Recently in Snoop Bloggy Blog Category

(Note: Louise and I were discussing our idea for a 21st-century social network called "Faceplace". I told her there was no way the domain name was available, due to its similarity to other big site names, and because it was made up of two simple rhyming nouns.)

Louise: I like the idea of randomly buying rhyming domain names
Louise: turdherd.com
Louise: butterclutter.com
Louise: germfirm.com
Sean: turdherd.com is available
Sean: I might buy it for Omar
Sean: germfirm.com is taken
Sean: butterclutter, also available
Louise: So great!
Louise: This is a fun game
Louise: mouseblouse.com
Sean: dreamcream.com
Louise: toastboast.com
Sean: Mouseblouse.com was purchased in October of 2006
Louise: Amazing
Sean: This makes me want to write a movie called "Turd Herd"
Sean: Just so it wouldn't have to be turdherd-themovie.com
Sean: Dream Dream is an actual product
Sean: That increases a woman's sexual stimulation
Sean: At last!
Sean: "Uses amino acids to improve the frequency and intensity of orgasms."
Sean: Also, Dream Cream's manufacturers claim it is "discreet"
Sean: I guess, you could apply it on the bus or something?
Louise: I wonder if every possible rhyme with "blog" is taken?
Louise: fogblog.com
Louise: dogblog.com
Louise: hogblog.com
Louise: Oh weird
Louise: pogblog.com
Louise: Teen youth group site
Sean: Whoa dude
Sean: Pogs are the devil
Louise: So great that once upon a time
Louise: Some super cheeseball youth minister was like, "How are we going to get the kids excited about this website?"
Louise: "I hear they are into the pogs"
Sean: You know when that crazy youth minister had that brainstorm?
Sean: November of 2007
Louise: HAHAHAHA
Sean: Fogblog is owned by a guy who lives on in SF
Louise: We should go grafitti his house
Louise: To try to bully him into giving up fogblog
Louise: FOGBLOG GO HOME
Sean: FOGBLOG UNFAIR
Sean: FACESPACE > FOGBLOG
Louise: Make love not fogblog
Louise: grogblog.com
Louise: Also owned
Sean: Australian-owned
Louise: Yes!
Sean: An excerpt from vlogblog.com
Sean: "Vlogging has arrived. Of course vlogging has arrived. But it struck me again how much it has arrived when I saw the video ad above from AOL News.
It occured to me that our popular culture reference points for this time in history will be vlogs as much as anything else. Surely they won't be the types of things that reference other eras -- American Bandstand outtakes, Saturday Night Live skits, or clips from MTV's The Real World."
Sean: "User-generated video. That's our time. It is officially the Vlog Era."
Sean: Filed on February 29th of 2008
Louise: This guy has put a lot of faith in vlogs
Sean: That is the third-to-last post
Louise: He died of starvation in his house
Louise: Waiting for the vlog revolution to arrive
Sean: Apparently, the vlog blog era officially ended 18 months ago
Sean: Keeps uploading his grocery requests to youtube
Sean: Stubbornly refusing to call 911

(I'll try to release this in vlog form soon.)

It's Obama's birthday, or at least, the anniversary of the date printed on his unconstitutional Kenyan forgery. Ex-roommate-abroad Geetika mentions that non-Americans haven't really adjusted to Obama's election, and she still gets a lot of crap about George Bush. I gave her some advice, which can be used by anyone traveling abroad.

Here's what you say whenever someone gives you crap about George Bush, or being an American:

"You know, I could come back with some harsh, sweeping generalizations about you and people from your country just because of who your president is, but since I'm American, I don't know who your president, or prime minister, or chief voodoo emperor is, and I am never going to take the time to find out. Now please bring me some salty snacks and show me where the television is."

Argument over, "Baywatch" starting. Here are some gift ideas for the president:

1. Cigarettes
2. Bud Light
3. A nice card
4. Lipstick...for pigs! (in your FACE Sarah Palin!)
5. Bipartisan consensus on health care reform
6. Sleepwear with his initials on it, labeled "Barack Po'jamas"
7. Some candlesticks or a nice PRODUCE THE REAL BIRTH CERTIFICATE YOU INDONESIAN-BORN IMPOSTOR!!!

Templates are fixed, and Zembla's going to start featuring content again. It's been so long, baby!

As always, you can see shorter entries, scrapier posts, and more blatant self-promotion at Sean Keane Comedy Dot Com. My sports blogging has been primarily shifted over to SportsCentr, but you can read my thoughts, insights, and personal insults to Ben Wallace over at NBA Playoffs 2009. Also, here's my infrequently updated Twitter feed: LLCoolS. (That stands for "Ladies Love Cool Sean", obviously).

After an 18-month hiatus, the Streeter-Amir prank war resumes with another sports-themed prank. Amir gets the opportunity to sink a blindfolded half-court shot for $500,000 - will he succeed?

This prank couldn't have gone better if it were choreographed. Unlike the Yankee Prankee, which took place in front of 50,000 unaware fans, this one has a live audience of 18,000 who are all laughing at Amir. Streeter also convinces Amir's friend to help betray him, rubbing more salt into the pranky wound.

I hope it doesn't come to this, but the way things are going, the next prank is going to have to involve Streeter being framed for a murder he didn't commit.

It is an indisputable fact that Irish girls love Sean Keane. The paler and the frecklier they are, the more they come under my spell. Recently, as my Irish whispering powers have matured, it's become clear that, just as Dane Cook's audience is college girls, my target market is redheads of the world, regardless of geographic affiliation.

And it's not just The John Francis. Today I lunched with a group of people, and - not surprisingly - I ended up chatting it up with the auburn-haired girl in the group. Later, I discussed my findings with another redhead who'd been at the lunch.

Sean: I knew she would talk to me
Sean: Redheads are irresistibly drawn to Sean Keane
Sean: I think it's my complexion
Sean: They know they have a friend in me
Emily: Could be
Sean: There's a good chance I have an SPF 45 sunscreen on me if there's an emergency
Sean: And I know at least four ways to cook potatoes
Emily: She's not a natural redhead
Emily: So there go your theories
Sean: Fake redheads like me even more
Sean: Because they've consciously chosen the lifestyle.

My summer Belizean travel companion, the lovely Doctor Rachael, also had red hair, albeit of the natural variety. I believe the attraction was slightly different for her, as Rachael carried large amounts of her own high-SPF sunscreen. She saw my sister and me at the bus station, and her caregiver instincts kicked in - "I need to make sure that these two people don't get skin cancer."

Soon we were riding in the same old tricked-out American school bus blasting Bob Marley classics, and were the best of friends. Given my ruddy cheeks and general coloring, I don't believe it was an accident that we arrived in Belize during Lobsterfest.

I didn't know this until recently, but redheads, or "gingers", are actually quite stigmatized in the UK. Perhaps this explains the undeserved mockery that Ron Weasley received at Hogwarts, or perhaps most English schoolchildren are Slytherins.

Thankfully, there's a Ginger Beauty Exhibition in Wolverhampton that might help slow the anti-gingerist tide abroad. Over here, I am going to take it upon myself to minister to the downtrodden carrot tops among us. I'm not just an Irish Whisperer; I'm doing legitimate outreach work.

Veterans Day 2008

Every year, Zembla likes to take a look at underrated holidays, in hopes of a more perfect understanding of the special days that makes us Americans. And every year, Zembla posts this look after Veterans Day has already passed, so as not to dishonor the sacrifices of these brave veterans.

Even though I am an opponent of the war in Iraq, I definitely support the troops. The war is the only issue where people feel it necessary to add that qualifier: I hate this thing - but I totally support the victims of that thing. It's like saying, "I think juvenile diabetes is a terrible problem in this country - but I totally support little fat children."

Last year, I examined the audacity of the original Armistice Day holiday, and its grudging shift to "Veterans Day", once it became clear that the armistice of 1918 wasn't going to be the last one by a longshot. I also posited that the existence of two holidays to honor America's soldiers (Memorial Day being the other) was due to advances in medicine, allowing America's fighting men to actually survive wars. Until antiseptics existed, Memorial Day pretty much covered the veterans,

This year I am concerned more with the disproportionate celebrations associated with these two holidays. Memorial Day is always on a Monday, to allow for whole weekend of festivities. Memorial Day means beer, barbecues, and the Indianapolis 500. And this is the holiday for soldiers who are no longer around to enjoy it. By contrast, to many people, Veterans Day means...going to work like it's a normal day. Perhaps it is easier to honor former soldiers that you don't actually have to visit. America doesn't even force Veterans Day to a Monday or Friday. People would rather go into the office than go to a nursing home.

Veterans Day Planning Meeting

"So, it's agreed. Veterans Day is November 11th."

"Hey, just a thought. Why don't we make it the second Monday in November? That way, there's a three-day weekend, and it's easier for people to go see their grandfathers."

"Do you want to visit those depressing old people?"

"No."

"OK, 11/11 it is."

Perception

In San Francisco, Veterans Day may have a perception problem. The most common image of veterans in SF is homeless men in camouflage jackets. One's primary association for "veteran" isn't a member of the Greatest Generation vanquishing the Nazis; it's a guy you feel especially guilty about not helping.

So, America, let's really honor our vets. Move the holiday to a Monday. Failing that, don't go to work! Have a beer! Or go to work and have beers there! After all, isn't what we were fighting for?

Happy Veterans Day to all of our nation's veterans, except for John McCain. Even though you lost, you can still suck it, McCain.

Anil Dash writes about Sarah Palin's very deliberate use of "straight talk" language, in order to cloak the dangerous, provocative nature of what she says:

I firmly believe that Sarah Palin is a smart, talented public speaker who makes deliberate choices about her use of language to elicit particular responses from different segments of her audience. She's college-educated and has been a professional broadcaster, understanding the nuances of addressing a large audience. She is certainly experienced enough to understand that signifiers like "hockey mom" and "Joe Six Pack" are explicitly communicating to an audience that is white, overwhelmingly not college educated, and lives in rural or suburban areas.

I know because I've been part of that audience. I grew up in an overwhelmingly white part of rural and suburban Pennsylvania, the very same place that many of these attacks are being leveled. I was coincidentally in Greensboro, North Carolina on the same day that Palin first talked about "Real America". I don't have a college education, and I've spent a lot of time around highly-educated professional writers working for the biggest media organizations in the world, and seen their attitudes about language, dialect and vernacular within our country. I've done enough public speaking myself to understand how important word choice, and use of slang, and choice of accent is when speaking to different groups. And it's obvious to anyone who knows American culture why Palin wouldn't identify as a "basketball mom" or talk about "Joe Forty Ounce". These things are not accidents.

Sarah Palin reminds me of George W. Bush in a few ways, but one of the most obvious ones is that they're both dismissed as stupid, as if folksy speech precludes craftiness. "Bush is dumb" was a lot more common than, "Bush is dangerous", and Americans were so distressed by Bush's stupidity that they elected him to two terms. Maybe they're bad in interviews, but on stump speeches, they know exactly what they're saying. I'm fairly sure both Bush and Palin know how "nuclear" is really supposed to be pronounced.

Our new IT guy at the office sent out a questionnaire about our computing habits, technology issues, and any dissatisfaction with our work machines. The last question asked us to choose a name for our computers - anything we wanted, as long as it was a single word and memorable. "For some reason all our machines are named after planets and things from outer space," he wrote. "The Age of Aquarius is over."

The previous IT administration did name all our computers in astronomical fashion, though my machine retains its name from an earlier IT era that used musicians for its nomenclature. My machine, "McCartney", is one of only two to survive the regime change with its old name intact (the other is the claims computer, "Shakira"). It is possible that our computers were the only ones ever named after musical acts; a few weeks after I named "McCartney", the IT guy left for graduate school.

I wasn't opposed to a planetary name; I was just never forced to switch. I can understand that a new IT guy wants to come in and put his own stamp on the office, though I suspect some of the renaming is inspired by a reluctance to type out "Cassiopeaia". I probably would have selected something immature like "Uranus", especially since the cool planets like Saturn and Mars were snapped up by people with more seniority. Luckily, I didn't end up with the "Pluto" computer, which was downgraded to a word processor two years ago.

My old computer name was half-serious, half-ironic, which matches my feelings for most things (and people) that I enjoy. I like Paul McCartney, but I also think he's ridiculous.* My home computer is named "Mulligan", which alludes to both Ulysses, and the many mistakes I've made with it.

So now I need a new name. The candidates:

Harrison

Pros: Continues the Beatles tradition of the old computer name. I work on Harrison Street, so it works for that one, too.

Cons: I might be unconsciously plagiarizing the name from another computer. And what if the computer follows the example of William Henry Harrison and dies in 30 days?

Dude

Cons: Dude?

Pros: Dude!

Forbin

Pros: Named after the scientist who develops a hyper-intelligent computer to run America's nuclear defense in Colossus: The Forbin Project. Shot where I used to work Lawrence Hall of Science! The Colossus supervisors are executed on the plaza, right where Pheena the Fin Whale would later live.

Cons: Forbin's computer becomes sentient and eventually establishes authority over the entire planet, enslaving humanity and eliminating freedom. Forbin didn't do the best job, basically.

Sisyphus

Pros: My work is tiresome. Many of our clients end up back in jail, even when we help them get out. And while my job is to close case files, we create new case files longer than I could possibly clear them out.

Cons: Nerd name!

Vote for your favorite in the comments!

I enjoy the American version of The Office, but a few things have been bothering me about it recently. To wit:

Documentarian ethics are being ignored:

I can understand when National Geographic producers don't intervene when a crocodile leaps from a river to eat a baby zebra. But the rules are different with human subjects. The people filming Dunder-Mifflin apparently let Andy Bernard wallow in the water for hours, even as he cried for help, and rather than rescue him, they recorded his distress. If any readers have a better knowledge of journalistic ethics, please correct me, but I think it's clear that this film crew is a bunch of assholes.

Blatant product placement is annoying:

There's no joke at all in the above scene: it's just a commercial for Outback Steakhouse. It's not even consistent, character-wise. The previous week's episode focused on weight-loss and the staff's varying attempts at healthy eating. This one was built around a "product integration" buy from Outback, home of Aussie Cheese Fries, AKA, the worst food in America. One week earlier, the show highlighted Stanley and his effort to drop seven pounds. This week, Stanley was stuffing his face with ribs as they went to credits.

From the NY Mag story, about a Toyota Yaris ad on Mad TV:

Showing the Yaris wasn't sufficient, said the rep from Madison Road. The characters must praise the car’s features: its roomy interior, its sleek lines. The writers pitched a spoof of a commercial, with a young couple making out in the Yaris, panting about its fuel efficiency. No, said Madison Road. Cut the parody bit. The skit should just feature the couple panting over the Yaris. They aired it.

I thought you were better than that, American Office.

Dragging out a romantic subplot only works when people like those characters:

Stretching Jim and Pam's courtship for three seasons: acceptable. Stretching out the love triangle of Dwight and Angela and Andy: unacceptable. When the annoying rageaholic a capella guy is the most likable one in a threesome, it's time to rethink that entire plotline.

The last presidential debate is tonight. More important is that I will be a part of Nato Green's "Laugh Out the Vote" this Saturday, at the Clubhouse. So this week, I'll be presenting a preview of some of the hilarious political material you can expect at that show. Today, How the Surge is like 2 AM Tacos.

John McCain's primary foreign policy criticism of Barack Obama is that Obama opposed "the surge" in Iraq, which has proved effective. Of course, if we hadn't invaded Iraq in the first place, the surge wouldn't have been necessary.

Obama is like the guy at the bar who warned his buddies against doing shots of Jagermeister at midnight. The shots are expensive, he argues, they just did a bunch of Car Bombs, and at this point, the guys who sent over the initial round of shots are at a totally different bar.

McCain wanted to do the Jager shots, and even bought a round of shots himself, but at 2 AM, McCain insisted that everybody stop for tacos to sober up on the way home. Obama wanted to just go home. After a difficult journey to a taqueria, the guys did seem to feel better.

McCain: "You were wrong about the tacos."

Obama: "Those guys are still throwing up."

McCain: "But they're throwing up in the toilet now, bro. Mission accomplished."

Obama: "OK, it looks like the tacos sobered them up - a little - but you never should have bought that round of shots to begin with."

McCain: "Dude, just admit that the taco surge worked."

Obama: "We never should have had that Jagermeister!"

McCain: "Don't be naive. If Taco Tuesday falls apart, it will have a profound effect on the Wednesday Pub Quiz, and the repercussions might be felt as far as Ladies Night on Thursday."

Obama: "Wait, whose credit card did you use? I'm not sure you know as much about bars as you pretend to."

McCain: "I know drinking. I had an alcoholic stepfather for 5.5 years".

Obama: "Fine, can we just go home now?"

McCain: "Don't give me a fucking timetable, man."

The national media calls John McCain a maverick. His running mate refers to him as "the maverick" of the Senate. McCain even calls himself a maverick. But as Wikipedia shows, there are many different mavericks out there. Which of these types of maverick is most like John McCain? Let's find out!

Dallas Mavericks:

• McCain has been a perennial contender, but always seems to fall short of the ultimate prize.


• He's historically had trouble getting past opponents from Texas.


• Just like Dallas in the 2006 Finals, McCain is having trouble against a dynamic young black man with an oddly-spelled name.


• McCain does best when he's attacking on offense; he has trouble when he has to defend his record, his decisions, or an opponent that can shoot the three.


• He's relying heavily on an old point guard to revitalize his team, but they're a little bit slow.

An unbranded calf, cow, or steer: This is the strict dictionary definition, but since when does John McCain stick to the conventional answer? His running mate hates librarians, so McCain doesn't need a nerd book to define himself. Besides, a maverick is often a "motherless calf", and I've always considered John McCain to be a son of a bitch.

Samuel Maverick: Samuel Maverick was imprisoned by a foreign government, as was John McCain. Both men held elected office in the Southwest. Samuel Maverick voted for Texas's secession from the Union; John McCain opposed making Martin Luther King Day a holiday.

Perhaps the best comparison is Samuel Maverick's refusal to brand his animals. He claimed to be an unconventional rancher who didn't want to hurt the animals, but other ranchers argued that the move "allowed him to collect any unbranded cattle and claim them as his own." That's what being a maverick is about: pretending to buck the system for personal enrichment.

Maury Maverick: Maury was a US Congressman and former war hero. Like McCain, he received the Purple Heart. Maury is most famous for coining the phrase "gobbledygook", to refer to incomprehensible and garbled language. This fits, because it is often difficult to understand what John McCain is saying. Also, McCain calls Vietnamese people "gooks".

(Bonus: Top Three John McCain 80s Television Shows or Board Games or Rudyard Kipling Stories)

Maverick cigarettes: John McCain would be our oldest inaugurated president, and Maverick cigarettes are made by America's oldest tobacco company.
They've been around forever, no one likes them very much, and they leave a bad taste in your mouth. Mavericks are only tolerable if one's other choices are even worse, like Pall Malls or Mitt Romney. It's essentially a pile of ashes, held together by flimsy packaging, much like John McCain's campaign.

Neither is good for your health: Mavericks will give you cancer, while John McCain wants to tax your employer-provided health care benefits.

Maverick, the Movie: Mel Gibson has the same politics and fundamentalist Christian beliefs as Sarah Palin. Both Maverick and McCain like to bone rich white ladies with fancy clothes. Bret Maverick gambled in a $500,000 poker tournament; John McCain gambled on sabotaging a $700 billion Wall Street bailout. Also, John McCain was totally alive back in the Old West days.

Ford Maverick: Much like McCain and his presidential campaign this week, Ford suspended production of this vehicle once the Maverick became unpopular. It's fitting that McCain's nickname would refer to a discontinued type of Ford, since he prefers foreign-made automobiles.

Nerf N-Strike Maverick: Hasbro says: "The MAVERICK blaster features a six-dart rotating barrel with easy flip loading so you don't have to waste any time while blasting enemy targets!" That's right! Six darts means you can shoot at Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, Russia, Afghanistan, and polar bears without wasting any time. That's the Maverick promise.

A cautionary note: "Always know your play environment. If the conditions are severe, please exercise caution."

Maverick from Top Gun: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell and John "Maverick" McCain both crashed their fighter planes in spectacular fashion. Both of their fathers were in the military. If Maverick screws up, he'll be flying a cargo plane full of rubber dog shit out of Hong Kong. If McCain screws up, he'll keep living in Arizona, which is slightly worse.

Maverick Records: Madonna's former record label, before she was bought out by Warner Brothers. Cindy McCain is a Material Girl? The choice of Sarah Palin for VP was Borderline? Papa Don't Preach, Bristol's keeping her baby? McCain voted against the MLK Holiday?

Maverick framework: A Model-view-controller framework for web publishing in Java. John McCain doesn't use computers.

Winner: Samuel Maverick!
Loser: John McCain!

GIBSON: And you didn't say to yourself, "Am I experienced enough? Am I ready? Do I know enough about international affairs? Do I -- will I feel comfortable enough on the national stage to do this?"

So I didn't blink then even when asked to run as his running mate.

Sarah Palin: not gonna blink. But what about her running mate, John McCain, an accused blink-a-holic? The man blinks like a cheap set of miniature Christmas lights. He's like Winken, Blinken, and Nod, rolled into one wrinkly, blinkly package. Cue up some Blink-182, crack open a Malcolm Gladwell book about intuition and count the blinks in these clips:

We already knew that John McCain was irascible, but I'm surprised to learn that even tiny invisible particles in the air severely irritate him.

Maybe Sarah Palin was indeed chosen to balance the ticket, but not because of gender or ideology. No, when you have a blinktastic maverick like McCain on the ticket, you need a clear-eyed, glasses-wearing, fervently anti-blink running mate. Because let's face it: between all his blinking, and the inevitable afternoon naps, there's got to be someone in the executive branch with their eyes open.

It is a fact that Irish people of all shapes and sizes love Sean Keane. They see themselves in me, and are drawn to my pink cheeks and extensive knowledge of the James Joyce canon. Last night, after I talked to a red-haired girl, on the heels of meeting two tourists from Galway a few days earlier, my friend dubbed me "The Irish Whisperer".

Coincidentally, that's also the title of my just-completed romance novel. "The Irish Whisperer" is the story of a quiet man with an uncanny ability to soothe and communicate with traumatized, boozy Irishwomen, and contains many metaphors involving leprechauns. Here's is an excerpt:

"As Seamus stepped out of the water, Maggie stared, and drank him in like a tall pint of Guiness. His muscular, freckled chest. His powerful biceps, ringed with farmer tan, above his strong, pink, sunburned forearms. She could barely hear the notes of 'With or Without You' on the radio, over the pounding of her heart.

"Maggie gasped as his hand reached past her, fingers lightly brushing her neck, then grabbed a still-smoldering baked potato from the grill behind her. Seamus bit into it, chunks of steaming potato falling from his mouth onto his wispy red chest hair and said, 'You got any Irish in you?'

"Without waiting for an answer, he growled, 'Do you want some?'"

Receipts

I got a paper receipt after I voted this year, though I'm not sure why. I have a feeling that this goes back to the disputed election of 2000, possibly as part of a litany of whiny voter complaints. "The butterfly ballot was confusing, and it was too hard to push out chads all the way, and it was cold in the polling place and I didn't get a receipt either!" Or it was remorseful Nader voters, hoping that in future elections, they could go back and exchange their votes.

The three places in San Francisco that are most insistent about making you take receipts are polling places, Walgreen's, and Ross Dress-For-Less. At the latter two, they fine cashiers five bucks if they forget to give one out, while at the polls, refusing a receipt will make an elderly woman from the League of Women Voters cry. In all three places, you will often leave feeling confident about your selections, but very quickly feel like you just got ripped off.

Legislative panhandling

When I look at the San Francisco ballot, I often feel like I'm getting panhandled:

Measure A: "Sir could you spare a quarter..."

"...of a percentage increase in the city's sales tax? I'm just trying to get a cost of living increase for teachers, maybe get something to eat."

And of course, my reflexive response is, "No, sorry, no, gotta go." Then I rationalize my callous behavior by deciding that the schools are just going to spend that extra tax money money on booze.

Hillary isn't quitting

Even though she has been mathematically eliminated from the race for the Democratic nomination, Hillary Clinton is not giving up and dropping out of the race. In a related story, I am not yet given up on my pursuit of becoming a professional baseball player. Sure, I can't hit a curve ball, or throw the ball from third base to first on the fly, or make an out with crying and blaming my allergies, but the important thing is to keep fighting, and never give up on your dreams. In the next couple of days, I will be deciding how to best continue, and I invite all Americans to share your thoughts with me here at Zembla or at Sean Keane Comedy Dot Com. In addition, I am still accepting donations.

I would, however, settle for a front office position with a professional baseball franchise. Any team that hires me would automatically receive the support of my 18 million readers, so I think they would have to consider it.

With the recent rebranding of Sean Keane Comedy and the re-opening of The Shirt Off Sean Keane's Back, it's the time of year when a young man's fancy turns to Sean Keane.

Slowly, but surely, Comedian Sean Keane is climbing the Google ladder. Musician Sean Keane still has the top spot, as well as superior numbers, but the lower rungs of the Sean Keane results increasingly involve comedy and blogging, rather than tin whistles and Killarney. The man with the finest tenor voice in Ireland still holds the top spot, but the comedian from SF has #3, #5, #8, and #12. My MySpace page barely edges out his Wikipedia page, which doesn't seem right, but I'll take it.

There are a contingent of new Sean Keanes around the web. Before I add them to the master list of Sean Keanes, let's take a close look at the Sean-Keane-come-latelys. As always, I will be analyzing each Sean Keane to see which, if any, pose a threat to my Google search result supremacy.

