the yoke of the mighty Zod than deal with her insecurities and let Superman be who he was born to be…fucking Superman.

Fortunately, this story has a happy ending.  Superman gets his powers back and ruins Zod’s shit.  But in the real world this story does not always have a happy ending.  Ladies, I know we can be a handful.  We do a lot of crazy shit that you don’t understand and I sympathize with your plight.  But if you fall in love with a guy, let him be that person you fell in love with.  And if the person you fell in love with is a colossal prick…well then that’s probably the kind of guy you like and if you changed him into a good dude you would lose interest and kick him to the curb anyway.

Minor behavioral adjustments…those are usually required on both sides of a healthy relationship.  But taking away someone’s super powers out of fear of losing that person?  Well that’s the kind of shit that makes you strip off all of your clothes, hang out in your neighbor’s bushes, and bark at the moon.

Seriously, what the hell is with all of the beeping noises coming out of these things?  I don’t need a gas pump to emit an annoying chirping ruckus every two goddamn seconds.  I need a gas pump to pump my gas.  As if filling up the gas tank didn’t already feel like a soul-crushing life tax, the genius executives who own these stations install pumps that have to remind you of the ass-rape you’re suffering by incessantly beeping at you.

NO…I do not want a fucking car wash by that old-school bristle-brush, scratch-your-paint, antenna removing, car torture chamber.  NO…I do not want a receipt so that I can stumble upon it later on and get depressed about how the cost of gas is driving me to the poor house.  NO…I do not need you to continuously beep at me while you’re waiting for me to start pumping my gas.

A gas pump should beep only when a button is pressed.  That’s it.  I’m trying to decompress from work.  Please just let me pump my gas in peace.

This one is for all of the ladies out there who live in or visit the South Bay.  My girlfriend told me this story today and it completely blew my mind.  Yari Clothing in Hermosa Beach sells clothes that fall apart and then doesn’t allow you to return them five days later.  My girlfriend bought a $38 sweater from this place and when she got home and put it on to wear, she noticed that the sweater had small tears in BOTH pockets.  So she tries to take the sweater back today and was given a big “Fuck You” by the manager at Yari’s store here in Hermosa.  No cash back.  No store credit.  Nada.  All because she took the tag off before she wore it and noticed the tears.  Their explanation was, “well you could have just worn this out, ruined it and now are returning it.”  Uh…ok.  Let’s assume for a minute that this is true, which it isn’t (I was with her when she discovered the tears).  If you sell someting that tears after being used once then that product is straight up DEFECTIVE.  Accept the return, apologize, offer store credit, keep your customer and DO THE RIGHT THING.  Not to mention the fact that you’ve just accused your customer of being an unsavory liar, which is one of the biggest dick customer-service moves on the books.

This kind of nonsense just doesn’t make any sense to me, especially given the fact that the economy is in the toilet and that most folks have cut way back on personal spending.  A company is willing to lose a semi-regular customer, and all of the potential customers she knows, over $38.  Um…what?

My logical conclusion to all of this is that this situation must happen all of the time with these jokers.  Their clothes are just poorly made and fall apart.  It’s why they’re so inexpensive and why their return policy is so preposterous.

Buyers beware.  It may look great in the store, but what good will that be when your new dress starts to fall apart the first time you wear it out?  Unless you own a sewing machine, you’re better off spending a couple bucks more and buying your clothes elsewhere.

We love and support our local businesses here in Hermosa Beach.  But when these businesses sell defective merchandise, don’t stand behind their products, burn the locals, and accuse their regular customers of being liars, then those businesses can go spin.

Enjoy your $38.

Read the full complaint on Yelp.

The next time you’re feeling down, I highly recommend smoking a fat one and listening to “Day-O” by Harry Belafonte.  There is magic in this jam that the sober mind is totally incapable of comprehending.  It’s the kind of magic that turns the energy of the universe right-side up when things are out of alignment.  For most of my life I despised this song but that was because I had yet to discover the secret pathway into it’s warm embrace.

For those who do not believe me, I suggest a field trip to Nes Cafe in Amsterdam, Netherlands.  Find the jukebox.  Play the song.  Watch the bar patrons.  You haven’t lived until you’ve watched a room full of stoned, drunk Dutchmen tallying their bananas.

What’s under the rock?  Magic baby…pure magic.

