The following statement was released from the owner and operator of Ski Land, which rented a Jet Ski to Chris Brown on Miami Beach last week. Find it on the Perpetual Post on Tuesday.
“Ski Land and its affiliates are extremely saddened and distressed by the way in which the Jet Ski we provided to Chris Brown made him appear to be enjoying himself in Miami last week. As the owner and operator of Ski Land, Miami’s premier Jet Ski rental facility, I would like to apologize for this oversight. It was never our intention to harm the reputation of a valued customer, and we are deeply sorry to have caused Chris Brown to suffer due to the reactions of those who saw him having fun while riding our Jet Ski.
Please remember that although the celebrated musical star may have seemed to be smiling while riding his Jet Ski, Ski Land and its affiliates did not intend for the exhilarating sensation of skiing on top of water to interfere in any public way with Chris Brown’s emotional state, which, surely, was one of great remorse and contrition, pending the outcome of his current situation.
In Chris Brown’s defense, in my ten years of owning and operating Ski Land, I have yet to see a customer who did not smile at least once while riding one of our fine Jet Skis. Chris Brown faced nearly insurmountable odds against not enjoying himself that sunny afternoon in Miami, particularly since his plans for the rest of the evening included drinking, partying, and other penitent activities which he was clearly looking forward to not enjoying due to his profound remorse.
It is our sincere hope that with the help of his pastor, who, according to the Brown’s legal team, was Jet Skiing alongside him, Chris Brown will be able to face the difficult times ahead, while perceptibly displaying what we all know are his true feelings of heartfelt sadness and regret.”
I took on Rachael Ray in last week’s issue of the Perpetual Post. In case you missed it, find it here, along with Akie’s rebuttal.
You can find my argument in favor of generic cereals in the latest edition of the Perpetual Post, here.
Howard’s rebuttal can also be found there. The man loves his corn pops.
An article I wrote recently decrying the decision to revoke the blanket text-to-speech option on the Kindle 2, as well as Steve Murphy’s Kindle musings can be found on the Perpetual Post here!
Below is a sneak-peek at my next article for the Perpetual Post, in response to Bobby Jindal’s remark last week: “Volcanoes Should Be Monitored”. Howard’s rebuttal: “Volcanoes: Free Market!” can be found here.
VOLCANOES SHOULD BE MONITORED!
The idea that volcano monitoring is wasteful spending is ludicrous. This statement, made by Governor Bobby Jindal after the President’s televised speech to a joint session of Congress last week, was witnessed by millions-which in itself is extremely dangerous. Not only do volcanoes need to be monitored, but they need to KNOW that they are being monitored, so they don’t get any ideas.
Americans are a fussy, over-attentive people. We monitor our blood sugar, our lavish houses, and our sleeping babies-and none of those things, with the possible exception of the babies, have the potential to release explosive clouds of noxious fumes and ash into the atmosphere, followed by torrents of deadly molten lava. (Even if the babies do release clouds of noxious fumes, they are unlikely to level an entire village.)
The careful observation of unpredictable and potentially devastating natural energies gives our government the chance to avert catastrophes and save countless human lives. And even in situations where natural disasters are unpreventable, officials can still react quickly and efficiently to avert a crisis-that is, if the government feels like bothering, and has the time to intervene. Sometimes, it’s a little busy, and people need to take care of themselves.
Sure, $140 million may seem like a lot of money to spend on volcano monitoring, but citizens should keep in mind that the technologies used for surveillance are constantly developing and improving. In fact, in recent years, modern strategies have included encouraging volcanoes to join online social networking sites. This is a tremendous help to volcano monitoring teams, since it gives them up-to-the-minute information on certain volcanoes. They know immediately which fiery craters were at Mount Kilimanjaro’s New Year’s Eve party, and which are in a bad mood because Studio 60 got cancelled. Status messages such as, “Mount Shasta is feelin kinda restless and explodey lately“, or “Mauna Kea is watch out people!” are invaluable, as they tell us precisely, in a crater’s own words, what we may be able to expect from it. Learning through Facebook that, “Mount St. Helens can’t remember the last time I tasted a virgin’s blood…hint, hint!“, tells volcano monitors that they’d better get moving and scare up a few virgins to placate that particular volcano.
Which leads to my final point: Without keeping tabs on volcano activity, how will we know when the Gods are angry with us? Who will tell us that Pele is pleased, or that Keuakepo is in the mood for revenge? Clearly, no price is too high for volcano monitoring.
The newest issue of the Perpetual Post is up at midnight on Tuesday. My argument this week defends A-Rod’s choice to inject steroids he received from his cousin. Find it and the opposing view here.
Blood is thicker than steroidy water.
Many years ago during a visit with family, my great-uncle told us he’d like to make dinner for everyone. On the menu? An extremely spicy stir-fry dish. My mother pulled me aside for a brief discussion prior to the meal. At the time, I was a notoriously picky eater, and she was worried that I would embarrass her at the table in front of our relatives.