Pinewood Derby Champion Sean Keane

Sean Keane is a member of Cub Scout Pack 961, in Hillsboro, VA. Technically, he came in second, but look at those standings! Only Hunter Smith beat him, and Hunter Smith is a Webelos I. Meanwhile, Sean Keane is only a Bear, but he still beat everyone except Hunter, AND all the people in Webelos II. Besides, Hunter's dad probably totally helped him out, and did a lot of the sawing for him. Among the Bears, Sean Keane was #1, and no, I am not talking about my popularity with heavyset bearded men in my neighborhood.

Verdict: If he wins the Webelos I division next year, I am officially worried.

Pro Rollerblader Sean Keane

He rollerblades professionally, and he goes by the name "Sean Money". Sean Money made a movie called "Whether It Makes Cent$, or Not", and another called There And Back, which is about rollerblading all over America. He also makes art. And as of this weekend, he's a college graduate.

Verdict: This guy is so much cooler than I am, it's ridiculous. Rollerblade Sean Keane is a serious threat, not just to my Google standing, but to my self-esteem.

Sean Keane - Lighting Cameraman

This Sean Keane has an extensive background in lighting and photography. Lucky for my Google standing, his full website is still under construction. I'm jealous of his impressive expertise, and of how many light kits he owns, but I'm not jealous of his page rank.

Verdict: A talented Sean Keane, but not a dangerous one.

Canadian Standup Comedian Mister Sean Keane

I have decided that this Sean Keane is Canadian based solely on his pronunciation of "about". Based on his material about airbags, VCRs, and call waiting, I assume he appeared on TV sometime during the 1980's He's very polished, and an excellent post-punchline dancer, but I can find no mention of him other than the page of Youtube user "vicdunne". "vicdunne" hasn't responded to my messages requesting more info, so this Sean Keane will remain a mystery.

Verdict: If more old clips emerge, he could be trouble. That's why I plan to re-record all oh his material and upload them to YouTube myself, under the name of Master Sean Keane.

Irish Orthopedic Surgeon Sean Keane

I feel close to this Sean Keane, because thanks to the rhythm method, I was conceived in the state of Wisconsin. Dr. Sean Keane graduated from Irish medical school almost 50 years ago, so I don't expect him to be tech-savvy. Irish medical school is just like American medical school, just with a greater focus on liver ailments. Also, your professors often get drunk and throw scalpels at you.

Verdict: Dr. Sean Keane isn't a Google threat, but he is a threat - a threat to people's pre-conceived notions of what an immigrant can or can't do. And how nice Milwaukee can seem if you grew up in a Third World country.

Non-Canonical Star Trek Fan Fiction Character Sean Keane

Like the orthopedic surgeon in Wisconsin, this Sean Keane is a doctor. However, while the former Sean Keane got his degree from the National University of Ireland, this Sean Keane attended the Starfleet Academy. Some stats:

Full Name: Sean Patrick Keane
Age: 22
Place of Birth: Athenry, Republic of Ireland
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Weight: 152 lbs
Height: 6'1"
Hair: Red
Eyes: Green
Distinguishing Marks: 4 inch scar on left shoulder blade, 9 inch scar across chest

Verdict: Nerd!

Where are the Sean Keanes now?

Friend To the Van Den Hende Family Sean Keane (AKA, The Other Sean M. Keane) is now a lawyer. Soccer Sean Keane is now a college graduate. Congratulations to all the Sean Keanes, near and far, tall and small. Mostly not tall.

Part One
Part Two

The year was 1991. The United States had just brought peace to war-torn Iraq. Murphy Brown was about to get knocked up and bring shame on America. Color Me Badd wanted to sex us up. And I spent a lot of time with my best friend Danny.

This was one of the first years that I had occasional spending money of my own, and enough trust from my parents to go on bike rides. That led to a lot of 7-11 purchases, as I was still too young to prefer quality to quantity. That held true in all areas of my life. The same instincts that spurred me to purchase a "Thirsty-Two-Ounce" fountain soda also led me to play Mario 3 well past the point where my thumbs were sore and calloused. It's the same reason our class trip to Great America ended with us running around the park at top speed, trying to squeeze in just one more ride on the Vortex, despite our Rip-Roaring-Rapids-soaked clothing and lingering headaches from previous frantic Vortex rides. Quantity over quality.

The same was true for jokes. If an inside joke was funny, repeating it fifty times could only add to the funniness. Danny invented one that we later repeated as much as we could; that is, until we legitimately feared physical harm. Here's how it went:

When we heard the distinctive jingle of the ice cream truck coming down our suburban street, we'd immediately go the curb and wave our arms. When we'd flagged down the ice cream man, Danny would usually take the lead, because I was much more of a pussy. He'd ask himself, "What do I want? What would I like?" as he slowly scanned the menu. Danny would milk this as long as possible, because drawing the joke out was more important than timing. Quantity over quality.

Finally, he'd pretend to make a decision. "I would like... hmmm... I would like...hmmm..."

And then the zinger:

"I would like...for you to go away!"

And then we would run inside laughing, while the ice cream man fumed, and drove away as angrily, or as angrily as you can when your vehicle is playing "Pop Goes the Weasel" at top volume. Later we'd drink tall beverages comprised of eight ounces each of Coke, root beer, 7-up, and orange soda (no ice!) and feel like kings. To the heart, tick tock, ya don't stop, at least until the ice cream man will no longer pull over at your house.

Errol Morris has a new documentary about Abu Ghraib called Standard Operating Procedure, which is currently playing at the Sundance Kabuki in SF and at the Elmwood in Berkeley. If you'd like to go see it, let me know. Morris also blogs for the New York Times, and last night posted a fascinating and chilling article about one particular photo, which appears after the jump.

As some readers already know, I am currently growing a scraggly beard. This is not Facial Hair Of Emotional Recovery, however. There's no sadness or mourning with the Facial Hair of Personal Rejuvenation (FHOPR for short). This is not about personal growth; merely beard growth. It started four weeks ago, when I went up to Lake Tahoe for my sister's birthday, and figured, why pack my razor for a two-day trip? I also haven't cut my hair in 2008, so I thought refraining from shaving would go hand in hand.

As the beard has grown people have encouraged me to keep going. There's an informal beard-growing movement that has happened among local comics, though some have referred to it as a "pandemic". Comics with beards seem to be doing well these days. There's never been a more perfect time to hop on the beardwagon. Or is there?

Sometimes I suspect that the encouragement I receive is not actual advice, but rather a ploy to keep me looking freakish for as long as possible. It's the same reason Jim always says, "Absolutely, I do", whenever Dwight asks him to do something secretive on The Office: costs him nothing, might lead to great amusement. A friend of mine finally confessed to her hatred of the FHOPR after getting drunk, calling it "terrible", and lamenting that she'd ever encouraged me to grow my hair out in the first place, because of the abomination that resulted.

I am clearly doing a better job of growing facial hair than in the past, as seen by this photo from 2004.

Despite the general scraggly appearance of the FHOPR, the goatee part is doing fine. There's much heartier growth around the chin area now, and the goatee actually connects. This suggests two things. One, that some time in the last four years, I have finally become a man. Two, that some time in the past, I had a douchebag ancestor, probably from somewhere near Modesto. The improved chin growth has not gone unnoticed, especially from people who remembered my previous embarrassing forays into facial hair. Their comments are similar to what a female-to-male transsexual might hear:

"No, seriously, you look a little more masculine today."
"I think I can see a few new hairs on your lip. Good job!"
"I knew there'd be some signs of that testosterone eventually."

"Beard" FAQ

How long will you keep the beard?

Until the itching gets to be too much, or I start making children shriek at my hideousness, babes weep at my approach, and women cry out, "Dear God, what is that thing?"

Are there any economic effects of the beard?

I'm saving a lot of money on shaving cream, razor blades, and condoms.

Is this an NHL playoff beard

No, but Joe Tobin is growing one of those.

How do women respond to the beard?

They sense the beard's power, but I deny them my essence.

What does this mean for the future of The Baby Faces of Comedy Tour?

There's no plans for a Baby Faces sequel yet, but I will certainly answer the call is needed. In the interim, I'm considering putting together the Beardies of Comedy Tour, featuring all the best bearded SF comics, plus Beata in a fake Santa Claus beard.

MUNI has been slow all morning, this the day of the Olympic torch relay through San Francisco. My train lingered at every station for a few minutes, as if security officials were scanning passengers for hints of subversion. I found myself looking around as well, wondering if there were any torch assassins among us.

"Why are we moving so slowly?" asked one woman, still wearing her iPod headphones.

I knew the Gavin Newsom-Peter Ueberroth propaganda was working when a businessman answered her: "Probably because of Tibet, his voice dripping with contempt for the Dalai Lama.

I wasn't sure what I should be looking for, in terms of anti-torch activity. Were the cops looking for monks? Richard Gere lookalikes? Self-loathing Chinese people? Evil Superman, affected by synthetic kryptonite? When we stopped at Van Ness, I tried to smoke out any stealth Tibetans by saying, "Pretty Woman is really overrated," but no one reacted.

San Francisco is definitely going all out, with three layers of cops on hand to protect the torch, along with countless other undercover officers scouting for suspects. One MUNI cop was checking transfers on the platform at Civic Center, but I couldn't tell if he was singling out Buddhists. With all the resources devoted to the relay, crackheads and petty criminals should feel free to break into cars with impunity during the run. Well, even more impunity than usual.

I got to work without incident, only to learn that the torch took MUNI too! I hope it didn't take the 30 Line, because, no matter where the games are held, old ladies from Chinatown will not hesitate to shove torchbearers out of the way on their way to the back door, or extinguish the flame with their pink shopping bags.

I also learned that the Olympic torch is not actually an ancient Greek tradition - it dates back to Hitler and the 1936 Olympics in Berlin. I was surprised to find this out, but it makes sense: organizers can't even keep the torch lit in 2008. What chance did the Greeks have? And that's the thing about torches for Chinese Olympiads - you think you're set, and then you gotta re-light the damn thing like an hour later.

Here's the best crazy anti-torch quote of the day, by anti-Communist protester Kevin Johnson:

"I know it sounds racist, but if they want the Olympics in China they should go back to China."

Unsurprisingly, Johnson got punched in the face.

There's a Whole Foods Market half a block from my office. Nearly everyone in the office goes there a lot, but we know it's expensive. Someone is sure to chirp, "More like Whole Paycheck!" when you walk back to the office with your groceries, which is a totally original thing to say. Whole Foods disputes that their prices are high. Here's a display I saw at the store:

In effect, that sign says, "Don't believe the 'Whole Paycheck' lie. Think for yourself." So I looked around until I saw a good example of their everyday prices. And here's what I saw outside:

Six ninety-nine for a hot dog. Even vendors at AT&T Park are shaking their heads in disbelief, while somewhere in Berkeley, a Top Dog employee feels a great disturbance in the force, as if a million jars of sauerkraut were all shattered at once. Would I ever buy a hot dog from Whole Foods? You can make up your own mind about that one.

There's two additions to the Zembla sidebar today. One is Hitsville, a blog about music and pop culture written by journalist Bill Wyman (Not that Bill Wyman). Mr. Wyman has written for The Daily Californian, Salon.com, and The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, and once when he visited my office, we tricked him into getting fingerprinted as a security measure. He may have less to write about now that The Wire is over, but I trust he will continue to provide relevant pop culture observations, particularly now that John Cougar Mellencamp has been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

(Digression: I think Mellencamp's induction means that Kevin from The Office is one step closer to beng very rich.)

The second site is Dolores Park Couture, a site devoted to cataloguing the ridiculous fashion choices made by visitors to SF's Dolores Park. Now that it's getting hot, the popularity of DP is only going to increase. I can't wait to see what hipsters bring out for the new season, and what DP Couture's anonymous author has to say about the whole thing.

My friend and occasional companion Emalie went under the knife yesterday. She had bunion surgery, which is a lot more serious than you might think. I myself assumed it was a procedure that involved an office visit, a local anaesthetic, and maybe a laser, like something you'd do for a wart. In fact, bunion surgery involves sedatives, invasive surgery, and the removal of pieces of bone.

"Why did I think bunion surgery was so minor?", I asked Emalie.
"Because it sounds like 'Funyuns'", she said.

Though she's hobbled like a Song Dynasty princess, Emalie is doing fine. Still, I'm not going to mention toes, Doritos, playing footsie, Dr. Demento, ballet en pointe, piggies, going to market, staying home, having roast beef, not having roast beef, or going, "wee wee wee!" all the way home. Or Funyuns, because those are gross.

[Note: How messed up is it that the middle piggie in that rhyme is eating roast beef? Aside from the risk of Mad Cow Disease, I imagine a cow looking at the little piggie, shaking his head, and muttering, "Dude. Same team."]

I had the stomach flu this week, and it was pretty gross. I was pretty nauseous, and not just from looking at the kitchen sink. I also missed a few days of work.

I learned that when you have stomach problems, people recommend the BRAT diet, which, I was disappointed to learn, does not involve eating lots of bratwurst. Rather, it means your staple foods should be Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, and Toast. Alternative diets also add in tea (BRATT) or yogurt (BRATY). I feel like I was informally following the BRATTY diet, which involves whining, pouting, and refusing to eat anything.

When I returned to the office after missing a few days, people were happy to see me, but concerned about my health. The office manager asked how my flu was, and learned I hadn't eaten much in the past four days. "Wow, I would have expected you to look more gaunt," she said, glancing down at my waistline.

"Fuck you too", I only thought, and went back to filing documents, sipping Gatorade, and choking back both metaphorical and actual bile.

My life was once full of interactions with children. Now that I work in an office instead of at a pool, I see children very sporadically. My off hours are spent in comedy clubs and bars, where children are not allowed, because they would get too depressed about growing up.

The children I do encounter fall into two categories: Babies, and children in large groups. The babies are pretty harmless, and, let's be honest, none too bright.

Children are a different story. It may be that city children are tougher, or it may be that most adults see them only sporadically, but whatever the reason, groups of children are horribly intimidating. They're far more powerful in groups than they would be individually, their numbers and the urban environment giving them courage and defiance not seen in suburban children. Like wild animals, they are more feared than understood, and people don't like to make eye contact.

I was on MUNI on Tuesday, and a large group of fifth-graders entered, en route to a play. Instantly, the mood of the train changed. Hipsters clutched their messenger bags closer. Adults looked at one one another and nodded, as if to say, I've got your back if anything happens.

One Asian kid pawed at my book and demanded, "What are you reading?"

I stammered, "Um, it's called, How Soccer Explains the World." I braced myself for a followup question, but he was distracted by a tiny scowling white girl lurching into the back of my seat. When the fifth-graders exited at Civic Center, you could hear the entire train exhale in relief.

Perhaps in San Francisco, we fear the unknown, these pint-sized invaders of our fair city. Or perhaps I am unable to deal with children when I'm not allowed to pick them up and throw them into swimming pools. All I know is that San Francisco children make me nervous, MUNI is for grown-ups, and I don't even want to think about packs of teenagers or else I'm going to break out in a cold sweat. Parents, keep that stuff in Cow Hollow where it belongs.

A few of my friends have started websites recently, and they've been added to the sidebar, along with various local comics. The first such site is for , who has an archive of his artwork and music on his site. I really like his artwork and hope to see him gain larger fame and fortune, and not simply because I have a whole stack of Scott Greenwalt original drawings, ready for them to skyrocket in value. Mr. Greenwalt will also be part of The Animal Show tonight at the Contraband Gallery in SF. After tonight, you can see the exhibition by appointment.

Since there's been discussions about hair on Zembla this week, I present one of my favorite Greenwalt pieces from the site. This is called "Wig", from 2005.

Next, my associate Davey Cee has debuted Excess & Defect, a collection of his unpublished writings. My favorite so far is A Day in the Life of ALF, an amusing and profoundly sad poem about what it's like to be an alien from Melmac, trapped in the suburbs of America. Davey Cee earns bonus points for remembering ALF's first name ("Gordon"). Here's an excerpt from the poem.

I will never be a Tanner.
Even the cat's got a better chance at surnames around here.
But, no matter what Willie says,
I won't ever be a part of that particular tribe.
Somebody sings, "I've got my books and my poetry to protect me."
I've just got this orange fur probably made of felt.
I miss Melmac.
Its verdurous skies overhead like a dense canopy of overgrown foliage,
Summers out on the blue grass
Playing bouillabaisseball under a sun of wild vermilion,
Or just buccaneering ad libitum around its lower east side in my youth.
Somebody calls out
Gordon
And I remember,
Without remembering,
The name Shumway and its lost significance here
In this place of skyskraping glabrous bipeds and thousands of cats that you can't eat.

Powerful stuff.

Finally, former roommate and baseball co-bloggerMike B has made his acting debut with his new employer, ProTrade. His appearance is brief, but extremely memorable. Longtime Sean Keane associates might recognize Cal alum Mark Kamal administering a beatdown.

As usual, Cementhorizon is ahead of the journalism curve, but it's good to see that the Chronicle has caught up. Nearly four months after my hard-hitting exposé of the great deals and amazing selection of items at Treehouse Green Gifts, the Chronicle has finally recognized the newsworthiness and shopworthiness of this fine store.

Check out this glowing review of both the Treehouse and its lovely and talented proprieter, Ms. Maureen O'Neil, complete with a photo gallery of alluring Treehouse items. Congratulations to Ms. O'Neil, but more importantly, congratulations to the Chronicle for displaying some good old-fashioned journalistic moxie.

Video games are wonderful, but despite their advanced graphics and realistic simulations, they are often no substitute for real-life adventures. At my apartment, we've informally created our own live-action versions of popular video games. Here's the first in what promises to be a slew of new releases.

Anti-Tetris

Setting: The kitchen sink

Object: To stack dishes inside the kitchen sink so they rise well above the level of the counter, using as few dishes as possible. Use unrinsed plates, spatulas, and large pots half-full of water and uneaten food to create an inpenetrable barricade against the addition of more dishes, or any use of the faucet whatsoever.

You win when: One of your roommates breaks down and loads the dishwasher for you.

Bonus game: After completing a round, leave the apartment for 4-5 days. Turn off your cell phone.

Analogue to real Tetris: Take the skinny line block, and place it right in the middle. Take the next skinny line block and place it perpendicular to the first. Then, keep your Nintendo running, and leave the apartment for 4-5 days.

Coming soon!

Yoshi's Kitchen Island
Mega Man's Mega-Stack of Junk Mail
Veggie Burger Time

I thought I came up with some good unsexy descriptions of sex, but it's nothing compared to pillow talk about black-footed ferrets. From Shadow Bear:

Shadow Bear: What I have observed of them, myself, is that these tiny animals breed in early spring when the males roam the night in search of females...Mothers typically give birth to three kits in early summer and raise their young alone in abandoned prairie dog burrows.

Shiona (the white heroine): I read that ferrets stalk and kill prairie dogs during the night. Using their keen sense of smell and whiskers to guide them through pitch-black burrows, ferrets suffocate the sleeping prey, an impressive feat considering the two species are about the same weight.

Shadow Bear: In turn, coyotes, badgers, and owls prey on ferrets, whose life span in the wild is often less than two winters … They have a short, quick life.

That awkward post-coital chat was inexplicably plagiarized from a scientific article about black-footed ferrets. The author probably did it for the realism. We all know how pioneer women struggled to survive on their own, waging a constant battle against enemies and the elements, with barely enough time to kick back and do some light reading about South Dakota's prairie mammals.

Here are some other books from Shadow Bear's author, Cassie Edwards. As you can see from the titles, her romance novels are clearly sensitive and respectful to Native Americans and their history:

Savage Beloved
Savage Bliss
Savage Courage
Savage Dance
Savage Destiny
Savage Devotion
Savage Dream
Savage Eden
Savage Embers
Savage Fires
Savage Glory
Savage Grace
Savage Heart
Savage Heat
Savage Hero
Savage Honor
Savage Hope
Savage Illusion
Savage Innocence
Savage Intrigue
Savage Joy
Savage Longings
Savage Love
Savage Mists
Savage Moon
Savage Nights
Savage Obsession
Savage Paradise
Savage Passions
Savage Persuasion
Savage Pride
Savage Promise
Savage Quest
Savage Rage
Savage Secrets
Savage Shadows
Savage Skies
Savage Spirit
Savage Splendor
Savage Storm
Savage Sunrise
Savage Surrender
Savage Tears
Savage Tempest
Savage Thunder
Savage Torment
Savage Touch
Savage Trust
Savage Vision
Savage Whispers
Savage Wind
Savage Wonder

Omar and I cleaned the refrigerator on Sunday afternoon. The fridge has three drawers and many shelves, all removable, so the architecture of the fridge lends itself to the occasional hidden food scrap or ingering odor. At one point I was scrubbing the back wall and felt like one of the dwarves of Khazad-dum, mining deeper into the layers of Moria. I scrubbed hard and a mysterious odor emerged. I half-expected a refrigerator Balrog to come out because we'd cleaned too deep. I'd be forced to confront him, wielding my paper towel like a staff. "Go back to the shadow! Your expiration date is nigh, Flame of Udun!"

At one point I did open a jar of ranch dip to check its freshness, and upon smelling it, I muttered, "You shall not pass." and tossed it in the trash.

One thing we noticed was an unusual amount of expired mustard. This was odd because neither of us were mustard eaters, nor were the other girls people who kept food in that fridge. As far as I remembered, our previous roommate didn't seem to eat an unusual quantity of mustard either. And yet we had jar upon jar, some never opened, all long-unused, nearing or past their "best when used by" date, in all types and varieties of mustard. There was honey mustard, dijon mustard, deli mustard, hot sweet mustard, and cranberry mustard, all uneaten, unremembered, and unloved.

Preliminary surveys suggest this is not a phenomenon unique to our house. At least two friends report having mysterious mustard jars in the house that they never use, and can't remember ever acquiring. In the days when my Noe Street apartment often had no refrigerated food at all, we still had at least three mustards on our condiment shelf. Why does everyone have too much mustard??

There are a few possibilities. One is that mustard goes bad so slowly that it lasts for years, without getting visibly rotten or literally poisonous. It might lose a lot of flavor, but it will not get moldy and it will not kill you. Thus, absent a conscious effort to cull the condiment herd, mustard will survive indefinitely. Often, mustard will go along when a person moves to a new apartment, like pollen stuck to a bee's leg. Some people even argue that mustard never spoils:

ive used mustard from the 70's and nothings ever happen.

Another possibility is that fancy mustards are a common gift at the holidays, for people you either don't know well, or for whom you are making very little effort to shop. A three-pack of gourmet mustard is on sale at Hickory Farms, and you buy it on impulse, and wrap it up. You figure the recipient doesn't already have a lot of mustard, because you never see them use any. And the cycle of mustard continues.

Possibility 3: Rally Mustard.

Possibility 4: Waiting to replace their condiments until the development of Mayostard:

It was a terribly blustery day in the Bay Area last Friday. Streets were closed due to flooding, trucks flipped over on the Richmond Bridge, and more importantly, a dumpster got blown into a fence next to my office, temporarily frightening me. Also, the wind blew a hole in our wall:

We looked around on Friday night and saw no sign of damage in the yard, save one uprooted tree. We missed the storm damage because no one regularly goes down the back stairs, and because the torn-off boards were tossed into the backyard of a neighbor who lives two houses away. This is why I must grudgingly admit that my idea to install gargoyles all over the exterior of the home was indeed ill-advised.

I assume that it was the wind that did the damage behind the back stairs, though we obviously cannot rule out the involvement of the Big Bad Wolf.

If you're going down to the garage from the kitchen, watch out for that last step - it's a doozy!

The hole will be covered by plastic sheeting soon, or maybe a trash bag duct taped to the wall, or at worst, some old newspapers held onto the wall by old chewing gum. What I'm saying is, home repair is not exactly my forte.

On the Blustery Day in the Hundred-Acre Wood, Owl lost his home, and Eeyore was dispatched to find a replacement residence for him. He eventually found a new house for Owl - Piglet's. Luckily, no such housing crisis was precipitated by this storm, but at the same time I wouldn't be surprised if an owl flew into our house and took up residence in the rec room downstairs. I believe that a heffalump wouldn't fit through the gap, but I will be keeping my eyes peeled for woozles.

Peter Jackson and New Line Cinema have resolved their differences and cleared the way to begin production on a Hobbit movie, to the delight of my self and other Tolkien enthusiasts. From the New York Times:

Settlement of the litigation freed New Line, which held the rights to make a "Hobbit" movie, and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, which has distribution rights, to cut a 50-50 financing deal: New Line will make the two films and distribute them domestically, and MGM will distribute them overseas. The untitled sequel is described as bridging the 60-year gap between the end of J. R. R. Tolkien’s "Hobbit" and the beginning of the "Rings" trilogy.

This is good news for me, since I've just finished the first draft of my screenplay for a LOTR-themed trilogy, called "Bombadil!" The first movie is about Tom meeting Goldberry and battling the badger-folk, and there's a subplot about the rising power of Old Man Willow. Movie two ends with a cliffhanger, when the barrow-wights capture Farmer Maggot, while Tom has developed a sore throat, and can't sing them away. The third movie will bridge the two-hundred-year gap between Tom's defeat of Old Man Willow and the beginning of the "Rings" trilogy, and features a seventeen-minute song called "Ring a Dong Dillo".