Los Angeles – City resident Sonny Kipgen finally found a good song to listen to on the radio after an epic forty-seven day search.  Kipgen reluctantly undertook his quest after listening to The Ramones, “Rocket to Russia” CD for the twenty second time in five days.  “I just couldn’t listen to ‘We’re a Happy Family’ one more time and was looking for a little variety,” Kipgen explained.  “I really didn’t plan on it being such a hassle.”  So began a quest that would drag on for over a month and a half as Kipgen filled his commutes with non-stop button mashing and channel surfing.  “I used to just listen to Indie 103.1, but then they turned into a lame KROQ knock-off and then, finally, left the air.  I also used to listen to KCRW, but with the economy in the tank that just got to be too damn depressing.”  The search finally came to an end this Friday afternoon when Kipgen stumbled upon Bruce Springsteen’s cover of Jimmy Cliff’s “Trapped” on 95.5 KLOS.  “It was an incredible relief.  I was starting to worry that I might have to give Katy Perry a second look.”

Kipgen’s complaints have long been echoed by a majority of Los Angeles’s non-fourteen-year-old girl residents – a demographic prized by local advertisers for their often frivolous spending of weekly allowance money.  When asked about his ad buys on local top-forty station KIIS-FM, local Mercedes-Benz dealer Marc Dobic was quick to point out the station’s high ratings.  “A lot of people listen to that station.  Why would I buy ads on a station with lower ratings?”  When asked how many high school girls recently purchased a new Mercedes-Benz from his dealership, Dobic appeared confused.  “I don’t think any.  Why do you ask?”

Meanwhile, the city’s young professionals are left feeling largely ignored.  “There just isn’t anything out there for guys like me,” lamented 27 year old marketing executive Ethan Barclay of Irvine.  “I used to love KROQ when I was in high school, but if I hear one more Green Day song this week I’m going to drive my new Lexus into a wall.  I think I’m just going to buy an iPod adapter and satellite radio.  It’ll cost a few bucks but I’m a young, single professional  I’ve got plenty of money to spend right now.”

When asked if he would take up the search again next week, Kipgen could only shake his head in despair.  “If only I were an Akon fan.  Those people must be having a great year.”

It blows my mind that there are adults on the loose out there who still don’t wash their hands after going to the bathroom.  Seriously, what is wrong with you?  I don’t know where your dick has been.  In fact, when it comes to your personal hygiene, I already know that you don’t wash your hands.  God only knows how thorough you are when washing your junk.  Somehow, I doubt things are spic-and-span down there.

Worse than not washing your hands is the move where you rinse your hands with water and pass on the soap.  Great idea.  Why not take the funk that had been stuck to your hands, get it wet, then smear it on the faucet handles and the bathroom door.

The problem here is that some jokers think their dick is impervious to germs or that through some black magic the toilet paper they use possesses special disinfecting properties.  This is why venereal disease is such a problem in this world.  It all starts with some jackass thinking “I’m clean” meeting another jackass who thinks “I’m invincible” and then PRESTO…enjoy your syphilis.

You’re a grown up now.  Wash your hands.  Use soap.  It will take no more than thirty seconds of your time and will keep us from getting your ass on our hands.

Man, I feel so much better about myself today.  Since Dancing With The Stars first took off, I have never for the life of me been able to understand why some people (married men, I’m looking at you) enjoy watching this show.  Listening to some of my older colleagues at work talk about this show in staff meetings used to completely blow my mind.  I mean here were heterosexual men talking about c-list celebrities prancing around a ballroom like Peter Pan the way me and my buddies talk about the NFL draft.  Naturally, I concluded that these gentlemen were simply “taking one for the team” on the marriage front; that they had no real interest in the show but were simply playing the compromise card and had inadvertently gotten caught up in the nonsense.  That was before last night.

While putting the finishing touches on yesterday’s post, I turned on my television for a little background noise.  I find the banal drone of the television to be particularly…inspirational while writing.  After a quick flip through the channels, I stopped at the sight of a sweaty fat man dressed up like a 1950′s era doofus, clumsily gyrating with a woman half his age and wearing one-third the amount of clothing.  Wondering who this big bastard was, and thinking that something tragic could happen at any moment (how we define “quality television” here in L.A.), I put down the remote control to watch this horror unfold.  A quick Google search revealed that the fat man in question was Steve Wozniak, co-founder of Apple…I didn’t know he was a celebrity, but ok.  Now I probably should have mentioned this earlier but I had never actually seen Dancing With The Stars before last night.  I, having always fancied myself to be a bit of a man’s man, could think of few worse tortures than watching a bunch of showbiz rejects dress up in fancy costumes and twirl around a dance floor.  However, being the pop-culture connoisseur that I am, I felt that this might be a proper time to finally find out what all the fuss is about.  After all, I had read online that Steve-O from Jackass was a contestant and I harbored an ever-so-small hope that he might finish a big routine by launching a bottle rocket out of his ass.