“Listen to me,” she hissed. “I don’t care what he makes; I don’t care if you don’t like it. YOU. WILL. EAT. IT. No matter what. Understand?” I understood. And at dinner, I choked the meal down politely, although my mouth was on fire. It’s a well-known if unspoken rule that you should be on your best behavior around extended family, particularly if you don’t see them often. If they give you a birthday present you’ll never use, take you to see a movie you hate, or recommend that you ingest an unidentified substance, who are you to rock the boat? They’re family!
It is thus not difficult for me to appreciate why A-Rod allowed his cousin to inject him with an unidentified substance-he was clearly being polite. To refuse the offer would have been unconscionably rude, not to mention weak, because it would have meant missing out on strength-building steroids. At the very least, Rodriguez would have risked being grounded.
Without a doubt, Alex Rodriguez found himself in a complicated situation with this particular cousin. Still, I understand why he did what he did. Some questions have no easy answers, particularly questions that start with, “Do you want to hit the ball further? Here, give me your butt.”
Really, what was he supposed to say to his cousin that fateful day and then twice a week for three years after that? “What are you injecting into my ass?” Or perhaps, “Some substances are banned by the Major League Baseball Players Association and my career could be ruined if I’m discovered using them, so maybe this is a bad idea?” How would THAT have sounded? Imagine the lack of trust-in his own flesh and blood!-that such a reaction would have implied? It would have broken his mother’s heart to know that she raised the kind of son who would look a gift syringe full of mystery liquid-gift in the mouth.
Why don’t we also insist that Alex tells his Grandma Ethel that he actually hates her Noodle Kugel? How about we make him tell his Aunt Janet that he never wears the snowflake sweater she knitted him for Christmas? How about that? When it comes to standing up to family, where do we draw the line? Alex didn’t know-but can we really blame him?
In a way, A-Rod’s choice was admirable-he chose to follow his family over following the regulations which governed the sport that rewarded him with an extremely successful career. A-Rod knew which side he wanted to be on. After all, you don’t spend Christmas with the Major League Baseball Players Association. And do you think they give a damn about your vacation slides? In a world where it sometimes seems like people will do anything to get ahead, thank you, Alex Rodriguez, for reminding us that family should come first.
(The latest issue of the Perpetual Post is up at Midnight on Monday. Here’s a sneak peak at my anti-mall article. Read both sides of the story here.)
I’ve been trying to figure out a way to express my intense dislike of malls without coming off looking like a huge snob, and I have to admit, I’m having some trouble. I just really hate chain stores, pregnant teenagers and food courts, and that pretty much runs the gamut of the mall experience in a nutshell.
I’d like to think that my anti-mall stance comes from a place of self-preservation rather than elitism. It’s not that I think I’m too good for the mall; it’s that for some reason I lack the means to protect myself from the mall. I let the mall get to me too easily. The mall oozes over my brain like melted cheese over a hot pretzel. I am powerless to stop it, and so I do my best to avoid exposure.
I have always been a little oversensitive– prone, since childhood, to bouts of melancholy that often seem to come out of nowhere. These depressive spells can be triggered by the most seemingly insignificant details– and somehow, malls are always swarming with such details. A woman in her fifties trying on pink stretch pants at Hot Topic. A dead-eyed teenage employee slumped behind the counter of a cell phone kiosk. A store that sells only baseball caps. Most normal, well-adjusted people will witness such depressing occurrences and move on without giving them another thought. But not me. I’ll spend five minutes watching a teenage father, in headphones, trying to quiet a screaming baby by feeding it chicken nuggets, and I’m ready to tear my hair out at the miserable agony of life. And then I’m ready to have some chicken nuggets.
Needless to say, I am not a popular mall companion. No one usually asks me to go to the mall with them more than once. I feel bad about this to a certain extent. I wish I could be the fun friend who says things like, “Hey, check out that cute security guard! Let’s get curly fries.” Instead, I trail gloomily behind you like Eeyore, mocking the “Just Nightgowns” store and sneering at all of the slow, obese children. I can’t blame my friends for leaving me at home. Who wants to browse Forever 21 with Droopy Dog? What’s pleasant about wandering through Crabtree & Evelyn with a Chekov character?
Part of the problem may be the lack of mall exposure in my youth. Growing up in Manhattan, there was a dearth of malls. We had big department stores that took up a whole city block, like Macys and Bloomingdales, but that wasn’t really the same. Mom took me to get my first training bra at Macy’s. Groups of teenagers didn’t hang out at Macy’s all day and make eyes at each other across the Home Goods and Bedding aisles. Macy’s was not cool.