Part One: I'll Be Home For Christmas
Part Two: Jingle Bells
Part Three: Sweet Little Jesus Boy

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, by Ernie and Bert

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" is a sad song. The unspoken follow up to "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" is, "Because the year sucked pretty bad until now". The Christmas-specific lyrics make it slightly more optimistic, with, "Hang a shining star upon the highest bough" replacing the original's "Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow". Christmas makes some people really defeatist. "We Need a Little Christmas", from Mame is the same sort of song: Thank God Christmas is here, so we all don't just go kill ourselves. Most modern versions of "Need a Little Christmas" will omit the part about having "Grown a little leaner/Grown a little colder/Grown a little sadder/Grown a little older", because it's bad enough that it's cold and there's awkward family gatherings and it's December 22nd you still don't know what to buy for your little sister. Holiday albums don't need to remind you.

Frank Sinatra does a fine version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas", but the one dearest to my heart is the Bert-and-Ernie duet for Merry Christmas From Sesame Street. HYAMLC follows an extended sketch where Ernie and Bert re-enact "The Gift of the Magi". Bert trades his paper clip collection to get Ernie's Christmas gift, a soap dish for his rubber ducky. Meanwhile, Ernie trades the rubber ducky for a cigar box for Bert to store his paper clip collection. The late Mr. Hooper returns the paper clips and the ducky, and a delighted Bert and Ernie pledge to "make the Yuletide gay".

The story is poignant, though it raises questions about the economy of Sesame Street. Mr. Hooper's grocery store apparently functions on the barter system, but one wonders how this model is sustainable. At the very least, Hooper would need some kind of trade agreement, where he exports paper clips and bath toys in exchange for baked goods, simply to meet the insatiable demand for cookies on Sesame Street. It's not clear how Ernie, Bert, or Big Bird would earn money in the first place. Only Oscar the Grouch has anything that resembles a business plan, but how much can he really get for redeeming bottles and cans? Perhaps all Sesame Street residents share in the lucrative sponsorship money paid out by letters and numbers.

My sister Megan and I used to sing this song for strangers when we were little, complete with all of the Sesame Street asides (Ernie says, "Thank you, Bert" after the first line of the song). The novelty of my speech impediment made up for our general inability to sing. Hearing, "Fwom now on, our twoubles will be out of thight" is both cuter and sadder. I sang the role of Ernie, which works because Megan is both more responsible and more OCD than I am. In addition, I have a round face, and Megan's jogging gait has at times been described as "doing the pigeon". Of course, as I've gotten older, I know there's only one analogue for my personality on Sesame street, and that's Othcar the Gwouch.

Part One: I'll Be Home For Christmas
Part Two: Jingle Bells

Sweet Little Jesus Boy, by Andy Williams

Some Christmas songs celebrate the joy of the Christmas season. Reindeer, snow, family, Santa Claus, Christmas trees, presents - all hallmarks of holiday songs. Many people believe that Christmas is a time to celebrate all of those wonderful things in song. A few others believe that Christmas is the time to flagellate yourself over the actions of a Judean innkeeper in 0 AD.

"Sweet Little Jesus Boy" is more hymn than Christmas carol. If you tried to sing this while out caroling, people would probably slam the door in your face for bringing them down and making them feel ashamed. The song focuses on the poor accommodations given to the Baby Jesus before His birth. In my preferred version, Andy Williams sounds completely tormented with guilt over this two thousand-year-old example of poor hotel management. Andy didn't make Mary and Joseph sleep in a barn, but his voice conveys that he feels personal responsibility for their lodgings all the same.

Listening to "Sweet Little Jesus Boy" is the Christmas carol equivalent of putting on a hairshirt. Play this song for your secular friends, and the War on Christmas would be won before it even started. The guilty Andy Williams sounds quite subservient to Sweet Little Jesus Boy throughout the song, calling him "Master" and "Sir". While it's certainly polite, I haven't often heard people use "sir" while praying. Of course, Andy also calls the Messiah "Sweet Little Jesus Boy", so maybe it's not completely respectable.

An interesting aspect of the lyrics comes in the repeated laments, "We didn't know who you were", and "We didn't know it was you". The implication is that normally, sending a pregnant woman out to a drafty barn to give birth among a bunch of animals would be perfectly OK; just not if she was carrying the Messiah. How many people did know it was him, besides Mary and Joseph?

Some Catholics feel guilt regarding the death of Jesus. While I feel that's being a little tough on yourself, I can at least see the logic. But feeling bad about the birth seems overly sensitive. Jesus came out of the whole barn experience perfectly healthy, and scored a whole bunch of gold, frankincense and myrrh, so it didn't work out terribly for him. Catholics wear crucifixes around their necks, not little gold barns. Seriously, Andy, cut yourself some slack on this one.

I love this carol because it is so over the top. There aren't a lot of carols that require the (faux-)emotional commitment of "Sweet Little Jesus Boy", and I love belting it out in front of my shocked, giggling family. Or in the car. Or on my parents' answering machine, when they're not home, and don't especially want to hear the entire first verse when they come home shopping.

Finally, I need to mention that the "Boy" part of the title is extraneous. It sounds like one is describing a sweet long-haired child, perhaps one with an affinity for carpentry and a distrust of money-changers. Maybe that's what Mary actually called Jesus, much like my mom called me "Seany Boy". I could see Jesus getting rebellious around age thirteen, and insisting on being just plain Jesus, or at least "Sweet Jesus", and then getting embarrassed when Mary accidentally called him Sweet Little Jesus Boy when dropping him off at the temple in front of all his friends, who started called him "Sweet Little Jesus Boy" in high, mocking voices:

"Ooh, sorry Sweet Little Jesus Boy! We didn't know it was you!"

And then Jesus would run off to hang out with lepers and plot ways to make Andy Williams feel unnecessary guilt a few milleniums later.

Weird Al's UHF is one of my favorite films. It was once my sister Molly's favorite as well, until it was replaced by Sixteen Candles, then Life Is Beautiful, then Slackers, and finally She's The Man. Impeccable taste, that one.

Here are some fun facts about UHF, via Wikipedia:

• Despite his silly name and wacky behavior, Michael Richards's "Stanley Spadowski" is actually based on a real person. His name? Stanley Snadowski.
• Crispin Glover wanted to play "Crazy Ernie", but Weird Al didn't think he was right for the role. I guess he wanted someone really unbalanced.
• The "Spatula City" sign was placed on a real billboard and, for some reason, was left up for months after shooting was done. Tourists and spatula enthusiasts were often tricked.
• Extras from "Wheel of Fish" received the fish used in the scene as a thank-you. One extra foolishly traded his fish for the unknown contents of a box, which turned out to be empty. He's so stupid!

Part One: I'll Be Home For Christmas

This year, my little sister Molly (AKA "Guatemolly") will be in Central America on the special day. I don't know how she'll celebrate - putting extra lard in the Christmas beans, taking an extra hour to steal wireless internet.

She'll be spending Christmas with more orphans than Daddy Warbucks and Miss Hannigan combined, though it is unlikely they'll sing about a New Deal for Christmas. They would probably call him "Papa Guerradolares", however.

When I was in middle school, my Spanish class received a handout with Spanish-language Christmas carols, which I proceeded to sing incessantly in front of my little sisters. By far, the greatest of these was Spanish-language "Jingle Bells":

Cascabeles, cascabeles
Tra la la la la
Qué alegría
Todo el día y Felicidad

Loosely translated, that's, "Jingle bells, jingle bells, tra la la la la, such joy all day, and happiness." I can only assume that there are no sleighs in Mexico.

This was such a hit that I had presents addressed to "Spanish King" for at least two years. So it was to my great delight that I learned that Guatemolly was singing carols with her orphan charges

Cascabel, cascabel,
Música de amor.
Dulces horas, gratas horas,
Juventud en flor.

Cascabel, cascabel,
Tan sentimental.
No ceces, oh cascabel,
De repiquetear

Roughly, that's, "Jingle bell, jingle bell, music of love. Sweet hours, pleasing hours, youth in flower. Jingle bell, jingle bell, so sentimental. Don't stop ringing, jingle bell."

The simplicity of "Jingle Bells" allows for a variety of interpretations. Our primary Christmas albums growing up were:

1. A Jolly Christmas From Frank Sinatra
2. The Andy Williams Christmas Album
3. Merry Christmas From Sesame Street (which appears to be out of print, and the new version is unfortunately infested with Elmo.)

Each album has its own spin on "Jingle Bells". Frank goes for a swinging version, with backup singers announcing their love of "J-I-N-G-L-E, B-E-double-L-S". For Sesame Street, Herry Monster thinks the song is about "crashing through the snow", but his favorite carol is "Wreck the Halls", so what do you expect? Andy Williams has, "Kay Thompson's Jingle Bells", an expanded, brassy version that includes the line, "From the top of the chimney to the top of the world!"

It's the most populist of carols: secular, malleable, and easily translatable. My favorite recent version comes from Rasheed Wallace of the Detroit Pistons. If nothing else, it is the definitive NBA rendition of "Jingle Bells". Remix!

"I'll Be Home For Christmas", Frank Sinatra.

When we'd listen to this song at my grandma's house, she would get sad about my uncle, who lived in Los Angeles, and never did come home for Christmas. It is unclear whether he did come home for Christmas in his dreams. Having never lived more than an hour's drive away from my own parents, I can't relate to the specifics of the song. There's also never been snow, mistletoe, or "presents on the tree" at one of my Christmases.

I'm not sure how far back in Christmas tree history you have to go to find the time when presents were hung from the tree. I think it's clear that any presents that can be successfully suspended from branches are probably some crappy-ass gifts. I bet people that put presents on the tree also open their presents on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day. And yet, our singer is so sad and lonely, these tiny tree gifts haunt his dreams.

I've never been away for Christmas, though once I was in Utah on my dad's birthday. If I had to write my own version of this carol, it would be something like:

"I'll be home for Dad's birthday
You can count on me
Please make us hike
And ride a bike
And watch British soccer on TV

Dad's birthday will find me
Nursing my sore feet
I'll be home for dad's birthday
As long as there's salami and animal cookies to eat."

The Keane family home always shows the influence of holidays, usually in the form of seasonal teddy bears. At Easter, there are teddy bears holding eggs and teddy bears in rabbit ears, though no teddy bear on the cross. On Halloween, there are teddy bears in tiny ghost costumes, teddy bears dressed as witches, and teddy bears dressed as pumpkins. I'm waiting for mom to buy a teddy bear wearing a t-shirt that a middle-aged receptionist might wear that says, "This Is My Costume!"

Mom has rejected my idea for a mid-January tableau of polar bears seated at the front of a toy bus, while brown bears sit in the back, in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. Besides, January is when our house is filled with hundreds of snowman decorations, before the boxes of heart-toting teddy bears come out for Valentine's Day.

Christmas has the most holiday bears of all: Santa teddy bears, bears in Clement C. Moore-style night shirts and stocking caps, but no teddy bear nativity scene yet. This year, my mom has taken the holiday decorations to a new level, by dressing up our Toyota Previa as a reindeer.

Already, the minivan has been shunned by other Previas and befriended by an elf that wants to be a dentist. Also, Santa Claus started acting like a real asshole to the Previa.

My parents insist that, even though the car is over a decade old, it has never handled better on foggy nights.

I'm not sure if this can be topped, short of teddy bears in muttonchops re-enacting Civil War battles for Memorial Day. What I am sure of, and what I'd gladly shout out with glee, is that this reindeer minivan will go down in history (like Columbus!).

Sunday was Veterans Day. Out of respect for the brave men and women who have served our country over the years, and not at all out of laziness and blog sloth, I have delayed my post about the holiday until today. Keep in mind that the official name is not Veteran's Day or Veterans' Day, but Veterans Day. There is some confusion on that, mainly due to Americans' total befuddlement when it comes to the proper use of apostrophes. I believe the day was originally "Veterans' Day", but when greeting card companies, newspapers, and everyone else kept messing it up, the government decided to ditch the apostrophe and pretend like they'd meant it that way all along. Honestly, it's as if the GI Bill had no effect on literacy whatsoever.

Veterans Day popped up after World War I, though it was originally known as Armistice Day. This reflected the hubris present at the end of World War I, originally known as the Great War, and the War To End All Wars. The official end came by the Treaty of Versailles (originally known as the Awesomeness Accord for Eternal Peace) at 11:11 on 11/11, and signed in a boxcar. People really believed that by making Germany sign the peace accord in humiliating fashion, on a super-memorable time and date, and fining the country five billion pounds, that would totally make those hostilities a thing of the past.

Hence, the holiday's name. It wasn't an armistice, it was the Armistice, the last armistice the world would ever need. No more war, ever, particularly not between those exact same nations in the exact same places in less than twenty years. Nothing good can come of such brazen arrogance, like buying a 24-pack of condoms after your third date with a woman, or when Dusty Baker let Russ Ortiz keep the game ball in Game 6 of the 2002 World Series. There's no way Germany would rebuild its military, or the girl would lose interest after Date #4, or Scott Spezio would hit a three-run home run off Felix Rodriguez, right?

The official change to "Veterans Day" came in 1956, accompanying by a proclamation that explained that the holiday was being expanded to honor veterans of all wars, and not just being changed because that armistice seemed really inconsequential after WWII. The proclamation might well have read, "Guess that 'To End All Wars' business was a crock, huh?"

Memorial Day, a holiday to honor dead soldiers, existed in various forms over a half-century before Veterans Day. Did American simply not care about military veterans until then? I believe that it wasn't so much a lack of respect for the military as it was that until the advent of antiseptic practices at the turn of the century, no one could really envision surviving a trip to the hospital, much less an entire war. The 1920's was the first time that there were significant numbers of surviving military personnel; until then, Memorial Day pretty much had it covered when it came to honoring people who'd served in the military.

So this year, Zembla hopes you treat all veterans with the respect and admiration that Giants general manager Brian Sabean exhibits when looking for free agents. And for God's sake, clean up that punctuation, America.

Sometimes, doing one's job well leads to a great feeling of pride. At other times, a workplace accomplishment only calls attention to how hollow that work you are doing truly is.

Just minutes ago, I noticed that the water cooler was empty, so I grabbed a replacement bottle. And not one of the wussy three-gallon bottles either. I went for the five-gallon monster. Go big or go home is my philosophy.

I stashed the empty bottle and heaved a new one onto the break room table. The lid came off with surprising ease. I lifted the bottle again, and deftly pitched it onto the water cooler base, and did not spill a single drop.

Normally, water splashes the wall, or sloshes onto the base. At the very least, a few stray drops hit the carpet. But this exchange was perfect. I looked around excitedly for someone who had witnessed this historic moment, but everyone was eating, or working, or at least pretending. I couldn't believe no one had seen it at all, especially since that meant it was extremely unlikely anyone had taped it.

I returned to my desk, flush with pride, only barely restraining myself from a self-high-five. And ten seconds later, the sadness of my pride sunk in. I had refilled a water cooler smoothly, and it was my proudest work accomplishment of the month. No one noticed how well I'd done it, and no one would have cared even if they had. And as I sat at my desk contemplating the state of my life, an attorney spilled water on the side of the cooler while attempting to fill the electric tea kettle, destroying all evidence of my feat.

There was one final spill: one tiny tear, from the corner of my right eye.

Thanks to the magic of Meebo, I get to have a lot of interesting conversations with strangers who wander across my page. Here is one of those:

I Hate Christopher Columbus: RANDOM PERSON
I Hate Christopher Columbus: HII
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Hello?
I Hate Christopher Columbus: I have a question...
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Aare you there?
Zembla: Yes?
Zembla: What's your question?
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Do you have any more cruel facts about cristopher columus?
Zembla: Are you doing a report?
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Yes!
Zembla: What kind of stuff do you need?
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Well, its just a persuasive essay
I Hate Christopher Columbus: I just need some more facts about slavery I think
I Hate Christopher Columbus: and anything else you know
I Hate Christopher Columbus: ...
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Im trying to persuade people that he is a villain
I Hate Christopher Columbus: And the draft is due tomorrow

Zembla: Here's a few good links:
I Hate Christopher Columbus: 0.o
Zembla: http://media.www.michigandaily.com/media/storage/paper851/news/2004/10/12/News/Columbus.Day.Sparks.Debate.Over.Explorers.Legacy-1425748.shtml
Zembla: http://www.guardian.co.uk/spain/article/0,,1838823,00.html?gusrc=rss&feed=12
Zembla: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/3184668.stm
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Anything else?

Zembla: What grade are you in?
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Um
I Hate Christopher Columbus: 5th
I Hate Christopher Columbus: GT
Zembla: Nice
Zembla: Well, good luck
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Thanks alot...
Zembla: I think the main thing is, Columbus didn't treat people very well
I Hate Christopher Columbus: He's so mean!
Zembla: And then there are some thing he did unintentionally: spreading disease, and making it possible for even worse explorers to follow him
I Hate Christopher Columbus: I am going to teach other people about his cruelty
I Hate Christopher Columbus: what was the disease that he spread?
Zembla: Measles
Zembla: Later, smallpox showed up
Zembla: People in Europe had built up immunity to a lot of these diseases
Zembla: But people in North America got overwhelmed
I Hate Christopher Columbus: O

Zembla: Hey, can i ask how you found my page?
Zembla: I am just curious
I Hate Christopher Columbus: GOOGLE
I Hate Christopher Columbus: I typed in evil christopher columbus

I Hate Christopher Columbus: He makes me angry...
I Hate Christopher Columbus: He was greedy
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Didn't discover America
Zembla: When I was in elementary school, we were taught that Columbus was a big hero
Zembla: I only learned the bad stuff much later
I Hate Christopher Columbus: AND
I Hate Christopher Columbus: I found out that a philosopher found out the earth was round
I Hate Christopher Columbus: And the teachers were like teaching all this good stuff about him
Zembla: Yeah, the Greeks knew the earth was round about 1500 years before Columbus
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Hah Hah

I Hate Christopher Columbus: I dont like how he like, tests his blades on the Indians
I Hate Christopher Columbus: And then he killes them for fun
I Hate Christopher Columbus: FUN
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Do you think he is in heaven?
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Or hell?
Zembla: Hmm
I Hate Christopher Columbus: I think hell
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Totally
Zembla: Well, I personally don't believe in heaven or hell
Zembla: But, as I understand it, it would depend on whether he repented for what he did
I Hate Christopher Columbus: I sinned a lot
[18:04] Zembla: I think he would go to heaven if he believed in Jesus and asked forgiveness - I think that's the rules
I Hate Christopher Columbus: ...
I Hate Christopher Columbus: But killing is an even worse kind of sin
I Hate Christopher Columbus: I think its called a mortal sin
I Hate Christopher Columbus: And then there are the little ones
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Called venail sins
I Hate Christopher Columbus: I'm not sure if that's how you spell that
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Veniel
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Veneil
Zembla: I don't know if i can help you on the subject of sins, unfortunately

I Hate Christopher Columbus: Do you know anything else Christopher THOUGHT he discovered?
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Like how he thought he discovered the earth was round?
Zembla: I think everyone already thought the earth was round
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Well, yeah, but something like that
Zembla: The people who thought he was making a mistake thought he was not sailing far enough
Zembla: He thought India was a lot closer to Europe than it actually was
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Ohh
I Hate Christopher Columbus: Back to Google!
Zembla: Good luck!

I live in a hundred-year-old building in SF, which is normally quite nice. Recently, we were confronted with the reality of our twenty-five-year-old toilet when the tank began leaking. The broken piece was easily identifiable, but replacing it would require a flux capacitor and Yellow Pages from 1988, the last year said part was manufactured. Luckily, our flat has another half-bathroom, a half-bathroom in the most literal sense. The toilet is full-sized, but every other bathroom component would not be out of place in the penultimate scene of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory (though not the director's cut).

The only solution was a full toilet replacement. So out went the old toilet and in came the new one. We got a sweet little Lamosa - I think it is a 2004 model.

The most notable difference in our new toilet is the sturdier seat. Our old seat was occasionally off-center, and thus, wobbly. I was never afraid of capsizing, but when you're at your most vulnerable, a small imbalance is quite unwelcome. The new seat won't wiggle even if you try to move it intentionally. The seat also seems to be slightly smaller, but it is entirely possible that my ass is simply bigger.

I tested the flush before anything else. Initially, I was apprehensive, because the flush volume appeared to be so low. However, it has so far got the job done. Of course, we'll see the toilet's true colors when it comes to crunch time: big Ethiopian food dinners, drinking binges, the morning after Thanksgiving. Inspector 405 vouches for it.

The low-volume flush is an element of the device's general increased efficiency. It's like going from a big Cadillac to a mid-size Toyota sedan. It is possible that our new toilet is a hybrid. At the very least, it runs on natural gas.

The whole thing has a smaller footprint than the old one, which you can clearly see below. I'm not sure how we will take advantage of the extra floor space this has opened up for us. Maybe a tasteful new rug, or an extra tenant.

Before taking a test-drive, I got under the hood and looked around. It is a pretty simple arrangement, certainly simpler than the previous, medieval-Rube-Goldberg-with-autism mechanics of the old john. No part resembles a dinosaur bone, which is certainly a positive.

I wanted to make my first time with the toilet special. I kept the overhead light off, lit some candles, and started eating more fruit. For music, I decided on Pearl Jam's Release. In general, it was a very positive, gentle experience, but I don't want to go into it any further. A gentleman does not piss and tell.

Geetika wanted to name the toilet, and we finally settled on Troy the Toilet, both for alliteration and the idea that we would be implicitly defecating on the University of Southern California every time we visited the bathroom. Naturally, our other toilet would be named after USC's ostensible starting quarterback, John David Booty. I'm trying to teach myself to fart "Fight On", but so far, no luck.

As a bonus photo, here is my girly G.L.O.W. bath puff:

The support staff of my non-profit law firm had meeting today to learn how to more effectively deal with Spanish-speaking callers. Here's how it went:

-We want to be able to say, in Spanish, "The person who speaks Spanish is not here. Please leave a message on the machine."
-La persona que habla espanol no esta aqui.
-No esta aqui, got it.
-Deje un mensaje
-Deje un masaje.
-Mensaje is message. Masaje is massage.
-If you say, "Deje un masaje", our clients are going to be very confused.
-"Leave a what? Excuse me! What kind of law firm IS this?"

-Should we learn the word for "stop"?
-Just say Un momento
-Uhhn-momento?
-Ooon momento.
-Un momento.
-Or just say, "Callate, cabron!"
-What does "cabron" mean?
-He was just kidding. Never say that word over the phone.

-What if they ask about an attorney?
-The word for lawyer is abogado.
-Avocado?
-Abogado.
-Abocado?
-With a G. And a B.
-Ahh..buh...ahhguh...What is it again?
-Abogado. Don't say "avocado".
-"Do I need a WHAT? What kind of law firm IS this?"
-Since we're next door to Whole Foods, they might be especially confused.
-That should be our new standard for appointing an attorney. If you can afford to buy an avocado from Whole Foods, you are too rich for our services.
-So, the second letter is B?
-This meeting is over.

I can't tell you how many times someone has asked me, "Hey Sean, I know your old roommate is an acclaimed video journalist for The New York Times. Is there a site where I can access all his videos in one place? Does that site have an RSS feed? And have any of his stories received the Publisher's Award? Say, for May of 2007?"

The answer to all those questions is an emphatic Yes. Jigarmehta.com is online, featuring over a year of Jigar Journalism. There's an RSS feed and everything. And The Night Shift in Newark won the Publisher's Award for May 2007. Mr. Mehta goes on a Saturday night patrol with police officers in Newark, New Jersey (as opposed to Newark, the enclave within the city of Fremont, which would make for a slow-moving evening). It's a pretty great piece, even better than the one on The Hypnotic Brass Ensemble, and almost on the level of the unreleased underground classic, Pharm Boys.

I'm trying to convince him to really make some money at this career, and add some banner ads where you try to hit a monkey, but so far, no dice. That monkey is so hard to hit! I think there might be a story there.

It is Columbus Day, a city holiday in San Francisco. Our office follows the court's calendar, so I get the day off, though I like to imagine that in my stead, my administrative tasks are being handled by the finest slave in all of Hispaniola. Because that's what Columbus would have wanted.

I'm going to celebrate by going to North Beach - but I'm not going to drive through the Broadway Tunnel, or take a bus. Instead, I'm going to wander the city aimlessly in a random direction. Wherever I eventually end up, no matter which neighborhood, I'll insist it IS North Beach, refer to all the residents as Italians, and claim the territory in the name of Queen Isabella. Also, I will steal their land.

One thing's for sure - I will be having Indian food for lunch.

I have friend in law school who is taking a class on Property. Today's lecture? Adverse possession. Because that's what Columbus would have wanted.

I used to live in Berkeley, where they don't celebrate Columbus Day. Instead, it's Indigenous Peoples Day, a celebration of the Amerindian populations which were tormented and exploited by Columbus and subsequent colonialists. Given that this is the city of Berkeley, there are some people who see Columbus Day as an opportunity to protest, often in the form of chalking or spray painting "Fuck Columbus!" all over campus. (The phrase nearly always contains an exclamation point, if not three, which indicates that the protester is deadly serious in his or her opposition to the half-millenium dead Genoan sailor.)

I'm not sure who is going to be affected by this message. Guilty-looking exchange students from Barcelona? People putting excessive amounts of sugar in their coffee? A student trying to find a new route to Pimentel Hall by circumnavigating the Valley Life Sciences Building? I have been tempted to add my own anti-Columbus message to the graffiti: "Because Bicentennial Man fucking sucked."

Five years ago, I ran an old fake interview with Christopher Columbus. According to the comments, many high school students use it as a research tool. And I think that's what Columbus would have wanted.