The bottle rocket never came.  In fact he didn’t even dance because the damn fool did a flip during rehearsal and landed on his mic pack, injuring his back.  (He really couldn’t see that one coming?)  However, after watching a good half-hour of the show, the pieces started to fall into place.  I don’t know a polite way to say this, but it’s a total stroke show.  It’s a bunch of hot, uber-flexible, scantily-clad, professional female dancers with absolutely insane bodies, letting washed-up dudes grope and spin them around.  Before seeing the show, I had always assumed that these gals were heinous and wore big fucking ball gowns…but this couldn’t be farther from the truth.  And as if the outfits these dancers wear during the routines aren’t revealing enough, Dancing With The Stars shows clips of the rehearsals where these girls are wearing even less.  This one girl, who is partnered with former free-basing linebacker Lawrence Taylor, was rehearsing bra-less and could barely keep her boobs in her top.  It was seriously one of the hottest things I’ve seen on television in a long time.

The answer is clear.  Dancing With The Stars is soft-core pornography for guys who aren’t allowed to have pornography in the house.  The genius behind this is how covert it all is.  Women are so thrilled that their men are enjoying the show that they don’t bother to question it and the ones who do know what’s up are happy to ignore it.  Hell, it probably does wonders for their love lives.

There you have it.  Another one of life’s little mysteries solved.  Man…I feel so much better now.

Los Angeles – Drivers traveling northbound on the 405 freeway this morning were left in stunned disbelief when BMW enthusiast Steve Rensin, 33, engaged his turn-signal and checked his rear view mirror before changing lanes.  The move marks a deep break in policy with other Los Angeles area BMW owners, whose penchant for speeding and cutting off other drivers is well known.  “At first I thought he had accidentally hit his directional while reaching for his Blackberry,” witness Sonny Kipgen recalls.  “But then when I pulled along side of him he was just watching the road, driving with both hands on the steering wheel.  He even gave a thank-you wave to the car that let him in.  Amazing!”

Not everyone welcomed Rensin’s bold decision.  Witness and BMW owner Alex Cox was among those who did not approve.  “I was drinking my Latte and texting my assistant, to let her know that I was going to boot camp and would miss the staff meeting, when I see this asshole pull that stunt.  I thought maybe he had suffered a stroke or something and was going to wreck”  Cox credits his extreme speed with avoiding an accident.  “I was doing about seventy-seventy five which ain’t easy in rush-hour traffic.”  Asked if it was worth the risk of causing an accident or getting a ticket, Cox sounded incredulous.  “If I’m late for boot camp I have to do fifteen pushups so…you know.”

The other day an acquaintance of mine was griping to me about a couple of traffic tickets he got within the span of a week. One was for using his cell phone while driving, the other was for running a red light. He was carrying on about how much money this was going to cost him and acting all depressed. I wanted to slap him and shake him by the shoulders and yell, “Then don’t run red lights and use a headset for your cell phone!”  Thank God you got those tickets.  Maybe now you’ll stop driving like an asshole.  People who talk on their cell phones while driving piss me off.  Assholes who run red lights risk killing someone because they need to get wherever there going thirty seconds sooner.  Fuck’em.  I cheer inside when people tell me they got a ticket for doing stupid shit.

A similar, related issue is people who generally have a crappy attitude about life or are just plain lazy who throw public pity parties because, surprise, life has dealt them yet another shitty hand.  Here’s an idea.  Stop acting like a depressed teenager and get your fucking act together.  Not to get all Tony Robbins on you, but I once heard somewhere that “gratitude is the best attitude.”  Maybe take a look around and appreciate all of the shit that you have instead of whining to me (or some other poor sinner) about all of the things you don’t have or are too lazy to go out and work for.  My complaints department is already fully booked with people who are actually being proactive in trying to improve their lot in life.

Look, I know tickets are a drag and that sometimes life can suck. But I really don’t care when the problems are due to your own laziness or stupidity.  Stop acting like a goddamn victim.  YOU brought this onto YOURSELF and YOU have the power to fix your issues.  You reap what you sow in this life.  Unless you are telling me about the positive changes you are making to reverse your sorry state, I don’t want to hear about it.  I have my own problems.

I just saw a commercial for something called the Spyder Roadster.  It’s some kind of ass-backwards tricycle for cowards who can’t hang with two wheels and fools who think that a third wheel “makes it safer.”   Not since the Segway has there been a more pointless method of transportation.  Hey folks, riding one of these ain’t cool.  In fact it’s the automotive equivalent of Dungeons and Dragons.  Fellas, women aren’t going to look at you on your tricycle and say, “Ooh, I want to get on the back of THAT…thing.”  No, it will just be you standing there in your thousand-dollar riding “outfit,” parked in front of Johnny Rockets waiting for some vacationing rube to notice your…vehicle.

If you must get a trike.  Get one of these…

Let's eat some mushrooms and RIDE!

This is what three wheels should look like.  Otherwise, buy a motorcycle or stay in your cage.  Stop with the nonsense already…Spyder Roadster…humph!