As teenagers, we had to find other ways to entertain ourselves, and these included going outside between stores while we shopped. Sure, it was cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and when it was raining out we got rained on, but we also experienced sunlight and breathed in fresh air (well, Manhattan fresh), and avoided food courts. And somehow, I recall encountering fewer massive people in motorized wheelchairs and underage parents walloping their ratty children for spilling their Big Gulps.
We hung out at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, too, which was kind of like a mall in a way, except it was closer to George Romero’s version of a mall in Dawn of the Dead. That is to say, every third person in Port Authority would just as soon stab you as look at you, for various reasons. But, you know, there were shops and restaurants, and a bowling alley, and an ever-present urine smell. I always kind of liked Port Authority Bus Terminal, actually. Maybe it’s because there, the feeling of sadness and desperation is not hidden like it is in most malls. It’s out in the open; even palpable. The sense of danger and despair, the commerce and the crowds, the ugliness and the monotony and the meaningless passage of empty hours; all in plain sight. Maybe I don’t hate malls after all– as long as they’re done right.
Below is a sneak peek at this week’s Perpetual Post, which goes live tonight. I am debating Ted Berg on the relative hotness of actor Christian Bale. You can find his side of the argument here.
Christian Bale: May be Batman, but he lacks Bat-Game:
It’s all too easy for me to picture a scenario in which I am forced to fend off Christian Bale’s amorous advances. The effortlessness with which I can imagine such an encounter leads me to feel strongly that it is not only a plausible chain of events, but a likely one. Any day now, our paths will cross and I will be forced to make the difficult but unavoidable decision to tell Christian Bale, “Thanks, but no thanks to sex with you.”
I don’t relish rejecting Christian Bale’s hypothetical advances, but reject them I theoretically will. Certainly I would be excited to meet him in person, and flattered by his speculative interest, but it takes more than scruffy facial hair and washboard abs that go on for days to turn my head. It’s nothing personal, of course. I would hate for the popular actor, with his boyish good looks and brooding gaze, to feel insulted by my predetermined refusal to consider a sexual encounter with him if or when the opportunity presented itself. Hopefully I can help Christian Bale to see things my way in order to mitigate any hurt feelings or ego bruising. After all, I hear he has a bit of a temper, and I’d prefer to be on his good side, even as I remain outside his pants.
I’m sure it’s not hard for Christian Bale to understand that I’m merely looking out for my best interests in preemptively refusing to consider engaging in potentially demanded future sexual activities with him. If it helps any, I’ll try to take some of the sting out of my anticipatory rejection by advising him that he’s in good company. There’s a pantheon of other actors I’d probably prefer not to sleep with if given the chance, whose hallowed ranks include Zac Efron, Gary Sinise, that guy from Wings, and Vince Vaughn. I’m still on the fence about David Caruso. That one might actually make a good enough story.
That’s part of the problem with Christian Bale-despite several enjoyable films in which he’s played violent, aggressive characters, I’m just not convinced that that’s him, which I find disappointing. I enjoyed his turn as a sociopathic serial murderer in American Psycho, and he made a decently angsty Batman, but in all honesty he looked a little more at home playing Laurie in Little Women. And if I wanted to have a one-night-stand with Laurie from Little Women, I’d be…twelve years old. Also, nobody wants to have a one-night-stand with Laurie from Little Women. He’s clearly relationship material.
Now, on the other hand, take someone like Gary Busey. While not as physically attractive as Christian Bale, the man still has a certain terrifying madcap charisma that is impossible to deny. You just know that an evening spent alone with Gary Busey will result in the kinds of stories your grandchildren will tell their grandchildren, once they’re over 18, if you survive long enough to have them. The same goes for Mickey Rourke. Crusty and frightening as they may be on the outside, on the inside those men are stark, raving lunatics who will probably request that you do it on a pile of live lobsters ordered from room service. Then they’ll pack your ears with grits and ride you like a kangaroo through Times Square. These men are the stuff celebrity encounter dreams are made of. Christian Bale, on the other hand, would probably roll over, stroke your bicep, and ask if you thought he was a better Batman than George Clooney. Feh. I wouldn’t even tell my dentist about that kind of encounter. Not even if he asked.
I guess what I’m saying is, you’re just not edgy enough for me, Christian Bale, not to sound dismissive. Even when you were recently caught on tape spewing a curse-laden diatribe at your director, you sounded more like a fuming private school father chewing out his son’s lacrosse coach. As I listened to that rant, I still saw you in my head as loveable scamp Jack “Cowboy” Kelly from Newsies, wearing a jaunty red neckerchief and kicking your heels in the air. I half expected you to finish your tirade with a forceful, “Headlines don’t sell papes. Newsies sell papes!” Not only that, but immediately after that rant was released you issued a public apology! That wilting sound you hear is my libido, Christian Bale. The iron doors have closed for you. You can take me off your list of normal people you would sleep with if given the chance. But if you happen to run into Pete Doherty, you tell that screwball where he can find me.
I Heard Tell 