Saturday, September 22nd was the grand opening of the brand-new store opened by my friend Maureen (AKA Mo's), The Treehouse. Located in the Elmwood neighborhood of Berkeley (2935 College Avenue, just above Ashby), The Treehouse is a "green gifts" store, which means they sell gifts that are handmade, recycled, and organic. That description doesn't do justice to how interesting the store is. The products are cool enough that I'd shop there even if it wasn't such a socially-conscious store; it's the retail equivalent of discovering chocolate cake that has the nutritional properties of broccoli.

The store's concept is very socially-, community-, and environmentally-responsible. They donate 1% of their profits to en enviromental fund, they offset their carbon emissions through Carbonfund.org, and they offer promotions to customers who reuse their bags and boxes. Even the plates, napkins, and utensils used at the opening gala were all compostable. They also support the arts, with plans in the works to host trunk shows for local artists in upcoming months. Where the store really stands out is how they combine good taste in art with good social values. Here's a few examples:

They sell multi-colored crayons in various shapes - bears, dinosaurs, assorted animals - that are made from old broken crayons melted together. This is a brilliant idea. If I'd have had multi-colored dinosaur crayons when I was in my formative coloring years, I may have actually developed some artistic ability. In addition, the product is made by developmentally disabled adults.

There are coasters made out of old LPs, trimmed to frame the labels, sold in packs of five for $12. My favorite set had a Kenny Loggins EP featuring a few of his Yacht Rock classics, "I'm Alright" and his solo version of "What a Fool Believes". My only complaint about the set was that the Jesus Christ Superstar coaster didn't have "What's the Buzz" on it, which might actually be a positive in that it would keep me from asking friends to "tell me what's-a-happening" while we enjoyed cold beverages together. The vinyl record bowls also look amazing.

There is a section devoted to products made out of recycled bike parts (via Resource Revival). I particularly liked the bottle openers. You can buy kits to make your own chewing gum, stationary made from recycled paper using soy-based printing, and organically-grown soybean candles (I bought one of those). If you are buying for someone else, they also have environmentally-friendly gift wrapping.

A lot of the products were not necessarily aimed at me, but I loved them just the same. A company called littleoddforest has a bunch of excellent bags that made me temporarily wish I had more women in my life to buy purses for. There's a tote bag fashioned from a page of the Sunday comics, which lets you look cool while also chuckling at the intergenerational strife in Zits. One of my companions bought a snazzy red bag made from recycled leather jackets, so as to look like a rock musician, while caring about the earth like a folk musician:

My favorite item was the "nuts-and-bolts" bowl, which is a serving bowl made out of interlocked nuts and bolts. I wish I could find a photo, but it looks like something you find in a Jeunet-and-Caro movie. The only thing that kept me from buying it was being unsure how it would fit in with our house's kitchen, which already has a few serving bowls already, but I may not be able to hold back on my next trip to Elmwood.

To summarize, I love this store, and I think many of my readers would as well, particularly those that enjoy products featuring cute animals on them and "green" gifts for babies (you know who you are). It's open every day - why not go tomorrow?

The Treehouse Green Gifts
2935 College Ave
(between Ashby Ave & Russell St)
Berkeley, CA 94705
(510) 204-9292
www.treehousegreengifts.com

On our drive up to Lake Shasta on Friday, we missed the turnoff for 505. No one was paying attention at the crucial moment in Vacaville, so we ended up driving an extra thirty miles, meeting Highway 5 at Sacramento instead of cutting across. Not only does 505 save time, but it avoids Davis and Sacramento. John McCrea would have been beside himself with rage when we missed a chance to dodge the automotive congestion around the city.

I know Davis isn't really that bad, especially compared to the black hole of suck that is the city of Sacramento. I've had a beef with Davis ever since my senior year of college, when a distant cousin returned, fresh off his first quarter at UC Davis, to extol the virtues of college. "You're gonna love it," he told me. "In Davis, you can get a burger - at midnight! Sean, it's the ultimate freedom."

That phrase became shorthand for me and my family for years, whenever anyone mentioned Davis, the glory of college life, or something mundane that made them so deliriously happy that it depressed us. I thought of that often in Berkeley, standing in line at 1 AM for a slice of greasy Fat Slice pizza with cardboard crust, muttering to myself, "Ultimate freedom. Ultimate freedom."

My favorite shortcut is 242, the classic, and the only freeway to originate in Pleasant Hill. 242 is similar to 505 in that it connects two uninspiring places by going quickly and dodging the slightly crappier places in between. 242 was known as "The Hypotenuse" among many of my dorky friends, because it cut across the right angle formed by 680 and 4 at Buchanan Field. I like to imagine Pythogoras driving an old Honda Civic, pumping his fist as he exited 680 on his way to Stockton.

One benefit of missing the turnoff to 505 was that we got to visit Woodland, California, which has a complex right off the highway featuring an elaborate array of services for travelers. There's a convenience store, a gas station, and a Wendy's, all under one roof, though nothing was as memorable as the men's restroom.

There, next to the condom machine, was a cologne dispenser. For just fifty cents, you could get a spray of cologne, presumably squirted out of the side of the machine itself. I can think of so many times when I've been traveling on Highway 5, in desperate need of a musky scent, and caught short of imitation Drakkar Noir: giving a teenage runaway a ride Red Bluff, furiously speeding to an outdoor kegger in Chico, stuck in a car without air conditioning during a 110-degree afternoon in Auburn on the way to a Craigslist casual encounters rendezvous.

There's one more situation where a cologne dispenser becomes indispensable: on the way to an 11-man houseboat weekend on Lake Shasta. Needless to say, I got $1.50 worth of scent that afternoon. Happy engagement, Dustin!

I've mentioned before that I am a user of body wash. Much of this stems from an old relationship, where my girlfriend reacted with horror to my flesh-desiccating bar soap, my lack of conditioner, and the total absence of skin care products in my bathroom. As a result, she bought many of those items, along with a diverse array of pomades, in an attempt to soften/pretty me up. It worked until the breakup, and my slide into ill-advised goatee-growing.

While I am still working my way through a gigantic bottle of conditioner purchased in 2004 (does conditioner ever expire?), and most of my fancy soaps have never been used, I've irrevocably switched to liquid-soap-and-loofah usage. Usually, it doesn't make me question my manliness. After all, if a loofah (or falafel) is good enough for Bill O'Reilly, it's good enough for me, right?

But today, I switch to a new bath puff, and realized that I have begin buying bath products not just for girls, but for pre-teen girls. My new scrub product is a "Rainbow Sherbet G.L.O.W. Bath Puff". G.L.O.W. stands for "Girls Leading Our World".

Throw away those washcloths and start using your G.L.O.W. bath puff. It really suds up your soap and is much more fun to use! Get yourself into a nice warm bath or shower. Wet the mesh bath puff and rub your favorite soap on it! Lift an arm or leg and gently rub the puff in circle shapes on your skin. Now you're feeling fresh and clean!

So, in summary, I am a teenage girl, I am extremely fresh and clean, I smell faintly of rainbow sherbet, and I am ready to lead our world.

(UPDATE: You can find more information about this family of products at ReadySetGlow.com. I highly recommend the bath puff's exfoliating qualities, and hope that the cute boy in my fourth-period Health class notices the change in my skin.)

I stopped at a 24-Hour Bakery tonight as part of an unsuccessful midnight search for Jell-O. While the bakers didn't have any room for Jell-O, they did have Capri Suns for sale. I had a Fruit Punch in a space-age-looking pouch, virtually unchanged from how it looked twenty years ago.

Someone future millionaire should really get Bacardi and Kraft Foods (the North American distributor of Capri Sun) together, so they can start releasing "Hard Pacific Cooler", "Tropical Rum Punch" and other Capri-Sun-and-alcohol combos. It's a perfect combo. The Capri Sun makes you nostalgic for your childhood, then the alcohol blots out your memories of said childhood. If you had a traumatic memory that took place after a Little League game, it's even more perfect.

It might be difficult for people to deal with the delicate Capri Sun straw insertion process. Luckily, plastered people can simply insert the straw into the bottom of the pouch. Maybe that means you can't put it down, and have to drink it up quickly, but come on, it's only 6.75 ounces. Finish your cocktail and then grab a snack. I think it would go well with my thousand-dollar snack idea: Kudos Bars With Weed In Them.

Don't forget to Vote for Mo!

Britney Spears did a terrible performance at MTV's Video Music Awards this year. By all accounts, it was an unwatchable wreck. Nevertheless, on Monday morning, three different people insisted I see it. "It's terrible. She's so bad. You've got to watch it!"

The same thing held true when paparazzi got photos of Britney's cooter. One friend of mine emailed links to where the photos could be found, and seemed almost offended I hadn't seen them.

"Are the pictures hot?" I asked.
"No, they're really disgusting. You've got to see them!"

Britney Spears has become the spoiled milk that's so rancid and unpleasant to smell that you have to make everyone else smell how bad it's gotten. She's so far gone it's unreal. Nowhere was this concept demonstrated more elegantly than in "Unpleasant Stimuli", a Saturday Night Live sketch from the beginning of the golden Carvey-Hartman-Farley era in 1990. In the below clip, watch as each family member feels Chris Farley's gross, sweaty stomach.

Also notice that when Farley makes his entrance, the spice rack falls off the wall, and Tom Hanks barely acknowledges it. Has this been a sketch with Jimmy Fallon or Horatio Sanz, the whole thing would have devolved into giggling.

(Thanks to Improv Is Good For You.)

If I ever became a male stripper, I think I'd have a 9/11-themed act. I'd be a fireman, and my partner (presumably Mike B) would dress up as a cop. Not only is this patriotic, I figure it would earn us some slack with our audience. A fireman is too busy being a hero to worry about keeping his abs looking good. 9/11 has taught us that heroism isn't about eating right or doing some sit-ups. Real heroism comes from inside you, no matter how much flab is there to cushion and protect the tender heroism.

As I imagine our act, it would start with a moment of silence. Then we'd announce, "Let's roll," and slowly start stripping to the accompaniment of Bruce Springsteen's "The Rising". Audience members would be encouraged to write derogatory things about Islam and shove them into our pants. Rescue workers in any capacity get free dances. One of us would wear a red-white-and-blue thong, while the other gets the camouflage variety. And not the classic variety - a digital camouflage thong, so we can strip in desert, woodland, or urban bachelorette party environments.

Other soundtrack possibilities include Tom Petty's "I Won't Back Down", Tobey Keith's "Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue", or 45-minute Bin Laden speeches delivered in High Arabic. Will it be sexy? Let me put it this way: When our clothes come off, there's no way you aren't going to remember exactly where you were that day.

Does microwave give you lung disease? A popular New York Times story (still holding at strong at the #6 position at post time) suggests that it can, if you work in a microwave popcorn factory, or if you eat two bags of microwave popcorn every single day for a decade, while inhaling the fragrance of the newly-opened bag.

My good friend Louise categorically stated that she was "never eating that stuff again", but after crunching the numbers, I feel that the risk is minimal.

According to the story, Wayne Watson dropped 50 pounds in six months, after his diagnosis, by cutting out microwave popcorn. (Other news accounts have the number at a more conservative 35 pounds) One pound is roughly 3500 calories, so we're looking at 175,000 total calories in six months. Per day, that's about a thousand popcorn calories a day he dropped. Act II butter-flavor microwave popcorn clocks in at 480 calories per bag, so our hero was averaging just over two full bags of microwave popcorn every day.

And if anyone was going to develop popcorn worker's lung, as the disease is called, it would be this guy. When the doctor asked about his snack habits, Watson declared, "I am Mr. Popcorn. I love popcorn." I think he earned the title. If you eat one food so much that simply removing that one food from your diet leads to a fifty-pound weight loss, you can certainly call yourself, "Mr (That Food)".

I wonder if his family was silently horrified by Mr. Popcorn. Watching him ritualistically preparing for his twice-nightly Orville Redenbacher binge, slipping on the mesh "Mr. Popcorn" baseball cap after changing into a t-shirt that reads, "If This Corn's Poppin', Don't Bother Knockin'!" I imagine Mr. Popcorn standing in front of the microwave, impatiently hopping from foot to foot as he monitors the rate of popping. Every Christmas, a new popcorn-themed gift, from salt shakers, to ceramic "Mr. Popcorn" bowls, to special potholders shaped like ears of corn, to exotic varieties of microwave popcorn like the legendary "pour-over butter" (note: 510 calories/bag, 66% of the daily recommended allowance of fat). Each family member struggling with guilt over enabling his addiction, but ultimately won over by seeing Mr. Popcorn's face light up as he inhaled the intoxicating, poisonous buttered popcorn odor.

The low periods could have been quite dark. The time Mr. Popcorn refused to go on a camping trip in order to stay with the microwave. Shouting matches at movie theater concession stands. The Christmas when he received a large tub of different flavored popcorn, and stormed from the room in protest, slamming the door behind him, the awkward silence only broken minutes later by the familiar hum of the microwave and the faint sounds of popping.

Mr. Popcorn took it further in another article, declaring, "I am microwave popcorn." You are what you eat. Considering he consumed 1000 calories of popcorn every day for a decade, that is literally true. Louise suggests that nearly all of his cells have microwave popcorn molecules in them at this point.

Ultimately, the guy made Louise and I both feel sad: "His one joy in life," said Louise, "was sticking his face into a bag of freshly popped microwave popcorn and inhaling deeply." Yes, he's living longer, but what is he living for? Golf? Fresh fruit? In the words of Michael Bolton, how is he supposed to carry on, when all that he's been living for is gone?

The stakes are getting higher in the greatest prank war of all time. The last prank cost Amir a cross-country flight, a car rental, and a little piece of his soul. This time, Amir makes a $500 investment at "Prankee Stadium". Watch, cringe, fall in love all over again:

I am at a restaurant with a group of people, and we are discussing movies. The waiter of some vague non-white ethnicity - probably Greek or Persian - delivers a milkshake I've ordered. It is unblended, and possibly not made of milk and ice cream at all - there are ice cubes actually floating in the drink. I become extremely agitated by this, and argue with the waiter. I ask for a new, properly made milkshake, and then I ask to speak to the manager. I meet the manager and the cook - also of the same undefined ethnicity - and we all argue.

I become angrier and angrier, yelling in a very heated manner, and demanding a milkshake made of ice cream. Finally it comes out that they intentionally made me a defective milkshake, because they had overheard our table talking in a disparaging manner about the acting ability of Chris "Ludacris" Bridges. I yell and curse, but the restaurant staff has become defiant, even as other patrons notice and get upset. The dream ends with me still unsatisfied and furious.

Here's a great dream write-up from Eugenio.

I was at a party a while ago, talking to a guy named Chad and another guy who was from New Jersey. Chad asked a weird question, and the conversation declined from there. Note: Not made up.

Chad: I'm gonna ask a WEIRD question here. What's your spirit animal?

Sean: That is a weird question.

Jersey Guy: Snake. Because I shed my skin.

Chad: Nice.

Jersey Guy: I've been told snake, sometimes wolf. I think I have some qualities of both. How about you?

Chad: Raven! (To me) What's your animal?

Sean: I don't have one.

(Chad and Jersey Guy shake their heads in disgust.)

Sean: How do I know what my spirit animal is?

Jersey Guy: Is there some animal that you feel really close to, like you have a connection to them?

Sean: No, not really. I like the water. Maybe a dolphin? I really don't know.

Chad: (to Jersey Guy) How'd you figure out your animal?

Jersey Guy: I've had people, Native Americans, come up and tell me from time to time. I've also had some strange, meaningful experiences involving wolves. Once, a wolf walked right up to me, and I just stood there. And for snakes, you know, I shed my skin, too.

Chad: Right on.

Sean: So, what's the point of a spirit animal?

Chad: OK, say you're lost, and you need to find some water. You'd close your eyes, and ask your spirit animal to guide you to the water. Like, I'd follow a raven, and it'd lead me there.

Sean: Does that actually work?

Chad: Yes.

Jersey Guy: Yes.

Chad: It helps if you do a quest.

Sean: Hey, I'm going to go talk to someone else now.

According to Professor Charles Xavier, a mutant's power normally manifests during puberty. For me, it appears to have come up in my late twenties. It's as if my body decided, I guess this is as mature as he's going to get. Maybe he can't grow a beard, but maybe there's something with his shoulder hair.

I noticed this at the second round of my most recent comedy competition. My friend came to support me, and while talking, she mentioned that I smelled "like a baby". Somehow, my body odor conveyed to her the scent of baby powder and milk, though I was confident I'd encountered neither of those substances during my day. However, my friend had been thinking a lot about babies and pregnancy recently. She also added that on occasions in the past, I had a very "macho" scent about me, but she linked it to times when she'd already been thinking about manly men.

I shrugged off this bombshell and walked back to the comics' green room. Within five minutes of my entrance, a larger comic spoke up. "Does it smell like garlic and onions in here?" No one else noticed, but looked at me suspiciously as I sniffed the air.

That was when I knew it was no coincidence, but the sign of mutant abilities. My personal scent evokes people's subconscious desires. For my friend, it was motherhood. For that other comedian, it was dinner. I'm sure there are others who have noticed but not said anything, perhaps because it's weird to tell your old roommate that you smell like a motorcycle, or because it's difficult to identify what falling in love smells like.

I've tried to nurture my new powers. I'm wearing less deodorant these days, and overdressing on warm days. Women sense my power, and they seek the life essence. I do not avoid women, but I do deny them my essence. Besides, if I ended up showering with woman who was attracted by my mutant pheronomes, the effect might cut out mid-shower as I got clean. She'd be left confused and horrified, wondering how she'd ever thought I smelled like health insurance and unconditional love.

My conundrum is this: What if I meet a woman whose secret desire is in fact...Sean Keane? What would that odor even be? Would it be the olfactory equivalent of pointing a video camera at a TV monitor displaying the camera's signal, a feedback loop of musk and longing that ultimately makes you feel a little sick to your stomach? Only Professor Xavier could say for sure.

Sometimes you encounter a photo that perfectly encapsulates what it means to be an America. This shot was taken at a Costco in Arizona:

Technology is changing mean older brother pranks. For every new method of little brother harassment enabled by technological advances (as seen below), there's two more that fall by the wayside.

Lacking a little brother, my own mean older brother behavior was mostly limited to forcing my younger sisters to play baseball and soccer in the backyard with me for hours. However, I heard legendary stories from friends who had little brothers, including one mean game called "the typewriter".

To do the typewriter, first you sit on your little brother and pin hia arms with your knees. Then, you drum your fingers on his chest, like you were typing in his sternum. Periodically, you slap their face and yell, "Ding!" Ah, the untapped violent potential of the carriage return.

Unfortunately, technology has made the typewriter obsolete. Modern older brothers have no idea why you would slap in that manner. Slapping a little brother they can get behind, but to what end? I propose a replacement prank: The blog. Mean older brothers can do the same typing move as before, but instead of the slap, they can flick the tip of the nose and right-click the nostrils. To mix things up, mean brothers can poke the middle of the little brother's forehead while yelling, "Refresh!"

Games involving slurping up a loogy right before it hits your little brother's face are timeless, and will never get old until the human race develops cybernetic salivary gland implants.

(Scene: Sleep Train Pavilion, Concord. Chris Isaak has left the stage, Stevie Nicks has not yet taken the stage. A John Mayer song plays over the PA system.)

(Chris approaches Davey and places his hand on Davey's leg.)

Chris: I don't know if I've told you this before, but...your body is a wonderland, Davey.

Davey: Look, as far as you're concerned, my body is a Never Never Land.

Sean: Yes, because over the years, it's been inhabited by a lot of lost boys.

A few weeks ago, I attended the Beer & Oyster Festival at Fort Mason. It's an interesting combination, based on signature items served by the sponsor, O'Reilly's Irish Pub & Restaurant. My friend Annie wondered if you could have a festival for any delicious, unhealthy items you might combine. The Whiskey & Dumplings Festival. The Marijuana & Pizza Festival. It's much like the approach taken by Food & Wine Magazine, which has to have the best employee perks in the world, outside of Cocaine & Blowjob Magazine.

As Annie and I continued our discussion, a staffer hung a sign announcing that the water booth was now serving fudge.

The festival featured a variety of entertainment to go along with the oysters and libations. When we arrived, the stage was full of Irish dancers. I enjoy Irish dancing because it's an art form that recognizes the rhythmic limitations of the Irish people. Why pretend that the Irish, or white people in general, have any abilities regarding moving their lower bodies in time with a beat?

The Irish have decided not to tempt fate by attempting to move their torsos. The dance takes place entirely between the knees and feet, with occasional arm movements for emphasis. It makes sense. Paraplegics don't still try to do track and field. They develop their own athletic disciplines. Irish dancing is the quad rugby of dance.

Similar dancing took place when the headlining act took the stage. When Flogging Molly played, revelers "danced" by jogging in place, and kind of kicking their feet backwards. The style combined limited ability with unprovoked, erratic violence. And if that doesn't say, "Ireland", I don't know what does.

Flogging Molly is a band that follows the classic Irish band name formula of (Violent Act + Stereotypical Irish Name). The Dropkick Murphys used the same model. Next year's festival will feature the band Knuckle Sandwich O'Malley, opening for Savage Thrashing of Seamus, with a special guest appearance by Shooting Bono In The Back Of The Head With a Potato Gun. Their music may not sound like much, but you won't want to miss the dancing, or the fudge.

Inspired by this post, here's a memory from my college years. Millionaire Ron Unz had sponsored a ballot initiative to revamp/eliminate bilingual education in California, and his supporters were holding a rally on campus. To advertise, they'd placed flyers on the back of all the seats in Wheeler Auditorium.

"ENGILISH ONLY!!!"

Even if you overlook the three exclamation points, a level of grammatical hysteria usually reserved for naive children's letters to Santa or ISO posters, that's just not going to cut it.

Proposition 227 passed anyway.

The SF Department of Parking & Transportation still enforces its street sweeping parking regulations on Memorial Day. If I still have to move my car across the street on the night before Memorial Day, what was the point of all those soldiers dying fighting the Nazis in the first place?

For now, comments are emancipated from the minimal-registration shackles of TypeKey (but feel free to register all the same!), but Zembla is still receiving thrilling communications via Meebo. This is one of our sadder communications so far, probably in response to this post, the #2 search result for "Kristen Larson".

barbiexxface: i typed kristen larson in google
barbiexxface: kristen just died saterday
barbiexxface: and yeah
barbiexxface: im going to her wake and stuff
barbiexxface: i have to go bye.

Zembla has had an unusually large number of people visit looking for Kristen Larson recently. It's too bad this is the reason why. Condolences to Kristen Larson's friends and family. And yeah.

Amir also assured me that my comedic influence was slightly more than zero percent. I appreciate his nice comments, but fear that this may be part of the set-up for a humiliating prank. I am pretty sure the prank will not involve Amir riding a bike, because he never learned how.

The evening was going poorly. I had neither of my two sets of car keys, nor the means to connect with either holder of said keys. My ancient phone charger no longer works, so my lack of access to the car also meant a lack of access to the car charger, so my phone was down to its last few minutes of battery power. Technology had defeated me, and not even complicated technology at that.

Cut off from communication and filled with simmering rage, I still had stand-up comedy obligations. Yes, it was a waiting-room-shaped theater with 27-person capacity. Yes, the actual crowd would number between six and ten befuddled tourists, horrified by their surroundings and already regretting their ticket purchases. Their pained, non-laughing faces would tremble, as if to escape the mediocre comedy occurring far too close, their eyes whispering, "We could have seen Jersey Boys". But I am a performer, and a performer must constantly hone his craft.

I learned there is something more depressing than performing to a silent audience of six after the frantic host has delivered a monologue about her belief that the Queen of England should become a prostitute, a monologue that uses the word "coochie" between eight and ten times, depending on crowd reaction, then introduced me as "Jeff". Namely, traveling to the Tenderloin to find the tiny theater locked, the show cancelled without explanation.

Arriving back home, my spirit as dead as my cellular phone, I decided I could perhaps salvage the night with a workout. While 24-Hour Fitness is a misnomer on the level of The NeverEnding Story, my local branch is open until midnight. It was uncrowded at 10:45 on a Friday night, residents of my neighborhood apparently not making fitness a priority on weekends. There was only one other person on the Precors as I set to getting my elliptical on. But he was humming.

I made it through "Hey Jude" and one verse of Bob Seger's "Night Moves" before I finally snapped. Red-faced and dripping sweat, I turned and shouted, "Stop that! Right now!"

He looked chagrined, and walked over to the stationary bicycles. In retrospect, I am not sure if he thought I was telling him to stop humming, or to get off the elliptical trainer. Maybe he wasn't even consciously aware of his humming, just my crazed splotchy face, bulging eyeballs, and obvious willingness to throw down. Nevertheless, no more goddamn humming.

Denouement: Late in the evening, I got a set of keys back, then moved the car while charging up the phone. When I pulled into the new space across from my house, the car in front of me contained a couple getting it on in the front seat. I considered shouting, "Stop that! Right now!", but in fairness to the couple losing those awkward teenage blues, public sex is way less offensive than public humming. If the choice is between someone humming "Night Moves" near me, and actually working on their night moves near me, I'm going to choose the latter every time.

I went out last night after my show and I drank too much. Actually, it wasn't a matter of alcoholic consumption as much as it was my lack of dinner that screwed me up, but nevertheless, I was plowed. When I woke up this morning, I didn't remember anything after leaving the party and waiting for the bus. So I decided to examine the evidence.

My ever-present notebook was no help at all. My scrawled notes are all about the Warriors-Jazz series and free-throw shooting, proving that excessive amounts of gin only increase my nerdiness. Only one note is different, and hopefully something I did not say out loud:

"'Juice' - Gatorade plastic container vs. anti-Semitic 'Jews'".

Yeah, that one is definitely going into my act. It's got a lot of promise, particularly if I ever performa in front of an audience of athletically-minded white supremacists. Also? Gatorade is not juice.

A quick perusal of my surroundings yielded further clues. I had slept under only my comforter, not the sheets. That's because I made the bed after staggering home, and apparently Drunken Sean didn't want to ruin his (admittedly excellent) bedsmanship. It's like alcohol awakened a commitment to hospital corners that I never knew I had.

Moving further into the apartment, I saw more damning evidence of my drunken tomfoolery. The dish drainer was full of clean pots and pans, which I must have washed around 2:30. I left them to air dry, like a true rebel. There was also a pile of empty plastic bags and a receipt. Yes, in my drunken stupor, I'd gone to Safeway. And what did I buy? Apples, zucchini, carrots, and bananas. And microwave popcorn, but it was the light kind. I even used a coupon that saved me $4.

I don't feel good about drinking to such excess, but at the same time, I'm pleased to have gotten so much done. Perhaps sobriety is what's been holding me back all these years. I'll be spending the rest of the afternoon at Harrington's, downing Irish car bombs while balancing my checkbook, studying linguistics, and making a shoebox diorama of the Eschaton scene from Infinite Jest.

Courtesy of my friends at the Grammar Rodeo, this is a photo from the official Kenny Rogers web page. I'm already fond of Oscar Rodeos and the album Sweetheart of the Rodeo, so the Grammar Rodeo should be a nice addition.

This photo appears to be a child dressed up as Sonny Crockett, Don Johnson's character from Miami Vice. He's got the stubble, the oversized sunglasses, and even a handgun. The smoke behind him hints at a dramatic miniature crime scene just out of the camera's range, perhaps a tiny, fiery boat crash.

In short, this is an accomplished photograph. The production value is high, so high that I find it hard to imagine that this is the only one of its kind in the Kenny Rogers portfolio. I would even venture that it is not the only child-as-Miami-Vice-character photograph in the portfolio. Hanging on a wall in stately Rogers Manor, there's a little Ricardo Tubbs in a small pastel suit, a little Cuban boy dressed as drug dealer Calderone, and a black-suited boy done up to look like an eight-year-old Edward James Olmos, complete with pockmarks. The Sonny Crockett portrait may be the finest result from this project, but it's clearly not the first one.

Kenny may not have stopped at Vice, either. Who knows how many children have been forced to dress as 80's TV cops to satisfy Kenny's inexplicable obsession? Right now, standing under hot lights as perfectionist Kenny gets the Hill Street Blues backdrop just right, there's a frightened eight-year-old clad in a police officer's uniform, waiting for a lunch break and some long-promised fried chicken. The only sound is quiet weeping and Kenny's muttered mantra, "You got to know when to pose 'em, know when to expose 'em, know when to add fake facial hair, know when to get sunglasses." Kenny can calibrate his light meter when he's sitting at the table, but will there truly be time enough to count the psychological damage, even after the photography is done?

That being said, I bet the 21 Jump Street series is adorable.

More Kenny Rogers on Zembla:

What I Learned on Thanksgiving
On a Warm Summer's Evening In a Compact Car Bound For Nowhere

And some posts about the other Kenny Rogers

Many years ago, I used to teach a writing class at UC Berkeley. One of my former students has since gone on to a very bright future in the world of comedy writing, a future that is roughly...zero percent due to my tutelage. Amir Blumenfeld writes for College Humor, created Drew Bledsoe's brilliant blog, and is a gifted impressionist, but I feel his great accomplishment comes via his prank war with co-worker Streeter Seidell.

It all began with a doctored mp3 of "Stacy's Mom", by Fountains of Wayne, and a video of Amir unwittingly singing along. After that, things escalated. Lucky for all of us, the complete prank war is documented on Vimeo.

Prank 1: Don't Look At My Face

Amir unwittingly sings along to an mp3 of "Stacy's Mom", into which Streeter has secretly spliced an audio recording of himself having sex.

Prank 2: Where's My Cookie?

Streeter goes on a lunch date with a girl who doesn't actually exist.

Prank 3: Notice How He Picks a Stereotype That Isn't Even True

Amir auditions for a fake comedy/sketch pilot, set up by Streeter. He does a series of impressions and introduces himself as "Andy Bloom".

Prank 4: There Could Have Been Industry People There

Streeter performs at an open mic at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater in New York City, where unbeknownst to him, the audience has been instructed not to laugh at any of his jokes. This one is very difficult to watch.

I am very torn watching these clips. For my own enjoyment, I would like the prank war to continue indefinitely, but at the same time, I share the concerns of one Vimeo commenter, who worries that, "This war is going to end in one of their deaths."

The May 2007 Sean Keane College Tour rolls to San Francisco State University today. It's a free show at 5 PM at The Depot, part of the Cesar Chavez Student Center. Here is a map. If you're on campus for any reason, or just hanging out near Daly City BART in the late afternoon, come check it out.

The other comedians are:

Joe Klocek - Punchline regular, soon to be featured on Comedy Central's Live at Gotham
Clark Taylor - Veteran SF comic
Edwin Li - SF State student and Transformers enthusiast
Kevin O'Shea - A lot like Kevin Shea, except for Irisher and soberer
Joe Gorman - Founder and star, Babyfaces of Comedy Tour, and also a Transformers enthusiast
Plus special guests!

The Pub next door also has drink specials tonight, a crucial part of enjoying comedy at 5 PM that isn't in the form of a "Three's Company" rerun. Of course, the Pub specials would make Jack Tripper a lot funnier, too. The landlord thinks he's gay, people!

On Saturday, I visited Paramount's Great America in scenic Santa Clara, California. I hadn't been to Great America since Gay & Lesbian Night, back in 2003, so I was eager to re-discover the wonders of roller coaster fun, and write down lots of observations in a yellow pocket-sized notebook. In summary: The park is pretty great, though becoming steadily less American.

The reason for this is the introduction of Boomerang Bay.

At Zembla, we've been staunch supporters of all things Australian, but is this really appropriate at Great America? It's not Great Treason or anything, but it's pretty far from Great Patriotism. I can't help but suspect that this is a symbol of the nefarious partnership between Australian PM John Howard and his BFF George W. Bush. David Hicks goes home, but is forced to agree to a one-year media ban. In return, Howard criticizes Democratic presidential candidates. And now, Great America has an entire Australian area. I don't have any proof, but I bet Paul Wolfowitz helped negotiate this expansion.

For the benefit of Zembla's Australian readers, here's a list of what's featured in Boomerang Bay (which is not, as far as I can tell, an actual body of water Down Under.) Aussies registered with TypeKey can let me know of any odd naming choices or discrepancies with authentic Australian culture.

Outback Shack: Serves freshly battered fish and shrimp, pizza, breadsticks, French fries, salads, soda and beer.

Mick's Crocodile Canteen: Pizza, hot dogs, salads, nachos, soda, beer.

Castaway Creek: Circular tube ride.

The Screamin' Wombat, Downunder Thunder, Didgeridoo Falls: Waterslides

Boomerang Lagoon: Swimming pool

Great Barrier Reef: Wave pool

Jackaroo Landing, Kookaburra Cay: Water play areas.

HMB Endeavor: Used to be called The Revolution, and informally known as "The Pirate Ship". It has now been re-named after the ship Captain Cook used on his first voyage of discovery to Australia and New Zealand, though Maori visitors might still consider it a pirate vessel.. Though the ship ran aground on the Great Barrier Reef, the historical record does not show that it ever turned upside down in a terrifying manner, as Great America's HMB Endeavor does. Park officials have also Americanized the spelling of the ship's name. South of the Equator, this ride moves in the opposite direction.

The Demon: In the past, I have compared the Demon to Big Thunder Mountain Railroad:

Since Cementhorizon has moved to TypeKey registration, ambitious-but-unregistered commenters have had to resort to Meebo to let their virtual voices be heard. Some have been abusive-yet-inaccurate, while others have had more pleasant things to say.

Below are the comments of "musketeer freak", which I to be in response to Imagine An Iron Mask Filled With Nougat.

"hii
i love musketeers
there the best
yum yum yum
YOU KNOW IT
bye bye adios amigos
i still LOVE musketeers"

Thanks for commenting, musketeer freak, and come back soon as Zembla returns back to its important work in the field of Candynalysis. YOU KNOW IT.

I saw a Threadless t-shirt that reminded me of a classic Squelch piece, The Gentle Jangle of Success. Ah, the days when the Squelch was printed on toilet-paper grade newsprint, stained your hands, had no color, and regularly alienated the Native American and Filipino campus communities. Not that they don't currently alienate people, but I think Filipinos have pretty much gotten a free ride since 2000.

When I was looking for the title of the key piece, I discovered another nugget of Sean Keane internet famousness in a review of Richard Grayson's And To Think That I Kissed Him On Lorimer Street. The reviewer cites the Squelch and quotes from an old Words From The Top entitled, Class of 2004: Don't Sing It, Bring It. (I don't remember why we chose that title.)

One particular letter from the editor that stands out in my mind is the one addressed to the freshman in fall 2000: "College," the editor opined, "is like a hypercolor t-shirt. It starts out with a brilliant pink burst of excitement, before slowly fading away to a blur of resentment and apathy." The editor also instructed the freshmen, "If you're one of those students who asks questions in lecture every day, just remember, there's a special circle in hell for you people."

The remainder of the Squelch piece discusses unbaptized infants, restraining orders, and the odd confluence of antique stores on the corner of Shattuck and Adeline in Berkeley. The remainder of the book review gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up to Mr. Grayson's book, noting that his "handling of his characters' sexuality is deft and never overbearing", which is how I like to think I deal with my own sexuality, albeit not in print.

What is the lesson here? Clearly, I should be making more t-shirts, and publishing a collection of semi-autobiographical short stories, possibly concerning keys. The tentative working title is, Sean M. Keane, Will You Please Go Now!

Cementhorizon recently switched its comment system to forbid comments from unregistered users. Aside from blocking spam, this change has had little effect on most of the Cementhorizosphere, but Zembla gets a lot of random visitors. Some of these now-thwarted people have a lot of poorly-spelled opinions about Asian-American children's names, Japanese cars, Kirby Puckett, and Mr. Wendal that they are dying to share with me. What are they to do?

For one frustrated St. Louis Cardinals fan, the answer was Meebo. Technically savvy readers know that you can chat with your humble author via the chat box at the upper right of the page. Recently, a displaced Red Sox fan asked me about tickets for Two Dolla Wednesday using the magic of Meebo. An Australian friend arranged a lunch date using Meebo when he couldn't find my email address. St. Louis Superfan is the first person to go straight to verbal abuse, a Meebo milestone for me.

I'm not sure which entry provoked his ire, but for the historical record, here is Meeboguest190942's comment:

"you are just mad because the friggin cardinals can kill the giants any day.and i would also like to know another shortstop besides ozzie smith that got more than 14 gold gloves faggot.Besides,your page sucks balls."

Ozzie Smith only won 13 Gold Gloves, but thanks for visiting, Meeboguest190942! Remember, TypeKey registration is easy and free, but check your ad-blocking software settings if you have trouble logging in. Because we can all agree that comment spam is what truly sucks balls.

Thanks to Gene and his technical aptitude, San Francisco State University, the nation of Finland, and physics itself for bringing us this stellar clip of Ilkka explaining things. Public reaction has ranged from, "Yey!" to, "Aerodynamicist, my ass."

If you get the Discovery Channel, check out "Mythbusters" on Monday night at 8 PM. The episode is called Birds in a Truck, and features excellent commentary from a prominent local aerodynamicist. We'll try to bring you some YouTube highlights if you miss it. Set your TiVos on "Inform!"

Don Imus got fired by CBS for calling the Rutgers women's basketball team "nappy=headed hos", culminating a week of interminable, relentless news coverage with people from Snoop Dogg to Oprah weighing in. I don't think he should have been fired, but my apathy outweighs my outrage by about a factor of ten. I don't listen to Imus, don't know anyone who does, and generally don't understand why anyone listens to talk radio. So I'd like to discuss my experience with the word "hos".

Like most kids in the suburbs, I first encountered the word through the music of Dr. Dre. As a teenager, I made a lot of horribly clever puns about Santa Claus and gardening equipment, but I always knew "ho" was a derogatory term - at least until I heard Queen Latifah's "U.N.I.T.Y." If you're unfamiliar, the chorus includes the line:

You gotta let him know
You ain't a bitch or a ho

A message of empowerment, right? Unfortunately, I heard the lyrics as, "You ain't a bitch, you're a ho." It was confusing, but I tried to suss out Latifah's meaning. Maybe this song was about owning one's sexuality and freedom - the "ho" as liberated woman. I would have thought "bitch" had more positive connotations, but who was I to decide what word the Queen wanted to reclaim? I made a mental note: "Bitch" was a bad word, but "ho"? Not nearly as bad.

I don't remember when I was finally set straight, but I'm pretty sure I was singing along to the song when someone corrected me. Generally, being caught singing along to Queen Latifah is embarrassment enough, but the shattering of my semantic hierarchy of misogynistic rap lyrics was devastating. I'm glad I never saw Latifah on the street, since she might have punched me dead in my eye.

Imus got fired as much for "nappy-headed" as he was for the "hos" part. In the future, he'd do well to heed this advice from Latifah:

Instinct leads me to another flow
Everytime I hear a brother call a girl a bitch or a ho
Trying to make a sister feel low
You know all of that gots to go
Now everybody knows there's exceptions to this rule
Now don't be getting mad, when we playing, it's cool

Only when we playing, Don.

It's almost Easter, Zembla's favorite holiday. But two years ago, the family Easter celebration was in danger. Molly was studying abroad in Chile, and Megan had already decided to opt out of egg hunting on Sunday morning. That left only Sean and Kelly to roll the rock away from the tomb of apathy and let the spirit of Easter rise again.

Megan's anti-egg-hunt position was understandable, if disappointing. Outsiders rarely understand the Keane family's holiday practices. When Molly tried to explain our celebration to her host family in Santiago, they stared at her in confusion. It wasn't a translation issue; her Chilean hermano explained that in Chile, egg hunting was only for children. Small children. Perhaps Molly had a brother who was mentally challenged?

I spent the afternoon of Holy Saturday at the Triple Rock Brewery's annual beerfest. Two regional finals for the NCAA Tournament were being played that afternoon, and both went into overtime. All the excitement, coupled with unlimited beer, made me temporarily forget my Easter responsibilities, much like how Arizona forgot to guard the three-point line at the end of the second half. Once the haze of March Madness faded and the taps were shut off, I knew I had work to do.

Mom picked me up from BART in Pleasant Hill, but went to bed almost immediately. When Kelly returned from work, we were faced with the daunting prospect of coloring three dozen eggs by ourselves, with no help from our worthless parents or siblings. There was only one thing to do: Open a bottle of wine, turn on the Starz Lord of the Rings marathon, and get to work.

It is safe to say that alcohol and Tolkien influenced our decorating. One egg compared my father's bicycling to the riders of Rohan for no real reason, except that King Theoden appeared on screen when Kelly was dyeing it.

The other source of inspiration was our anger at other family members for abandoning the egg-dyeing task to us. Megan's co-habitation with her boyfriend (they've since married, Mom's knee problems and the resultant painkiller usage, and Dad's limited art skills, Molly got a pass, so we took out our frustration on the nation of Chile itself. Our pattern was this:

1. Refill wine glass.
2. Shout "Morrrrdor!" or "Sam!" at sibling.
3. Write insulting joke about absent family member on egg.
4. Finish wine.
5. Dye egg ugly color.
6. Refill wine glass.

The living-in-sin eggs were my favorites. One read, "SINNERS" on one side, and "You know who you are" on the other. Another was labeled "Pissed-Off Jesus Egg", and displayed Our Saviour saying, "The bunny's no big deal, compared to living in sin". A third said, "Too Good For Coloring Eggs.../Not Too Good For HELL", with a drawing of flames.

My father consistently draws two characters on Easter. With the obligatory PAAS invisible white crayon, Dad sketches Bugs Bunny and a character called, "Murph the Surf", a guy that looks like Moe, the bully from Calvin and Hobbes, only on a surfboard. As far as I know, those are the only two things that my father can draw, besides treasure maps featuring household objects.

Kelly covered Dad's absence by sketching something she labeled, Doug's Doggy, a dog who said, "Ruff Ruff Doc?" Dad was not amused.

We dedicated memorial eggs to cars that had broken down throughout the year. We made fun of our poor 75-year-old grandmother, for reasons only Charles Shaw could explain. We wrote horrible holiday puns like, "Easter? I Hardly Knew 'Er!"

A Molly-in-Chile egg celebrated the mullet, Santiago, Chile's favorite hairstyle. Negocios enfrente, fiesta atras.

One design was simply a cracked egg covered with twelve different stickers from the PAAS pack Kelly described this egg as, "The most beautiful Easter egg in the whole wide world."

We made an Equal Opportunity Egg: Happy Passover, You Schlemiel! L'Chaim! The Sideways egg insisted, "I'm not gonna hunt for any friggin merlot!" An un-dyed egg read, "WARNING! This is an egg, not a jumbo-sized Vicodin!" Finally, we made a few prize eggs, promising the finder big-money prizes, to be paid out by Dennis. (He thwarted our efforts by "finding" those eggs himself).

We went to bed tired, drunk, and sick of Elijah Wood. We still hunted eggs the next morning, champagne glasses in hand, if by "next morning" you mean, "2 PM". We called Molly to tell her the Easter news and describe our eggs, and she wasn't surprised. After all, angry, drunken, mildly-incoherent egg-dyeing is common with Chilean children. Alcoholic children.

From one of the brilliant minds behind The Ronnie Johns Half Hour comes this video - MTV's "Cribs" starring imprisoned Australian David Hicks.

We've always championed our Australian friends' creative efforts and legal struggles. However, we never realized the power they wielded. For in the aftermath of this video, prosecutors negotiated a plea agreement with Mr. Hicks. He'll be back to Australia within 60 days, in order to serve a nine-month sentence.

This result is almost as impressive as the time Yahoo Serious organized a nationwide boycott of South Africa in the 80's, or when Paul Hogan's Crocodile Dundee 2 led to an arms reduction agreement between the United States and Russia. Congratulations go out to Mr. Ilic and company. Now, if only they could decriminalize the Mexican Wave, they'd really be getting somewhere Down Under.

O, ye that lament the absence of Sean Keane from the stages of San Francisco, weep not. For I will be doing a feature set when Dan St. Paul visits the the San Francisco Comedy Club on March 23rd. The show will feature some other as-yet-undetermined funny people, will start at 8, and cost ten dollars. The San Francisco Comedy Club has beer and wine, ample seating, and a fake-brick backdrop. What's not to like?

I'll be headlining at the SF Comedy Club on some Saturday night in the near future as well, so watch this space for any new updates. Also, if you like baseball, the Bible, Bob & Tom, or flash animation, check out this cartoon by Mr. St. Paul called, The First Baseball Game. Mr. St Paul's promotional bio is after the jump.

It was a week ago that I first got the idea for this post. I sneezed, and then sneezed again. I always sneeze twice, but this time, I started to ponder the duality of my sneezing. Had I always sneezed twice? Does everyone sneeze more than once? It seemed like the double-sneeze was common, but was it really?

It's not the first time I have mused about sneezing in this space. Internet resources on the multiplicity of sneezing were lacking, and any friends I tried to survey about their own sneezing habits were violently disinterested. Still, I pressed on, googling for sneeze resources, until a bit of dust flew up and made me sneeze.

Once.

So now, thanks to the vagaries of seasonal allergies and the wonders of the Observer Effect, I am only sneezing in groups of one these days. Maybe this is a lesson, and I need to compose blogs about overeating, struggling to build a comedy career, and celibacy.

This is one of the saddest e-cards I have ever seen. I think it's the elephant's nervous leg motion that makes it so heartbreaking. Nevertheless, I plan to incorporate "hurtbye" into my daily vernacular.

What's truly distressing is that if this elephant is truly experiencing a "hurtbye", he's never, ever going to forget that hurt.

Thanks to Toby Muriesanu and The Wu for the heads up.

Faith-based whale watching

We spotted two gray whales, but I had to primarily take them on faith. A whale sighting is based on the whale's spout, tiny glimpses of a fin, the pointing of small children. Captain Gary deputized them as our official spotters, and they certainly did a better job than I did.

A gray whale can hold its breath for up to six minutes. This means that passengers will spend more than five minutes patiently staring at the ocean, hoping that the whale would eventually surface in the random spot we were watching. I consistently mistook buoys, birds, and pieces of garbage for whales. Eventually, I hedged my bets by focusing on finding the whale's "slick", a sign of where the whale's tail has moved quickly under the surface, and also the place where Robert Lowell saw the Quakers drown and heard their cry. I also tried to convince people that the whale's slick was "mostly urine".

The Net

There were two rubber nets, strung across the open areas at the bow of our whale watching catamaran. It looked like the best seat on the boat, especially since it was limited to four people and two children. Due to our physical conditioning, we decided that any arrangement that included both me and Eugenio would have a maximum of three. My companions began the journey seated on the net, and I watched them jealously from my perch higher up on the deck. Surely everyone would want to sit on the amazing net, I reasoned. I quietly observed the habits of other passengers, preparing for the moment when I could sneak into the luxury net seating.

Five minutes into the voyage, I learn why the net is not actually appealing. A huge wave splashes Eugenio from under the net, soaking all his clothes, including the gear he wasn't even wearing at the time. Even though some of us spend the majority of the trip actively dragging our feet into the ocean, no one else gets half as wet as Eugenio did from the first wave. By the end of the trip, the net is about as popular as The Net.

Killer whales

We heard that a previous whale watching tour had seen a gray whale and her baby attacked and killed by an orca. Worse, the orca effectively pinned the whales against the whale watching boat before tearing them apart, presumably with small children pointing at the bloodied whales. Fortunately, this did not happen on our trip. Also, while orcas are colloquially known as "killer whales", they are actually dolphins that kill whales. Using that same rationale, my date had a "killer time" with me at junior prom.

Dolphins are not rats

We saw at least ten dolphins on our journey back to the harbor, which was delightful. I was overwhelmed with dolphin-watching excitement, so much that I yelled, "Come back here, you lousy sea rat!" to a dolphin that was swimming away. The first mate was not amused, and eyed me with a mixture of pity and disgust. In hindsight, her disapproval may have been due to how loudly I said "barbed dolphin penis" a few minutes earlier.

The internet tells me that a dolphin penis is not actually barbed, though it does have a severe hook. Experts and zoophiles seem to be divided on whether the appendage is prehensile or not. I liked to think that our favorite dolphin from the trip, Van Ronto (named after the capital of a fictional Canadian province), can indeed grab things with his dolphin dong.

Menage a Trois, Baleine-Style:

Our informational flyer stated that gray whales migrate from Alaska to Baja California in order to mate. It also said that the whales mate in groups of "at least three whales, of mixed gender", but the document does not elaborate further. Gray whales: the freak-nastiest of all the cetaceans.

Sunscreen:

I re-applied twice for a two-and-a-half hour boat ride, and my face still felt sunburned afterward. Strangers openly discussed my pale skin and the inevitability of my sunburn. The first mate eyed me with a combination of pity and disgust.

The sea is full of cats

Michele asserted that the ocean is full of cats. Michele adores cats, to the extent that she nearly crashed the car on the drive south trying to look at a cat that was sitting in the cab of a truck. She's right that there are many possible sea felines. There's catfish, tiger sharks, leopard sharks, and sea lions.

When we saw some sea lions hanging out on a buoy, I got excited on Michele's behalf.

"Sea lion: King of the sea," I said.

"It's not the king of the sea," Michele replied.

"King of the beasts. Of the sea. They're dominating that buoy!" I countered.

"Shut up," she said.

Bad puns

When we spotted a seal swimming next to the boat on our way back to the harbor, I remarked that the sighting had "sealed the deal" for our trip. Our first mate eyed me with a mixture of pity and disgust.

This afternoon, I went on a whale watching trip off the coast of Santa Barbara. Here was the highlight:

Captain Gary: You can see gray whales off our port side.

Middle-aged woman: Those whales are heading down to Ventura for dinner.

First mate Athena: Actually, they're going down to Baja California to mate.

Me: That depends on how dinner goes.

Thanks to the ACME Heart Maker, Zembla brings you some special treats for Valentine's Day. Sure, you can get sugary candies anywhere that say, "BE MINE" or "KISS ME". But what if the passion is gone, the flames have died down, and only throbbing resentment remains?

You need Uncomfortable Conversation Hearts.

Cementhorizon is turning five years old this month, and we're celebrating. According to Leisa Oesterreich, M.S.:

Five-year-olds are cheerful, energetic, and enthusiastic. They enjoy planning, and spend a great deal of time discussing who will do what. They especially enjoy dramatic play, usually with other children. Five-year-olds are more sensitive to the needs and feelings of others around them. It is less difficult for them to wait for a turn or to share toys and material. "Best friends" become very important.

Because "best friends" are so important, Zembla would like to invite its best friends, the readers, to the Cementhorizon Fifth Birthday Celebration, taking place on February 24th. Here's the details:

WHEN: Saturday, February 24th, at 8 PM.

WHERE: San Francisco. Email to rsvp-at-cementhorizon-dot-com to, um, RSVP and get the location.

WHAT TO BRING: Yourself and snacks. Officially, we are not providing food or refreshments, because five-year-olds are reluctant to share. However, there will be jello shots and a chocolate fountain at the very least. Also, room temperature water and hard tack biscuits.

So if you've ever wanted to party with bloggers, and the staff behind Zembla in particular, come celebrate our fifth birthday with us. I leave you with a list of Dr. Oesterreich's qualities of of five-year-olds that are shared by Cementhorizon:

• still confuses fantasy with reality sometimes
• often fears loud noises, the dark, animals, and some people
• uses swear words or "bathroom words" to get attention
• likes to argue and reason; use words like "because"
• seeks adult approval
• sometimes critical of other children and embarrassed by own mistakes
• has a good sense of humor, and enjoys sharing jokes and laughter with adults

Via Wikipedia:

France: What's Up Doc?

Germany: Our Loud Home

Italy: Parents In Blue Jeans

Latin America: Ouch! Growing Up Hurts

China: Growing Up's Agony (Note: Growing Pains was so popular in China that when it aired in China, Lizzie McGuire was known as New Growing Pains)

I recently saw the movie Babel, recent winner of the Golden Globe for Best Picture. I thought the film was nothing special -- nice to look at, occasionally compelling, mostly insubstantial, way too long -- but then again, I am a hater. Babel is about our inability to communicate with one another, and how improbable, snowballing tragic events happen in all of Alejandro González Iñárritu's films. To me, the strongest themes were:

1. British tourists are bastards.
2. So is the Border Patrol.
3. Deaf Japanese girls are prone to act out in an inappropriate sexual manner.
4. Hey, remember 21 Grams?

My favorite part of the film came when the deaf Japanese girls would greet each other with enthusiastic high-fives. This appealed to me, as I once dreamed of making a documentary where I'd visit famous landmarks around the world and high-five locals in front of them. It was not an ambitious documentary. My movie companion and I had different theories as to why the girls relied on the high-five.

Louise: It's because they're deaf.
Sean: It's because they're Japanese.

It got me thinking about the way that I greet my own friends. Right now, I am heavily reliant on, "Hey, what's up?" If you call me and introduce yourself, I will respond with, "Hey, what's up?" This is true whether you are a good friend calling my cell phone, or an incarcerated state prisoner making a collect call to my office. It's a total reflex by now. In fact, if you call me, and we get disconnected, and then you call back 15 seconds later, I will still greet you with, "Hey, what's up?"

Usually, not much is up.

When I was younger, I used to greet people by lifting my head and nodding in a ponderous manner. It was the perfect gesture for an adolescent male, all false coolness and mild hostility. The head nod was judgemental, but also somewhat insecure. It said, "I'm lazily lifting my head to acknowledge you, because if I say hello, my voice might crack." It also may have been that our puffy Starter jackets were inhibiting the movement of our necks, necessitating such a birdlike motion. Sometimes the head nod would be accompanied by a quiet, "'Sup?", because that is how we believed cool kids and/or rappers said hello. Even then, something was rarely up.

I can't remember if the deaf girls also slap five to say goodbye to one another. I've been told that my own phone goodbye is an awkward, strangled "Goodbye" sound, as if I'm choking on the words in order to end the call faster. My roommate ends each phone call with a wistful, "Bye?", as if she's questioning whether you're really about to hang up. This gives the impression you've left something unsaid, or that the call is ending prematurely. Only after years of telephonic communication have I managed to shake the idea that I've wronged her each time a call ends.

The most ridiculous goodbye comes from my atheist friend, Eugenio. While he's not religious whatsoever, he usually wishes you farewell with the words, "Peace be with you." Nearly everyone responds with, "And also with you," and then leaves feeling uncomfortable and hungry for Eucharist.

I think Eugenio has made a bold choice, looking to the Liturgy for his small talk needs. Some people don't realize this, but my own phone greeting is biblical in nature, coming from St. Paul's first letter, "Hey, What's Up, Corinthians?" Taking Eugenio's lead, I started saying goodbye with, "For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen." It rolls right off the tongue. The proper response to that phrase is, of course, a high five. Unless you're dealing with a British tourist or an American border guard, because there's no way they'll understand you. Just scream, "Peace be with you!", drive into the desert, and then demand an Academy Award.

Heard on ALICE, 97.3:

- Can I hear an Evanescence song besides "Call Me When You're Sober"?
- You want to hear something older?
- Yeah.
- OK, I got one for you. What's your name?
- Amethyst.

(In Flashbacks, we revisit old unrealized comedic material unearthed from old notebooks and post-it notes. A Flashback is not a stranger, just a friend you haven't yet met.)

Flashback #1

Flashback #2

Flashback #3

Flashback #4

Ideas For Future Epitaphs - December 1998

An inscription in Latin, that when translated reads: "This epitaph is written in Latin."

"Think of Sean Keane when you read this epitaph."

"Try not to think about your own impending death as you read this."

"Any flowers you leave here will slowly die and be eventually thrown away, just like you and I."

"What's the deal with undertakers, anyway?"

"If reincarnation exists, perhaps someday I will journey to this cemetery, and this epitaph will give me a clue as to who I once was. But most likely, my reincarnated self is sitting on a couch in the suburbs, eating cheetos and deciding when it would be okay to masturbate again."

"Get used to disappointment."

"West Side 'til I die! So, East side!"

"Maybe I shouldn't have taken those barbiturates and drank that vodka, as it seems there was no spaceship on that comet after all."

My friends from Australia have been in contact again. This time, they've made a parody video of Saddam Hussein's execution. They're not in legal trouble or under fire from censors; they're just displaying more of that lovable classless Aussie behavior we love so much.

We are at a unique time in history where the execution of a foreign leader is widely available on YouTube. I though I'd look at what else fair use has wrought and review other "humorous" uses of the Saddam footage.

1. Saddam Hussein Hanging with Ren & Stimpy audio

Description: "A video montage of various clips of Saddam Hussein's exectution. [sic] Set to the audio clip of 'The Lord Loves a Hanging' form the Ren & Stimpy Show."

This video was removed by user Crunchmeister.

2. Saddam Hussein - Before the execution by saddam10101

Description: "Let's take a look at what life was like for the dictator before his capture, in the good old days."

Begins with the words, "All good things must come to an end." It's a montage of photos where various pictures of Saddam Hussein's face have been cut out and pasted over the originals. There's mustached Saddam in a crib. There's black-and-white Saddam's head sunbathing in a bikini. Incarcerated, bearded Saddam rides a bicycle. At the end, it says "Saddam Hussein. 1937-2006 Stylish to the end" over a photoshopped graphic of bearded Saddam wearing a New York Yankees cap.

3. The real reason Saddam Hussein was hung? by rymaki

Description: Same as the title.

The video asks, "The reason Saddam Hussein was hung?" The question lingers for five seconds, and then we see a photo of an apparently well-endowed Saddam Hussein in his tighty-whities. "Just lucky I guess!"

4. Ejecucion de Saddam Hussein 2 by juanjolimado

Description: "La muerte de Saddam 2. Saddam Hussein excution [sic] with flavor, con sabor limado"

We have the standard video of the execution, but the user has added a Spanish-language voiceover. Also, the voices are either sped up or slowed down. This may be what provides the "sabor limado". The effect is to disguise the voices, much as Saddam's executioners wore ski masks to hide their identities. I can't understand what they're saying in Spanish, but I bet it's hilarious and/or citrusy.

5. Saddam Husseins last song by merik666

Description: "Norwegian edition His last wish for a song."

This sets the execution to a song, presumably sung in Norwegian. It sounds like the song features the word "hanging", or something close to it. I bet that somewhere in America, there's a frantic amateur video editor hastily making their own version set to "Hanging Tough" by New Kids on the Block, "Hanging Around" by Counting Crows, or "Rainy Days and Mondays" by The Carpenters.

6. Official Video of Saddam Hussein's Execution by doctorfoofoo

Description: "The Execution of Saddam Hussein. Showing hanging scenes you didn't see on CNN, Al-Jazeera or Fox. This is the full execution with the best quality avaiable on the internet..."

Middle Eastern music plays as a stuffed Elmo perches on a box with a bungee cord noose around its neck. Behind Elmo, there is a drawing of two guys carrying guns and/or dancing, perhaps to symbolize Saddam/Elmo's position as a strongman and/or party animal. Fifteen seconds in, Elmo falls forward and dangles from the noose.

The videomakers missed an opportunity by not using a Tickle Me Elmo Extreme. I'd like to see this same video starring a Spanish-language TMX Elmo who cries out, "Otra vez! Otra vez!" as he dangles.

7. Saddam's farewell concert--featuring special guest J.T. by TfromSM

Description: "Evil dictator performs onelast [sic] concert--with surprise guest!!!"

A guy who's not at all dressed like Saddam stands in a garage with a noose around his neck. Saddam requests "one last jam" with James Taylor, and after some tedious setup, a fake James Taylor emerges, also looking nothing like the real guy. Both men pretend to play guitar and sing along to "You've Got A Friend". The actor playing Saddam has chosen to speak Cookie Monster English, leaving out all modifiers and grunting.

The whole scene is partially obscured by the water heater and washing machine, since they're in the garage and all. The appliances block 30% of the action, but I like to think the author intended them to be a metaphor for the government's wish that Saddam's execution will cleanse some of Iraq's dark history. The water heater stands as a warning of the potential for a heated response from Saddam's Sunni supporters.

This video is pretty boring. Eventually James Taylor pulls the rope to "hang" Saddam and wanders out of the garage as on off-screen voice complains, "Jackass, you were supposed to be lip-synching the words! I don't know what the fuck you were doing."

Gift-wrapping and presentation is a big part of a Keane family Christmas. At some point in the distant past, my older sister Megan developed an interest in origami and began shaming everyone with her holiday presentations. First it was standard origami flowers, but grew more elaborate every year. She started making her own wrapping paper, attaching folded paper animals to the packaging, and generally making all of us look like chumps. The high point came when Megan gave me a video set of The Usual Suspects, wrapped in paper adorned with Verbal Kint's various monologues (my favorite part was the flap that read "Orca fat") and topped with a paper coffee mug and fake coffee spill.

My little sisters and I could not compete with that, nor could we even try. She was years ahead of us. We had neither the discipline nor the fine-motor skills to catch up. So, we focused on making funny cards.

I don't mean to condemn the artistic skills of my younger sisters. Both of them can draw, and both can wrap competently. I had to rely on jokes envisioning the North Pole as Pleasant Hill, and insults to other family members because I can't even draw a car.

Eventually, cards became more anticipated than the gifts themselves. We used to stay up late on Christmas Eve to finish wrapping presents. Now we stay up late desperately coloring in our cards, figuring out just the right colored pencil to best complete a rude caricature of Grandma. Grandma is not allowed to see many of the holiday cards.

In the same way that punk rock emerged as a response to the perceived excesses of 1970's rock, our bare-bones holiday wrapping aesthetic was a direct answer to Megan. It only got worse over the years. One year, all my gifts were wrapped in the Sunday comics. Another year, I used aluminum foil, which was both gross and mildly dangerous to the recipients' hands. For birthdays, no one bothered to wrap gifts, choosing instead to fold the presents up in blankets or towels we found lying around the house.

This year, Molly has broken new ground by wrapping her gifts in ads. Not even magazine or newspaper ads, but rather Safeway mailers. She confessed that she had to do a lot of double- or triple-wrapping, because she managed to find wrapping material that was somehow less solid than newsprint. My gift was wrapped in the back pages of the San Francisco Bay Guardian, perhaps to indicate that, were I disappointed by my gift, I could console my myself with an Asian Muscle Massage at competitive prices.

"Wash your hands after you unwrap the presents," she warned. "I found that Guardian in the recycle bin."

Since Molly lives in a forest, works at a homeless shelter, and makes approximately $12,000 per year, not counting her food stamps, we don’t mind her limitations. Her cards featured no art, just top ten lists. The "cards" were actually just scraps of paper she’d torn off the bottom of her mail. Her lists went over well, especially the two that dealt with an agreement between my parents that my father can wear a particular ugly sweatshirt in the garage, but not in the house.

Molly has raised the bar severely for future Navidad cards by using actual trash. There's no way my wrapping is getting fancier, so I am already planning for next year, when my family members will get cards written on torn pieces of men's underwear I buy at Goodwill. With a faded Sharpie, I will scrawl, "This Christmas, you can kiss my ass". And it will be beautiful.

Earlier this week, my favorite taqueria in Pleasant Hill burned down after a fire in the attic. I've eaten at El Tapatio at least fifty times in my life, so it's sad to know it's now merely a burned-out shell of its former self.

El Tapatio was located only a few blocks from our high school, across the street from Diablo Valley College. That shopping center was nowhere near upscale. Some saw the whole center as only a shortcut to the more expansive mini-mall behind Golf Club Road, which featured a Safeway, a Baskin-Robbins, a Round Table, and a McDonald's. However, the center had two of the most important restaurants of my formative years, El Tapatio and Chef Burger. El Tapatio was for the afternoons, and Chef Burger was for breakfast and late-night dining. Our visits to Chef Burger grew so frequent that one friend eventually created a pager code that simply meant, "I'm at Chef Burger", like a late-90s version of the bat signal. (For the record, the code was 777-187).

Thankfully, the fire was contained at El Tapatio, and did only minor damage to its neighbor, Kelly-Moore Paints. As far as I know, Chef Burger was unharmed, but the bizarrely-named Little Galloping Treasures Coffee Shop may have some smoke damage.

Before I started going to El Tapatio, I rarely ate Mexican food. My parents never took us to Taco Bell. The most south-of-the-border cuisine we'd experience was when Mom and Dad got the mega-bag of tortilla chips from Costco. It was freshman year of high school when I first discovered the finest taqueria in the Greater Pacheco area, if not all of Contra Costa County, Los Panchos. While Panchos made a huge and delicious burrito, it wasn't a place where one could sit down and have a meal. Chances are, you were going to consume that burrito outdoors.

El Tapatio was classy. It had comfortable leather booths, air conditioning, and cocktails. I went there for the first time after some kind of Drama Department activity, along with my friends Cody, Dan, and Ashley. I remember that Dan ordered the virgin strawberry margarita that first day. When I visited El Tap as a legal 21-year-old, I ordered a real strawberry margarita, and it just didn't seem right.

The wait staff was always unflinchingly polite and well-dressed, for what appeared to be a family operation. I was served by perhaps four different waiters over a five-year span. After a while, I never even opened a menu. I knew what I wanted.

I always got the Tapatio Lunch Special, and nearly always chose a pork burrito. You got an enormous burrito, beans, rice, AND two tortillas with this order, all for a heavy discount, if you ordered it before 3 pm. My friend Dustin also ordered that every time. We didn't realize it in the pre-9/11 era, but we were pre-emptively declaring our patriotism through swine consumption. When Dustin and I would re-visit El Tap after being away for months, it was always embarrassing to leave a half-eaten burrito, when in our primes it would have been fully devoured in half the time.

El Tapatio served two kinds of salsa. One was tasty but mild - your standard red gringo tortilla condiment. The other variety was green, and extremely spicy. Granted, I didn't eat much Mexican food, or much spicy food at all before I started going to El Tap. However, this green salsa was so spicy that one chip dipped in the stuff put my taste buds out of commission for the remainder of the meal. Even after I'd gone to college and started eating more piquant foods, the green salsa was still too much for me.

The salsa became an initiation rite for when I brought new people to the restaurant. Once, I offered my sister's boyfriend ten bucks if he could eat the entire container of green salsa (He got through one spoonful before quitting.). Typically, we'd sit back and let the newbie try the green salsa on his own. Sometimes we'd pretend to dip chips in the toxic green, to sucker the rube further. Then we'd wait as the n00b tried to hide his sweating, water-guzzling, and tears before pointing and laughing.

This did not work on our friend Long-Hai. Perhaps because of his Vietnamese parents and childhood exposure to curry powder, Long-Hai did not find the green stuff especially spicy. He did find it delicious, however.

For years, El Tapatio had a large banner advertising its Sunday Champagne Brunch. The banner had been printed out on a dot matrix printer, likely no later than 1987. Often while dining at El Tap, sitting under the banner, we considered buying them a real sign. Hell, we could walk two storefronts over to R Computer and print out a replacement sign there. Still, we never did, probably because we ended each meal in food-induced semi-comas.

In later years, El Tapatio began chasing other revenue streams. They still had machines to dispense candy or stickers near the door, plus the small display for anti-DUI chewing gum, but they needed more. So they began selling ad space on top of their tables. It was a strange dining experience, with local realtors Don and Norma Flaskerud stared up from the table. It's the only restaurant I've been to that featured tabletop ads, though one of the ads on El Tap's tables assured diners that this would be advertising's future.

I hadn't been to El Tap in quite some time, but it's tragic to think that I never will again. The owner has vowed to rebuild, but fire inspectors have called the damage a "total loss". If they rebuild it, I'll be in line at the grand re-opening, particularly if it's before 3:30 and I can still get the discount on the Lunch Special.

I always find it reassuring to have my personality validated by science. That's just what happened in a study conducted by Jennifer Bosson and associates, on the subject of "negativity friendships". According to Bosson, close friends are more likely to share the same negative opinions than they are to share positive feelings. As someone who is basically a mean person at heart, Ms. Bosson's findings are reassuring.

"'It's not that we enjoy disliking people,' Bosson, a social psychologist at the University of South Florida, says. 'It's that we enjoy meeting people who dislike the same people.'"

I could have told you this. I don't know about you, but there is nothing more exciting to me than when someone prefaces a comment with, "I'm not trying to sound mean here, but..." It's even better when there's a big group. Everyone's eyes light up. They are eager to hear smack-talking, but they're even more eager to hear if you're going to insult stuff they also hate. The weird downstairs neighbor who is constantly cooking cabbage? The Matrix sequels? Beanie caps with bills and the people who wear them? Bring on the hate.

I have a pretty good track record making friends with people from my improv classes. But however much I might enjoy performing with someone, or how much respect I have for their talents, the real bonding always occurs after class, usually over beers, when one person finally has the courage to call out the old guy with bad breath who does a Southern accent in every scene. Only when we have identified some mutual scorn can the real friendship begin.

A similar phenomenon occurs in the world of standup comedy. When I first began hitting up open mics, another comic encouraged me to attend more regularly, saying that both she and her friend liked my material. That was flattering, but it was what she said next that really grabbed my attention. "And that means something, since we're both, well, haters." Haters. I didn't know these people, didn't know their routines, but I did know that I wanted to hang out with these haters.

Even now, nothing bonds comedians quicker than a shared realization of someone else's awfulness. Tonight, I sat through an endless lineup of mediocre comedians, with virtually no audience aside from those same mediocre comedians. Most people were figuring out their set lists instead of listening to the performers, but since they'd heard most of the material before, they wouldn't have been laughing anyway. Basically, everyone was minding their own business until the last guy got up.

The first minute of his set was uneventful. Then, for no discernible reason, he unzipped his fly, and pulled a rubber chicken out his pants. Suddenly, everyone was looking around, trying to make eye contact with someone else, to silently ask, "Did he just pull a rubber chicken out of his pants? What the hell is going on here?" It wasn't a negativity friendship yet, but negativity bonds were forming, like the Keane children halfway through a holiday hike.

In conclusion, you may catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, but you'll create more fly friendships with vinegar.

"What the hell was going on with that vinegar?"
"Blech."
"I'm not trying to sound mean here, but I hope the fly who led us here gets swallowed by an old woman or caught in a honey trap."
"You know, we should hang out some time..."

Laugh Your Axe Off is an event that happens during Big Game week at UC Berkeley. At its inception, it mostly involved sketches written by people from the Squelch, Cal's only intentionally funny campus publication. Later, they added stand-up, and when the Squelch stopped writing sketches, they added an improv troop and an a capella group. One might question how much laughter either group provides, but better to let wannabe Whiffenpoofs sing the "Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego" theme song than to have the show clock in at only 20 minutes.

Last year, Laugh Your Axe Off was an electric event. Rally Comm, the campus organization behind the event, had scheduled the show for Room 2060 in the Valley Life Science Building. It was an interesting choice, as opposed to somewhere like the Bear's Lair or Blake's. 2060 isn't even one of the largest rooms in VLSB. It also lacks any kind of stage or equipment for the amplification of sound.

On the lineup that night were two standup comedians – myself and John Jackson Waste - an improv group, and an a capella group called Artists in Residence. We didn't even get through the introduction before there was trouble. Once the crowd applauded for the first time, the professor from Room 2050 stormed in. He yelled, "There are students taking an exam next door! We need quiet!"

The Rally Comm girl in charge looked flustered. She said we would try to keep it down. The professor shot back, "You will keep it down." He returned to his classroom, and it was a little awkward. For a stand-up comic, there's nothing more encouraging than when your audience is ordered to remain as quiet as possible.

Inevitably, the crowd got loud again, due to a hilarious sketch where a Rally Comm member pretended to be a Stanford student. He wore a red shirt, and a red cap. In a conclusion that was in no way predictable, he took off the red clothing to reveal Cal gear underneath. He wasn't a Stanforder at all!

The professor re-entered the room, and this time, he was furious. The crowd immediately booed him. Oski the Bear imitated him in a mocking manner. The professor yelled "Quiet!" as loud as he could a few times. This did not lead to quiet.
After he announced that our event was OVER, John had had enough of this professor. He stood up and yelled, "Who here wants to listen to this old crank?" The professor left Oski and the Rally Comm girl to get in John's face. He demanded John's student ID. I told John, "As your attorney, I advise you not to show anything to this old crank." This made the professor madder. He threatened to call the police and have John arrested for trespassing. As John's attorney, I knew the old crank lacked the authority to do so.

The old crank kept yelling about the police, but he was losing steam. John waved the ID in his face, then asked, "Did you get my name? How about my ID number?" Old Crank tried to grab the ID but missed. I told the old crank he was making a fool of himself. The crowd started the "Na Na Na Na Hey Hey Hey Goodbye" chant. Old Crank shoved Oski aside and stormed out of the room, as John shouted, "Comedy, One. Old Crank, Zero!"

The irony was that John's name was mentioned many times during the show. Had Old Crank stayed for five minutes more, he would have seen John's introduction, though he still wouldn't know his ID number.

This incident changed the entire tenor of the evening. Suddenly Rally Comm wasn't just a bunch of dorks in blue and gold rugby shirts. They were enemies of censorship, and crusaders for free speech. The improv kids got huge applause with their sketches, tentatively titled, "Stanford Has Wealthy Students" and "A Tree is a Subpar Mascot". No one knew why the a capella group sang "Under the Bridge", a song about shooting heroin in Los Angeles, during an event devoted to the Cal-Stanford football game, but it got huge applause as well. John got a big reaction by claiming to have had sex with the Old Crank's mother, despite the unlikely nature of such an occurrence. The crowd even joined in my cheer of, "Give 'em the Axe/Right in the crotch!" You can generally get a standing ovation by simply yelling, "Stanford sucks!" at any Rally Comm event, but this was the first time I'd seen people shedding tears of pride at the reminder of Stanford's suckiness.

I wouldn't have been surprised if the crowd had marched as one next door to further disrupt Old Crank's exam. Throngs of students stomping their feet, yelling about Stanford's suckiness, and refusing to let Old Crank or his assistants correct papers. "Put down that red pen! Put down that red pen!"

This year, while our performances were better across the board, the show lacked the same defiant spirit. In the same way that Cal fans are less excited about the Big Game when Stanford's football team is terrible, so were we less excited about the show without Old Crank to oppose us. The a capella group performed the same songs as in 2005, including "I Touch Myself", meaning they believe the Big Game is about masturbation as well as heroin abuse. John's routine was strong, particularly his joke about Stanford losing their football game to ITT Tech ("The game was played at night, over email.") In hindsight, it may have been a mistake to declare that fifty years ago, we'd have had Stanford students upside down with a fucking fork up their asses. Too soon.

For most families, Thanksigiving is a time to come together, eat turkey and stuffing, and watch nine-to-ten hours of televised football. For my father, Thanksgiving is simply another opportunity to force his children to hike. First, it was only Dad's birthday that meant a mandatory forced march. Then he announced the first Father's Day hike a year later. Finally, just because he loves seeing his children sweating, complaining, and wearing dorkass fanny packs, Dad added the annual Thanksgiving Day hike. While the rest of the nation enjoys C-list celebrities and inflatable cartoon heroes at the Macy's Parade, the Keanes lace up their hiking boots and start complaining about leg cramps.

Everyone has tried to avoid the hikes at various times. Oversleeping, injuries, and suspicious "on-call" shifts have thinned the ranks of hikers in the past. I missed one birthday hike by going to the Winter Olympics. My little sister tried the dangerous gambit of Wednesday night binge drinking a few years ago. She got out of the hike, but also slept through most of the holiday and vomited before dinner. My new brother-in-law is a habitual non-hiker, because he only pretends to enjoy hiking so he can meet women.

Dad wanted to do a longer hike this year. We generally hike at Briones Park, along with our beloved dog Cassidy. Sadly, Cassidy passed away in May, so our little dog kennel would be empty on the way to our hike. We might have to carry someone for the last part of the hike, but it would be Dad and not the dog.

I guess that dead dog had been holding us back from our mountain-climbing destiny for years. Dad thought we'd pay tribute to our deceased pet by hiking somewhere new: "With Cassidy no longer with us (except in spirit, of course!), we are free to do Mt. Diablo State Park (where dogs are not allowed)."

We remember Cassidy by going somewhere that wouldn't allow her in. It's kind of like golfing at a whites-only country club in the South for Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Later, we would feed turkey scraps to raccoons in our backyard, and let the neighbor's cat sleep in Cassidy's old bed, just to show how much we loved that old dog.

Dad's email went on to describe how easy this year's hike would be:

"Although MDIA includes this in its "Ten Demanding Hikes" section (as opposed to its other two sections, "Ten Moderate Hikes" and "Ten Easy Walks"), it isn't really that hard. It's only five miles round trip, and only steep for a fairly short period."

However, a website for Mount Diablo says it is "arguably the steepest trail in the park", with a climb of 2200 feet. Luckily, most of that climb occurred over one single arduous mile.

Man, did this hike suck. Our legs got cut up by branches, it was cold, I kept twisting my ankle, Kelly hurt her hip, Dad almost slipped and skidded into a ravine, and we were all extremely cold. Dad even neglected to bring his usual hiking bribes - slices of salami and animal cookies. Yes, even though we are all adults, my sisters and I are motivated by the same things as an elementary school soccer team.

We got to the car, shivering and barely able to stand. As we cranked the heater, I asked Kelly is this was indeed the worst Thanksgiving hike of all time. She said yes. And yet, we were already laughing about our misery, our sore feet, and Dad's silly floppy hat.

Perhaps this was Dad's plan all along. Some people dread the holidays because they worry about spending time with relatives. We only fear mountains, loose rocks, and a shortage of snacks. Some siblings fight with each other at family reunions, but my sisters and I bond every time, united against our father and his insane devotion to the outdoors. Maybe, just maybe, uniting against both nature and your parents is the true meaning of Thanksgiving after all.

The following is an impromptu monologue delivered by a man sitting behind me on the #15 MUNI bus:

"Those white stars? That's for white power. The red stripes, that's the blood of the slave labor that fuels the power. Flags means something, man. You can learn a lot from symbols. Like chess. If I can come in there, take the king off the board, that's meaningful. It means I can dominate the woman. I can take control of the children. That's how it's gotta be. You gotta get a piece of that pie. You know what I'm saying? That's how Saddam Hussein got to how he was."

Stranger Than Fiction basically sucks. It's like a hybrid of The Truman Show and Adaptation, only written by someone dumber and less creative. To its credit, the film does not star Nicolas Cage. I saw it with Louise, just after seeing For Your Consideration. After thirty minutes, we would have asked for our money back, except we snuck in for free.

Here's the plot: Will Ferrell starts hearing a disembodied voice narrating his activities, and quickly learns that he's a character in Emma Thompson's novel. No one thinks this is all that weird. No one notices when he starts yelling at the narrator from a bus stop. When he visits a psychiatrist who diagnoses him with schizophrenia, she cheerfully refers him to a professor of literature, played by wacky Dustin Hoffman.

Emma Thompson spends the film smoking cigarettes, wackily spitting into a Kleenex, and trying to finish her novel. Queen Latifah is her assistant, hired to ensure that she delivers her manuscript on time. Latifah doesn't do anything that we see to make that happen, besides lay out some index cards and give Emma Thompson informational packets about nicotine gum. Emma Thompson is obsessed with death, and it is not presented in a subtle way.

One problem with the movie is that our hero is basically a robot. Will Ferrell doesn't have any interests, or friends, or hobbies, or free will. He's basically a robot, albeit a robot who sometimes pees into a plastic bottle, based on a questionable interpretation of Dustin Hoffman's advice.

He also falls in love with Maggie Gyllenhaal, who plays a wacky baker. Their big romantic breakthrough is based on two absurd premises:

1. Maggie dropped out of Harvard Law School to become an anarchist baker, because she used to make cookies for study sessions, and everyone really loved them.
2. Will Ferrell has never eaten a homemade cookie.

At first, I thought, "Of course he hasn't eaten a homemade cookie - he's only a fictional character!" Would this be a comment on his unsettled fictional past? Would he realize that his own personal history was dependent solely on an author's whim? Nope. It turns out that Will Ferrell's mom only ever bought store-bought cookies. What a scene!

Will Emma Thompson kill her fictional character, who's actually sort of a real person, but maybe still fictional? Will Queen Latifah get her to finish the book on time on with her tough-talking no-nonsense ways? Will Maggie Gyllenhaal fall in love with Ferrell, even though he's an IRS agent who's auditing her? Will Dustin Hoffman take his shirt off for no reason? Will two completely random characters show up for the film's conclusion and still end up in the final montage? Will Louise complain about Maggie Gyllenhaal's poor acting and flirtatious, inappropriately-sexual anarchist-baking style? You'd have to go see the movie to find out, but you really shouldn't see it, so I'll answer those questions after the jump:

I saw the new Christopher Guest movie, For Your Consideration, and it wasn't bad. It's still a Christopher Guest movie, which goes a long way, but it wasn't in the same class as Best in Show or Waiting for Guffman. There are simply too many characters. There are five actors in the fake movie, plus the director, crew members, a PR guy, the producer, the producer's boyfriend/assistant, two executive producers, two writers, an agent, two TV entertainment magazine hosts, and Ed Begley, Jr. as a gay makeup artist. It's not surprising that the plot feels unfocused, and nothing really happens. I feel that funny names, crazy wigs, and elaborate makeup are a signal that the underlying comedic material just isn't that strong.

One of the strengths of Guffman and Best in Show is that the filmmakers have real affection for these characters. Their activities may be somewhat laughable, and their ambitions hopelessly deluded, but they have nice relationships with one another. This film is more mean-spirited, and there's no redeeming moments for the failing characters.

I think the main problems with the last two Guest films is the excessive number of characters, coupled with diminished parts for Christopher Guest himself. Christopher Guest is a great improviser, yet he gets fewer and fewer lines every movie. It's like having Michael Jordan on your basketball team, and nonetheless instituting the Hickory High four-passes-before-you-shoot rule. Here, Ed Begley, Jr. has as many lines as Guest, though Guest has a much funnier wig. Stop running the picket fence with Ricky Gervais and Harry Shearer and give Christopher Guest the damn ball!

I work for a non-profit that provides attorneys for convicted felons on their appeals. Sometimes I get questions about my work, generally about the ethics of helping to defend people that are often really really guilty. I usually say something about the imbalance of power involved in the criminal justice system, and my feeling that everyone is entitled to decent legal representation. Certain attorneys in our office would probably give a better explanation, but also use the words "draconian" and "paramilitary".

In general, I think that there are a lot of people screwed over by the way our country deals with crime. The combination of minimum sentencing guidelines and California's "Three strikes" law means that our office sees many people serving sentences of more than a decade for crimes like drug possession, auto burglary, or in one case, the alleged theft of a carpenter's pencil (no joke!). Prosecutors and judges alike are under pressure to push for high conviction rates, and the longest possible sentences for those same convictions. Every two years or so, Californians vote to punish sex offenders more heavily, tighten their restrictions on residency, or track them from outer space. Some would argue that people simply have a thirst for vengeance and punishment.

In addition, police officers seem to enjoy harassing people and beating them up, even after they've been restrained. People don't seem to mind when bad people get beaten up during an arrest. Abuses from guards, even those against teenagers, are greeted with yawns. Sexual assaults in prison are treated as a joke - "don't drop the soap, buddy!"

So it will be interesting to see the reaction to this arrest by the UCLA police department. (Warning: Disturbing video.)

The student was at the library after 11 PM, without his ID card. Because he failed to leave the library in a timely fashion, police officers stunned him with a Taser at least four times. It's not that he refused to leave; it's that he didn't do it fast enough. Even when the student was handcuffed, officers stunned him, purportedly because he didn't get to his feet quickly enough. Clearly, he was defying their police authority and not simply, you know, stunned from the multiple Taser shots. An officer also threatened to use his Taser on a student who asked for his badge number. I'm sure it was not at all a factor in the police response, but for the record, the student was not Caucasian.

Assistant Chief of Police Jeff Young claims that the police response was appropriate, since beating the student with batons would have been worse. Why were cops patrolling the library in the first place? "Because of the safety of the students."

If the police hadn't been there, who knows what could have happened? An armed gang could invade the library, wearing matching colors and body armor, and use their stun guns on students with impunity. This gang would answer to no authority, call each other by code names indicating their rank in the gang, and carry firearms. Thank God for the UCPD.

Predictably, there is a huge outcry about this at UCLA, and with good reason. It was disgusting, and I hope a lot of people are going to get fired and/or sued. Still, I wonder what happens in all those arrests where there isn't a video camera present. I'm also curious what the reaction would have been like if this had been a "bad" person on the receiving end of the stun gun.

CYA counselors deal with a young charge who refuses to leave his cell in a timely fashion

So much time, so little hype! Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it. There's two big Sean Keane shows coming up, both at the San Francisco Comedy Club. On Friday, November 17th, I'll be performing as part of the showcase, with the very funny Rob F. Martinez headlining. Essentially, I'll be Rob's set-up man - the Mike Stanton to his Mariano Rivera, the Mike Teevee to his Charlie Bucket. The show starts at 8, costs $10, and is funnier if you're drinking. Fizzy Lifting drink is not going to cut it, and your constant burping will be annoying. Maybe if they hadn't installed the enormous ceiling fan it would be different, but right now, you might as well suck it up and have a beer.

On Saturday, November 25th, I will be headlining at the very same SF Comedy Club. If you're in the Bay Area for Thanksgiving, either because your family lives here, or your family lives far away and they don't love you, do check out the show. The only thing I ask is that you not disclose my punchlines to the dastardly and mysterious Mr. Slugworth. He wants to ruin me and sell my jokes to Cobb's Comedy Club, so avoid this man!

Both shows begin at 8 PM and cost $10 or one golden ticket. The San Francisco Comedy Club is located at 50 Mason Street in San Francisco, near the Powell Street MUNI/BART station at the edge of the Tenderloin. The neighborhood is full of Wangdoodles and Hornswogglers and Snozzwangers and rotten Vermicious Knids, but it's well worth the journey.

I never watched 60 Minutes with any regularity, but I was always a fan of correspondent Ed Bradley, who died today at age 65. I met him once, when 60 Minutes was filming a story on the Berkeley campus about campus pariah David Cash. Docta V and I happened upon a round table discussion between outraged students and Cash, taking place at the Campanile, and moderated by Big Ed.

I was interested, because it was 60 Minutes, and also because I had been exchanging anonymous emails with David Cash, pretending to have sympathy for his plight in order to trigger some hypothetical future prank against him. Hypothetical pranks took up a lot of my attention at age 19. An assistant was keeping passerby from walking through the shot, but didn't seem to mind our standing in the back. In the television broadcast, his mom claimed she could see the Docta's red fedora in the background.

After the interview had finished taping, we went up to say hi. David Cash bailed, probably afraid of further harassment. Mr. Bradley was very gracious, shaking our hands and autographing a promotional rubber ball the Docta had picked up at a job fair on the way over. We really wanted to have him write, "Was he...aroused?", a Bradley quote from his legendary interview with Clinton accuser Kathleen Willey. It would be a much better story if we had.

We decided not to push it, requesting instead that he write, "60 Minutes Rules!" Showing the intelligence and poise that epitomized his journalistic career, Ed Bradley improvised another tagline, "Keep on ticking!"

60 Minutes is the Cocoon of television newsmagazine shows. If Mike Wallace and Andy Rooney are any indication, Bradley should have had at least another decade left. Ed Bradley was a nice guy, and it's a shame he couldn't keep ticking a little longer.

Here's a feature on the Hypnotic Brass Ensemble done by an up-and-coming Bay Area filmmaker currently working at the New York Times. Enjoy the hell out of this short, because it's good, and this stuff isn't gonna be free forever. The internet is a fad! You hear me?

The Hypnotic Brass Ensemble is going to Germany soon, so catch them in New York while you can.

Gunshots rang out at 10:40 PM last night on Market Street. Less than fifteen minutes later, a guy walked by with a fake bullet wound on his neck and declared he was a "Castro Shooting Victim". Someone booed. "Too soon?" he asked.

A few minutes after that, a girl walked by wearing a short skirt and a bandage on her head. "Naughty Castro Shooting Victim" went over much better with the crowd.

1. Don't be a Halloween hater.

There's always someone at every Halloween gathering who has decided to critique everyone else's outfit. Sometimes their own costume isn't even that great, and yet they throw around criticisms and suggestions like they were the ghost of Versace. Saturday, my costume didn't pass muster with a hater.

"In the movie, I think V wears a hat. Where's your hat?" she queried. Obviously, I didn't have the hat, or I'd be wearing it. "Did your hat fall off?" she continued, her voice dripping with contempt for my incomplete costuming. Later, she found fault with Tha Docta's outfit, claiming that she "didn't think a homie would wear a necklace like that."

Putting together a costume, any costume, is worthy of credit on Halloween, even if it's incomplete or lame. Wearing a colorful wig might not be the most ambitious costume choice, but it's better than no wig at all. Mocking a costume only makes everyone uncomfortable, and less likely to dress up at all. Everyone's on the same team on Halloween. Let's show some spirit.

2. Beware of magicians.

I went out to a Halloween cocktail party on Friday night. A web company threw the party, and each guest got a card with the company's logo, good for one free drink. Soon after I arrived, I was introduced to a girl who was dressed as a magician. Not the top-hat-and-rabbit variety, but a more mystical, scantillier-dressed kind of magician. It was not just a costume, however. She was really a magician.

It is the sign of a really great or really terrible occupation when your work clothing is an acceptable Halloween costume.

The magician offered to do a trick for us, but first she needed a business card. I don't carry business cards, but I didn't want to wreck the trick, so I offered up my free drink card. Our cards went into her hands, magic words were spoken, and ta-da! They had been magically transformed into business cards for the lady magician!

We applauded, and she took a tiny bow. Then I looked down and realized I no longer had my free drink card. I tried to find the lady magician to sort things out - but she had disappeared.

3. Don't hand out Good & Plenty

Good & Plenty is one of the worst Halloween candies ever. I don't like the taste, but even the name and marketing of the candy seem flawed. "Good & Plenty" is made up of two adjectives that are only mildly positive. Both adjectives can also be used as a polite way to say you don't want to eat any more.

"Want some more of these bad-tasting licorice candies? They're pink and white, which is not at all indicative of their flavor."
"No. I'm good."
"You sure? Trust"
"I've had plenty, thanks."

4. Don't try to outsmart little children

Don't be the guy who thinks he's clever by choosing, "Trick" instead of "Treat". Saying "Trick" to a trick-or-treater is like choosing "Truth" every time in a game of Truth or Dare. It's technically acceptable, but everyone knows it gets a lot more fun when you're willing to get out the goodies.

Those kids thought you'd just give them a fun-sized Snickers bar, but they didn't consider that you might goad them into vandalizing your home instead. Way to go. You just outsmarted The Little Mermaid and a four-year-old Power Ranger. You proud of yourself? I hope they egg your house.

Tonight marks the end of Daylight Savings Time. We turn back our clocks at 2 AM tonight, and everyone gets an extra hour of sleep. Sunday will be full of stories of people who forgot to change their clocks, and showed up an hour early! These stories are eerily similar to those from March, when these same people told exciting stories about showing up an hour late! As I have said before, the only acceptable story about Daylight Savings Time is one that ends with the phrases, "And that's how they all died."

One special thing about the shift from Daylight Saving Time to Standard Time is that the first 1-2 AM stretch doesn't really count. Once that period is over, we get a second 1-2 AM, like the first never happened. That first sixty-minute stretch is the Magic Hour. It's the one time in our 365 days a year when everyone gets a do-over. Ironically, it's also the only time broadcast TV will air reruns of Magic Johnson's former talk show, The Magic Hour.

Have you ever wanted to commit a petty crime for no reason? Have you had a secret crush on a close friend you've been dying to reveal? Do it in the Magic Hour. If it goes wrong, don't worry about it. Sixty minutes later, that hour will be lost to the dusts of time. The second 1:15 is the only one that goes into the record books.

It's the calendrical equivalent of a free play. We are all like the quarterback who notices an offsides flag just before the snap. He knows it's a free play. That's the time a smart quarterback calls an audible, and throws the long bomb. If it's complete, great. If not, the team will simply accept the five-yard penalty and move on. Be like that quarterback tonight, readers. When the Magic Hour rolls around, throw the long pass.

Unfortunately, San Francisco bars do not follow the principles of the Magic Hour, and thus you have to get your drinking done in the first 1-2 AM period. When last call occurs during the Magic Hour, that's also time to audible; i.e., order a round of shots. Like Las Vegas, what happens during the Magic Hour stays in the Magic Hour.

The flip side of the Magic Hour happens in the spring, when the 2-3 AM period disappears. Many is the poor soul who makes a date for 2:30 on the last Saturday of March, only to be stood up. Or the man who wants to quit smoking, and decides to have his last cigarette at 2:15. They are still alone, and still smoking to this day, victims of the disappearing time frame known as the Tragic Hour.

More true crime on my street! Tonight, during the eighth inning of the World Series, I heard a police siren from the street below my apartment! I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter, just in time to see a uniformed police officer force a suspect to the ground, followed by an undercover officer delivering a kick to the guy's ribs. To be fair, he had not yet been cuffed, and it looked like the suspect swung at the undercover cop first. There was a subsequent shove from a late-arriving uniformed officer that seemed rather gratuitous.

It appears that there is a nearby crack den after all!

From what I could see from the window, it looked like an undercover officer or officers tried to make a drug buy, and pounced once the dealer produced the goods. The contraband was in a baggie, and I'm going to go ahead and call it crack, because that is the most exciting possibility. I saw four police cars, and unless there was another arrestee out of my field of vision, the SFPD had an impressive 9:1 cop-to-suspect ratio on the scene.

My intrepid roommate talked to a neighbor, who informed her that he saw the police sergeant involved "hugging some people" on a nearby street corner. He surmises that the sergeant "lives in the community", if not on our specific block, and has made a personal commitment to stopping the recent crime wave, i.e., taking the crack den down!

I must also note that while I questioned our neighborhood's potential racial profiling in my previous entry, this suspect appeared to be Caucasian. Why this makes me feel relieved is probably complicated, but I do indeed feel like less of a racist tonight.

I have a MySpace, though I'm not a huge fan of the site. (But add me as a friend, readers!) It is basically unavoidable for an aspiring stand-up comedian such as myself to have a MySpace, and at least one person has found my gig via MySpace.

However, I feel that MySpace is poorly equipped to deliver news of personal tragedy. One of my distant friends from college committed suicide in the past year, and I found out via a one-line MySpace message. In MyFriend's defense, he had heard the news via AOL Instant Messenger, so relaying it through MySpace was not a ridiculous choice. Still, it was jarring to find, among seven bands asking me to check out their new album and three girls who might be prostitutes attempting to befriend me, a message that said, "[Friend] shot himself."

Because the message was so brief, I didn't believe it at first. I thought it might be an elaborate joke, or a much simpler joke in elaborately poor taste. I Googled my friend's name, trying to find an obituary or a news story about the tragedy and hoping I couldn't. There was nothing. Ultimately, my confirmation came from messages of condolence on my friend's MySpace. Now, nearly a year later, his page is still there, along with MySpace blogs detailing his affection for heroin and explanations of how anyone who dissed heroin addiction was no longer his friend. Most messages were about how much they missed our friend and how he was totally in heaven now, though one, months after his death, requested that our friend teach her to blow smoke rings.

In case you're wondering, the hierarchy of tributes to a dead friend goes like this:

1. Film
2. Painting
3. Song
4. Poem
...
145. MySpace comment

This callous treatment of a tragedy is not unique for MySpace. Another friend set up a page for our high school acquaintance who was sick with a mysterious disease that led to multiple organ transplants and a month-long coma. The page was intended to serve as a space for updates on the guy's medical conditions and for fundraising efforts for his family, as well as a spot for people to say, "Hey buddy, get well". But, being MySpace, it only took two days before the page was full of flashing text, animated .gifs, and embedded videos. My favorite message was one telling our comatose friend, "Dude, Welcome 2 MySpace" in a flashing, glittery font.

I don't have a suggestion, or a sophisticated take on the situation, but it is simply bizarre that I hear about a suicide or a colon transplant in the same way I normally hear about Arj Barker's newest CD release or my sister's roommate's "totally honest sex survey, 4 reals". Just this week, I thought of my dead friend again. Not because of a story, or a work of art, but because I got an automatic birthday reminder from MySpace. Thanks for making me cry, MySpace. Jerks.

(In the back room of a community center in Brisbane, Don Keaneleone sits receiving visitors. Don Keaneleone knows that on this day, he must grant any request made to him.)

Bonasera: I believe in America, Don Keaneleone. America has made my fortune. And I have regulated my energy usage in the American fashion. I run the air conditioning all day in the summer, and my heater is on full blast in the wintertime. And when the gas company announced a rate adjustment, I did not complain. But this bill - 15 cents per kilowatt hour? It is disgraceful. I am not ashamed to admit I wept. And so I went to the Public Utilities Commission, and they said they would make an internal review. Internal review! Those animals will resort to rolling blackouts next! And so I told my wife, for justice, we must go to Don Keaneleone.

Don Keaneleone: What have I ever done to make you treat me with such disrespect? I can't remember the last time you invited me over to watch soccer, to share a salami sandwich with you.

Bonasera: What do you want of me? How much shall I pay you?

Don Keaneleone: You come to California, you have your natural gas central heating system, and suddenly you no longer need a friend like Don Keaneleone. You ask me to commit fraud for money.

Bonasera: I ask for justice!

Don Keaneleone: Here is a phone number to call. They will pick up your old refrigerator, pay you $35, and give you a 50% discount on the purchase of a new, low-energy model. However, some day, and that day might never come, I would like to call upon you to a service for me in return.

Bonasera: Thank you, Godfather.

Don Keaneleone: In fact, why don't you get me a fresh gin-and-tonic right now?

(Bonasera exits.)

Don Keaneleone: How many more?

Sean: Just one more. He's not on the list, but Molly's date would like to speak to you.

Don Keaneleone: Oh God. Send him in.

(Molly's date enters.)

Molly's Date: Don Keaneleone, I am honored and grateful that you have invited me to your daughter... 's wedding... on the day of your daughter's wedding. And I hope their first child be...a masculine child.

Don Keaneleone: Thank you.

Molly's Date: Also, do you think I could borrow fifty bucks? Payday's not until Wednesday, and...

Don Keaneleone: Get the hell out of here.

Happy Birthday to my youngest sister, Molly, who has returned from the Southlands of Chile and Santa Barbara. I hope you have a lovely birthday, and I am sure we will drink a lot of beers together later today. In honor of your 23rd birthday, here are 23 apologies for bad things I have done to you over the years.

1. I'm sorry that when you were five, we played catch using a Cabbage Patch kid, and I threw the doll too hard and split your lip.

2. I'm sorry that when you chipped your front teeth in a pedicab accident in Santa Cruz, I changed the ring tone on my phone to "Snaggle". I'm also sorry that the ring tone is still "Snaggle", and I'm sorry that I still think it's a little bit funny.

3. I'm sorry that I horsed around with a shopping cart one day at Safeway, and ended up flipping over the cart and pinning you underneath it.

4. I'm sorry that I got openly jealous of the Skip-It you got from making county in breastroke when you were six. I didn't even want a Skip-It myself; I was jealous that I was so much worse at swimming than you.

5. I'm sorry that I made you and Kelly stay in the back bedroom while me and Megan had a party, one weekend when Mom and Dad were out of town. I hope that buying alcohol for you and your friends during high school could make up for that.

6. I'm sorry I laughed when Mom made fun of your flatulence before the rehearsal dinner.

7. I'm sorry I then tried to suck up to Mom by calling you "Dolly Fartin'".

8. I'm sorry that I got upset right after you were born because you weren't a boy. I blame Mom and Dad for telling me I was getting a brother named Kevin for months, even though they didn't know the sex of the baby.

9. I'm sorry I wrote a fake letter to the Teen Talk section of the Pleasant Hill Martinez Record pretending to be you, and telling the story of how you tried to dye your hair blond using lemon juice and a basting brush.

10. I'm sorry I sometimes assigned you difficult children for swim lessons because Kelly and I didn't want to teach them ourselves.

11. I'm sorry I hid underneath your window all those times, waited for you to fall asleep, and sang the "Stay Awake" song from Mary Poppins to scare you.

12. I'm sorry I often ruined your tape-recorded fake radio program, The Molly & Gina show, by bursting into the room and pretending to be "Delbert", an angry Southerner.

13. I'm sorry that when you really wanted a puppy for Christmas that one year, we bought you a puppy keychain instead, and laughed when you opened it.

14. I'm sorry I often stop listening during a conversation with you because I get distracted by the sports section or checking my email.

15. I'm sorry the earthquake of 1989 happened while you were riding your bicycle sans training wheels for the very first time. I probably called you a baby for not wanting to ride a bicycle for a few months after that. You ride a bike really well now, unless it has a taxi tied to the back of it, Snaggles.

16. I'm sorry I called you Snaggles again just now.

17. I'm sorry I convinced you to apply to the College of Natural Resources at Cal.

18. I'm sorry that so many of our friends and relatives named their dogs "Molly". I will never name a pet after you.

19. I'm sorry that I sometimes get frustrated by how long your email address is; however, "goodgollymissmolly" is 18 characters. Come on, Molly!

20. I'm sorry I complained about how far away you live. You obviously like living in a converted Army barracks and riding the bus for three hours every day, and who am I to judge you for that?

21. I'm sorry I didn't bring an air horn to your college graduation and blast it off when they read off your name.

22. I'm also sorry I initially forgot to put on deodorant that morning.

23. I'm sorry I ruined your birthday fondue that one year by bringing out the fondue pot without unplugging it, tripping when the cord became taut, and launching melted cheese all over the dining room, chandelier, and my own arms.

Here are some old entries about Molly in honor of her birthday:

Gender Confusion
Hide-and-Seek Champion of All Time
Earmuffs!

And here is Molly three Halloweens ago, dressed as a "Drunk Dial":

On Saturday night, I saw Takashi Shmizu's The Grudge 2. Maybe you are considering seeing the film. Maybe you already saw it. Maybe you've never heard of it. I hope I can answer any questions you might have about the film.

What does the prologue discuss?

Anyone who dies in a fit of rage will haunt the world afterward.

Does anyone die in a fit of rage in this film?

Yes.

Do they haunt anyone?

No.

Do demons and other things jump out in a surprising manner?

Yes.

Would you have enjoyed this movie more if you had seen The Grudge?

Yes and no. I would have certainly understood the mythology of The Grudge series better, but it wasn't at all a prerequisite for following the semi-existent plotline of Grudge Two. What I missed was that the revenge plotline of G-One featured a murdered woman who died in a rage, but the sequel retroactively grants her supernatural powers of revenge. In the original, she was mad about being murdered, but in the sequel, her restless ghost seeks vengeance for an innumerable series of wrongs.

The main thing I missed by not seeing G-One was that, having seen it, I would have probably never paid to see G-Two.

Was there any awkward dialogue?

SPOILER! Sarah Michelle Gellar is throttled and tossed off a roof by a vengeance demon or a ghost or something. Since these demons seem to have the ability to move people from room to room and floor to floor with no trouble, it's not clear why a ghostly hand needs to shove her, rather than phase her into a new location in mid-air. Nevertheless, SMG is tossed off a roof. After this happens, we cut to SMG's sister, Joan of Arcadia, walking out of the hospital, pursued by the journalist from Hong Kong, who speaks perfect Japanese and English. Here's the dialogue as we the audience wait for AMG's body to fall:

Journalist: I wanted to talk to you.
JOA: No. (Walks forward)
Journalist: Wait. I wanted to talk to you about your sister. (Finally, body falls.)

What would the Strokes say about the work of Tokyo's security guards and police officers?

Tokyo cops, they ain't too smart.

What are the themes of G-Two?

G-Two features many family conflicts. Joan of Arcadia's mother is dying of cancer, and seems to hate her daughter. Joan says on a few occasions that her mother is indifferent to her. The journalist reveals that he never saw his brother in Hong Kong, though he lived down the street from him for years. We don't learn why they were so estranged.

Joan and SMG are similarly estranged, not having talked for years. Joan says it was because SMG "dropped a college application on her, just like Mom." Indifferent Mom apparently wanted Joan to go to college as well. Joan finally tells her cancerous mother that cancer mom can no long talk to her in such a dismissive manner before SPOILER! Joan is killed by a ghost/revenge demon. /SPOILER!

After reunions with estranged family members, subjects can expect live six-to-seven more minuts, tops. The lesson seems to be, stay estranged, otherwise you might be killed by a ghost/revenge demon.

Based on what you saw in G-Two, who in Japan speaks English?

High school girls, Japanese police officers in taped interviews with one another, and old shaman women in parts of rural Japan that can only be reached by traveling by bus and train.

Did Sarah Michelle Gellar have any insights about the film's bizarre, incomprehensible structure?

In the DVD extras of The Grudge, or G-Prime, Sarah Michelle Gellar explains that G-Prime is a "non-linear story, which means it doesn't have a beginning, middle, or end."

What is the weirdest scene in G-Two?

A girl goes to her friend's apartment to show off her new cheerleader uniform. The friend, quite affable earlier in the film, responds by silently chugging a half-gallon of milk. As the cheerleader watches with mild surprise, the friend begins vomiting the milk back into the bottle. Halfway through her vomiting session, the cheerleader gets a call on her cell phone. She answers, has a short conversation, and leaves, while the friend continues to vomit milk back into its container.

When does the film's cheapest surpise occur?

Cheerleader opens a closet in her house. She slowly looks at the wall, which is covered in snapshots of her family. Only after fifteen seconds does she notice her brother, who is sitting in the middle of the closet, unhidden, undisguised, directly in her line of sight, perhaps 30 inches away. Then, she gasps in surprise.

Is the big end-of-movie reveal surprising?

Not one bit. Even the slowest of moviegoers figured out who the girl in the hoodie was about 45 minutes before her identity was revealed. In fact, the only reason she was wearing the hoodie was to disguise her identity for the reveal - none of the characters in the movie would have been affected in any way by knowing her true identity.

Was the entire movie planned out before shooting began?

One friend commented that the movie seemed to have been shot on the fly. The scenes lead into one another so abruptly that they may well have been improvising.

"Cut! A cat wandered into the shot!"
"Wait. Maybe we can use that."

"Cut! You left your cell phone on!"
"Wait. Maybe we can use that."

"Is anyone going to eat this disgusting leftover bacon from the commissary?"
"Save it! I have an idea."

What are the powers of these ghosts/revenge demons?

1. Appearing in photographs, but then also the real world.
2. Shifting revenge subjects through small geographical distances.
3. Making black stringy hair grow on people.
4. Turning into black cats, which then turn into pale Japanese children.
5. Killing people and also making them disappear, but sometimes just leaving them as corpses to scare people.
6. Appearing in mirrors to scare people.
7. Text messaging.
8. Killing their abusive witch mothers via fear.
9. Making their dead victims appears as ghosts to scare future victims.

Can you stop the revenge demons?

No. They kill you if you visit the haunted house. Or if you know someone who visited the haunted house. Or live near someone who visited the haunted house. Look, the demons are going to kill you, OK?

What happens if you don't solve the mystery of the revenge demons?

You die.

What happens if you do solve the mystery of the revenge demons?

You die.

Does covering your windows with old newspapers you found in the trash protect you from revenge demons?

No.

Why was that girl attending the International high school in Tokyo if her parents still lived in Chicago?

To learn Japanese kanjis and SPOILER! be killed by revenge demons /SPOILER!

Is G-Two scary?

It is, in the same way that someone coming into your office, sneaking around on all fours, and yelling, "Boo!" at random intervals would be scary. Since there is no story arc, goals, or plot points, it is not particularly suspenseful.

Finally, can I expect to hear a contortionist lady make a weird croaking sound for about thirty minutes?

Yes.

Times I clicked the "repair" button on the wireless network menu: 42

Times I unplugged and then plugged in the router: 14

Emails received: 140

Non-spam emails received: 25

Emails that were legitimate personal correspondence, expressed as a percentage of the total: 5.7%

Blog comments received: 18

Percentage of blog comments that were spam: 100%

Blog entries composed offline: 2

Entries currently trapped on my home machine: 2

Weeks since I threw out my "obsolete" floppy disks: 5

Cumulative minutes spent watching ESPN2 to get the score of the Cal-Washington State game: 19

Increase in productivity: 62%

Miles run: 3 1/4

Fake stairs climbed: 4140

Words misused without the internet to confirm definitions: 2

Times I slapped my forehead upon learning that the outage was due to our ethernet cable being slightly unplugged for two days: 2

It seems that animal excrement has become a problem in my neighborhood. Though I have not personally noticed the problem, I have noticed a few signs addressing the issue. On the side of one apartment building, there's a notice that reads, "PLEASE DO NOT LET YOUR DOG PEE HERE" in 32-point font. The notice appears to have been laminated. Up the street, there is a small, delicate rock garden in the dirt surrounding a tree. The most prominent feature is not the rocks, but a large drawing of a dog, squatting to defecate. The dog is surrounded by the universal "no" signal, a circle with a diagonal line through it.

What I gather is that Castro dog owners may not be especially diligent about pooper scooper laws, to the point that frustrated neighbors have been driven to Kinko's in despair. However, I'm not sure that these signmakers have thought things through. What is more disturbing - an occasional puddle of urine, or the words "DOG PEE" in huge letters, taped to the outside of your home, and unmissable during daylight hours? What would you rather look at - dog feces once a week, or a cartoon dog taking a crap, all the time? To my mind, the sanctity of the rock garden has already been compromised.

So we'll see how things shake out in the next few months. My fear is that the anti-poop sign becomes an inviting target for dogs to pee on, and angry dog owners have their pooches crap against the side of the pee-free building out of spite, and suddenly there's a six-foot vinyl banner denouncing dog urine on the pee house, and a metal sign with an even more explicit crapping dog cartoon in the rock garden, and then Didofoot gets a beagle puppy and can't come over anymore because of the pitchfork-wielding mob chasing puppies into Duboce Triangle and handing out surprisingly professional-looking desktop-published brochures about the health hazards of animal waste.

Happy Birthday, Kati! Though your palindromic year of 22 is at an end, the magical year of 23 might prove to be even more magical, if inevitably less palindromic.

Here is an old post all about you and Gene: Dinner with Kati and Gene, A Review

And here is an old photo, featuring the same cast of characters:

I am in love with a girl who works behind the counter at Cheese & Stuff. She has pretty blond hair, a warm smile, and an accent that is probably Greek. I can't remember a time when she didn't work at Cheese & Stuff, though it's sometimes hard to remember my own life before I first met her. I began coming in for the sandwiches, but I got so much more.

Once, I ordered a Middle Eastern plate just so I could hear her say "tabbouleh". Then I pretended I didn't understand, so she'd say it again.

About a year ago, I switched to the Deluxe sandwich, and I noticed that she started looking at me differently. Maybe she appreciated my healthier diet, with the addition of tomatoes and sprouts to the standard sandwich. When she asked me if I wanted mayo or mustard, I said "Light mayo", and I thought I saw her raise one delicate eyebrow. Of course, the Deluxe sandwich costs thirty cents more. She's not dealing with a cheap college student anymore. Instead, she's talking to a financially secure man who appreciates the finer things in life. Roast beef. Swiss cheese. Her eyes. Then when I pay, I get a parking validation ticket, even if I didn't park in the garage that day, just in case she's wondering if I have a car.

One of the side benefits of my romance to the Cheese & Stuff girl will be my stronger relationship with Sam, the proprieter of Cheese & Stuff. He'll be on track to become my new new father-in-law, or uncle, or whatever the relationship to my beloved happens to be. I could even help run the store. I have some ideas. For example, I'd de-emphasize cheese, and start focusing more on stuff. Together, we could normalize the prohibition against spitting, though Stanfurd fans and knife-chasing would remain strictly forbidden. Sam knew what he was doing when he set the standards.

I don't know the name of the lovely girl from Cheese & Stuff, and I doubt she knows mine. But that's not important. I'll just call her "Mrs. Keane".

In today's Word of Mouth column in the Life in Perspective section of the Contra Costa Times, Deirdre Ruscitti of Clayton Valley High School endorses this very website. Deirdre likes Henry David Thoreau, Newlywed, which is one of my favorite pieces as well. As is Part 2. You've got great taste, Deirdre. We can be MySpace friends anytime.

As a result of this plug, and the site's excellent Meebo plug-in, I got to talk to some old friends I hadn't heard from in years. If you happen by the page as a result of the CC Times plug, and I'm online, feel free to say hello. What else am I going to be doing - working? Ha, it is to laugh.

Once again, thanks to Deirdre, and do check out the Contra Costa Times. I delivered the paper for five years, wrote fake letters to the paper for nearly as long, and my parents still subscribe. Tony Hicks and Gary Peterson are stellar columnists, and their comics section is twice as big as any other local paper. It's your only source for in-depth reporting about Pacheco, so pick up a copy today!

My sister Megan got married on Saturday. I performed the ceremony, and emceed the reception. Obviously, people have questions about how it went:

What was the best line in the wedding ceremony?

Discussing the happy couple's first date, a group rollerblading excursion, I said, "That's why rollerblading is known worldwide as the most romantic of all the wheeled sports."

What was the funniest line in the vows?

My sister reached out to her techie husband with a promise to "honor and respect computers and electronic gadgets."

What was the slickest improvised line?

After my little sister read a Pablo Neruda love poem, and mentioned that Neruda had three wives, I stressed that the poem was definitely written about the third and final wife, AKA, "the keeper".

Were there any nearly-uncomfortable racially-insensitive fakeouts during the ceremony?

My sister's husband Nevin was born in Hong Kong, and came to California by way of Toronto. I remarked that, upon meeting the groom, our family was a little worried about cultural differences. After all, my sister had never dated...a Canadian before. Would we have to learn the metric system? Would she ever be able to eat American bacon again? Thankfully, we got along OK, and he's never called us hosers.

Any logistical issues?

The "ring warming" ceremony had each guest handle the wedding rings before they came back up to the front for vows. As we feared, we got to the vows before the rings made it through the crowd. I needed to kill time, so I went with the tried-and-true tactic of spending a few minutes teasing my mother. It went smoothly, except that I somehow concluded that, since their parents had been married a combined 68 1/2 years, the new couple only had to stay married until they were 96. Yeah, I don't know where I was going there.

Who made the best toast?

The newly married couple originally met at a party for Cal's hiking club, CHAOS. In his toast, my dad discussed our family's tradition of grueling hikes for birthdays and holidays (spearheaded by my father), and how Nevin nearly always had an excuse for missing out on the hikes - being on call for work, mild injuries, sleepiness, etc. He concluded that Nevin had only joined the hiking club in order to meet women - and as the crowd roared with laughter, my dad said he was very happy that he had done so, and met Megan.

What was the most common drink at the reception?

Gin-and-tonic. The deliciousness of Tanqueray and Tonic may be the first thing that my octogenerian great-aunt and Snoop Doggy Dogg have ever agreed on.

How was the reaction to the ceremony?

It was generally pretty positive. It may lead to more ministerial work, but it is more likely to lead to larger standup comedy audiences in the near future. In that vein, Nevin has given me until the end of his honeymoon to create an acceptable web site to promote comedy and/or ULC ministry work, and he's promised to hype it up in thank-you notes. Leave any suggestions for domain names or web designers in the comments section. Seankeane.org is not really going to cut it.

Did anyone suggest that you become an actual priest?

Yes.

Were gin-and-tonics involved in that suggestion?

One would assume.

Was there any singing?

Everyone sang happy birthday to my grandmother. Happy 75th, Patti! Also, my little sisters and I sang a song called "Tying the Knot", to the tune of Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline".

Isn't that a difficult tune to sing a capella?

Oh yes.

Who caught the bouquet and garter?

Traditionally, the single woman who catches the bridal bouquet is the next to marry. The same holds true for the single man who catches the garter. For the first time in my wedding-going life, each half of a long-dating couple caught the flower bouquet and garter. It wasn't rigged at all, as both made impressive, athletic grabs, diving and leaping around the floor. The bouquet knocked over four or five drinks, a testament to Megan's underrated throwing arm. Sadly, my youngest sister did not add to her impressive record of three bouquet catches, the first of which occurred when she was eight years old.

Who was the best dancer?

My cousin Casey absolutely dominated the dance floor. When she turns twelve, that girl is going to be unstoppable.

How many folding chairs will fit in your grandmother's truck?

At least 173.

Who signed the marriage license?

As officiant, I signed the form, and my little sisters both added their names as witnesses.

Did you say, "Can I get a witness?"

Yes.

Are you proud of yourself for that?

No.

Sean, did you find love this weekend?

Only for Yoplait yogurt and the MTV reality show Two-A-Days. Now if Repete can stop running his mouth and get his head in the game, Tuscaloosa County ain't gonna know what hit 'em.

There's a wedding this weekend, and I will be wearing a tuxedo at the ceremony. I picked it up today, so for most of the evening, I've been driving around with a tuxedo in my trunk. It's a good feeling to have a tuxedo in your trunk. It's an ace in the hole. Someone can cut me off, and I won't give them the finger, much less honk, because I have a tuxedo in the trunk. I might look like a slob, wearing baggy jeans and a worn-out green shirt I bought in 1999, but I'm just four feet away from the fanciest rented ensemble imaginable.

Nothing gets to me. Rod Stewart could come on the radio, and I wouldn't even bother to change the station. At least for a minute or so. That's how good I potentially feel. I have a vested interest in staying cool and looking good. Also I have a vest, which has six buttons.

Say I want to stop at Jack in the Box. A Detroit Lions coach got busted for going through a Wendy's drive-thru naked. I could one-up him by going through the drive-thru in a tuxedo. I would have to find a place to change clothes, though. Maybe Jack in the Box has a restroom I could use. I would change out of the tuxedo before eating the food, I think.

A cop could pull me over for speeding, and I wouldn't even break a sweat. "Why are you smiling?" he might ask, as he examines my license and registration. "Because I know something that you don't know. I have the ability to become formally dressed in just ten-to-twelve minutes." He might need me to actually open the trunk and unzip the garment bag, but I have full confidence I'd be let off with a warning.

When you rent a tuxedo, they let you keep the socks. They try to play it off like it's a complimentary gift to you for renting the tux from their store, but it's not like they have the option of re-renting those socks. They pretty much have to give them to me or throw them away. Who is going to re-use someone else's socks? This is also why you should not go commando when dealing with rented formal wear. A real complimentary gift would be a plush Sanrio penguin. In case you were wondering, the tuxedo socks are also in the trunk.

Say a hot girl pulls up besides me when I'm cruising up 101. We exchange glances. She winks at me. I wink back. She blows a kiss. I raise my eyebrows suggestively. She exits the freeway at Ninth Street, and I follow her. When I pull up beside her, she rolls down her window and tells me she has an extra ticket to the opera - but I'm not dressed appropriately. I put a finger to my lips. "Sssh," I say. "You don't have to worry about that. Follow me to Jack in the Box."

During my first semester at UC Berkeley, I found myself in need of an additional academic unit. I followed the lead of four of my floormates and enrolled in a student-run class on meditation. The class met three times a week, from 8-9 AM. All you had to do was show up, discuss meditation for 5-10 minutes, and then meditate. In addition, we were supposed to keep a "meditation journal".

It took me one single class session to learn a valuable lesson. Meditation teachers didn't take roll before class. Calling out names might have destroyed our relaxed mood. Instead, they circulated a sign-in sheet to keep track of attendance. There was nothing to prevent an unscrupulous student from writing in the names of his three friends who slept through their alarms that morning. In fact, there was nothing to prevent four people from setting up a rotation, where they'd only have to attend 1/4 of their meditation classes. And within that rotation, there was nothing to prevent one person (me) from shirking even that limited responsibility, trusting his friends not to be spiteful and stop writing down his name after a full month of his non-attendance.

Trouble arose when my early-rising friend Jeremy returned from class one Tuesday with news: Our meditation journals were due on Thursday. The instructors wanted to read our daily entries, to get our impressions of the class, and to make sure we weren't stagnating as meditators. I had been writing in my meditation journal nearly as often as I'd been attending class, so I was forced to do half a semester's worth of journal entries in one night. Here are some excerpts from that night:

September 23

For a meditation class, it seemed too noisy. Not high-decibel, but it was just that every little noise seemed to take me out of thoughts...Maybe I just need to focus more. The rest of the class sure responded.

September 24

...I think that on Tuesday, my problem was that I thought about meditating while meditating. I got away from that, but I still feel like I don't belong here, or even know what the hell I'm doing. Stick with it, stick with it...

September 30

I amazed my floormates and myself by actually getting up and going to start Week 2. This is nice because I don't feel any pressure, and when you're in Chem 1A, extra pressure is the last thing you need!

October 7

Not my finest meditation today. I'm a little ashamed of it, especially after what I wrote on Thursday, but I fell asleep in the first part of class. When I woke up, it was hard to get into it again. I suck.

October 16

...I haven't ever tried to meditate outdoors, to get a sensual perspective of the nature I attempted to commune with...the whole experience was more natural, wholesome, and real. What a beautiful day.

October 21

I looked over my journal entries today, and I almost laughed at how paranoid and confused I am in the first few. I may not be the best meditator, but at least I'm not completely paranoid every moment that I'm trying to focus.

I got full credit.

I transferred to a new middle school when I was in seventh grade. When I got there, people thought I was the younger brother of someone named Eli. The resemblance was apparently uncanny, though I never got to meet him. In the first month of school alone, I must have had thirty people ask me if we were related. In general, I have so many cousins in the Bay Area that it is a shock to say that someone is not my relative.

This older doppelganger haunted me. I wondered if people's perceptions of me were unconsciously colored by their expectations that I would be like Eli. Had Eli made enemies of the journalism teacher who hated me, or had I earned his disdain by my own merits? What about the English teacher who also hated me? If Eli went to swim meets or regional geography bees, would people ask him if he had a younger brother named Sean? I heard less about Eli when I got to high school, and no one at all mentioned him at Cal.

I have done a lot of research into the world of Sean Keanes, but it seems that my focus on the International Same Name Club has made me complacent. I kept up with the people who share my name, but not those who inexplicably share my appearance. This is why I missed Timmy Williams for so long.

Timmy Williams is a writer and performer for a very successful sketch comedy group in New York City called The Whitest Kids U Know. He's originally from South Dakota, but now resides in Brooklyn. Upon seeing the Whitest Kids perform in New York city, one of Zembla's East Coast correspondents frantically messaged me about the existence of my doppelganger:

"You look absolutely fucking exactly alike. Uncanny!" Later, the correspondent elaborated: "Your doppelganger, Keane. The same face, a different man. But still the same body also. Come on!"

Compare for yourself:

Timmy:

Sean:

The Urban Dictionary definition of "timmy williams" is quite telling: "timmy is a fine peice [sic] of man flesh even though he is a small peice [sic], he makes up for his lack in hieght [sic] in his giant booty". If that isn't me to a T!

I don't know what to do here. How do you contact someone and tell them you think you might be their twin? I'm not going to lie, this guy is way more successful than me, and living a dream that I've often dreamt, but never lived. Do I send him a photo? Ask if his upcoming television incarnation of Whitest Kids U Know needs stunt doubles? Do I challenge him to a fight? If we shook hands, would we both disintegrate? If I told him we have the same body, would he hold it against me?

If you've got any advice, let me know. In the meantime, check out my doppelganger in Timmy Poops His Pants. If you squint your eyes just right, it's like I'm pooping my pants.

Earlier Candynalysis:

Three Musketeers
Lollipop Paint Shop

Some months ago, I purchased a novelty candy called the Lollipop Paint Shop for my good friend Louise. The Lollipop Paint Shop was less than delicious. As a way of returning the favor, Louise bought me some novelty candy as part of my birthday present. It's called the Candee Slurpee, and it is a 7-11 EXCLUSIVE.

My birthday was a few months ago, but I kept the candy preserved in a plastic bag, the way C.S.I. keeps evidence. That is appropriate because the very existence of the Candee Slurpee is a crime. Its combination of Sweet Lollipop! and Sour Liquid! seems designed to evoke an actual Slurpee as much as possible. Underneath the plastic lid is a sweet candy shell, while the inside reservoir is full of sour syrup. The Candee Slurpee also comes with a pointed straw, reminiscent of those that came glued to the back of Capri Sun pouches.

The concept of the candy seems to be that buyers will combine the tastes of sour and sweet by slurping up the liquid while simultaneously licking the hard candy shell. You know, just like a real Slurpee. In practice, this proves impossible. It's hard to eat the hard candy part at all, even without the complication of the straw. The Candee's waxed paper sides add a level of annoying realism and prevents any normal lollipop consumption strategies. The only way to consume the hard candy part is to essentially fellate the entire Slurpee, which will inevitably lead to a sour sticky liquid dribbling down your chin.

The level of realism is impressive. I imagine there were earlier, less-accurate incarnations of the Candee Slurpee that were returned in droves by disappointed consumers. Complaint letters demanded waxier paper, sharper straws, and stickier liquid. If the Candee Slurpee does as well as 7-11 hopes, we might soon see a Big Bite Hot Dog Candee (gummy candy sitting in a bun made of nougat), a Candee Big Gulp (waxy shell, entirely full of sour syrup), scratch-and-sniff candee lottery tickets, or packs of Candee Parliament Lights (regular cigarettes that have been dipped in powdered sugar).

Shockingly, this product contains artifical flavors. 7-11 officially recommends the Candee Slurpee "For Ages 4 and up", but I informally recommend it be immediately thrown in the garbage.

When I see a movie trailer or poster, my most common reaction is, "That movie doesn't look very good. I sure won't be seeing that one." Sometimes, in the case of a movie like Big Momma's House or Little Man, I get a little excited for the possibility that it might well turn out to be the worst motion picture of all time. Rarely do I see a movie poster and think, "That's not actually a movie at all."

There is a big billboard for The Guardian near the Bay Bridge, right where Highway 101 meets 80. When I saw Ashton Kutcher's name alongside Kevin Costner's, I thought it was a joke. Given the ridiculousness of the pairing, my first thought was that it was an elaborate joke marketing campaign for our local independent newspaper, The San Francisco Bay Guardian.

This wasn't a particularly logical or plausible theory, but it seemed more likely than the idea that someone in Hollywood greenlighted a blockbuster film starring those two actors. It only became real to me when I caught the tail end of a television commercial for the movie. Yes, Kutcher and Costner were indeed teaming up.

However, when I saw the full trailer, it became less real once again. Because The Guardian is not just a Costner-Kutcher buddy action-adventure film, it's a Costner-Kutcher buddy action-adventure film about the Coast Guard. Can I really be sure we're not being punk'd on a previously unimagined scale?

Just for the record, that movie doesn't look very good. I sure won't be seeing that one.

Fans, take heed. Sean Keane will be returning to the stage at the San Francisco Comedy Club at 50 Mason. I'll be headlining a ridiculously strong showcase that Friday night, September 22, at 8 PM. Ali Wong will be the feature act, and the bill includes such Sean Keane favorites as Greg Edwards and Nitin Kant. Add in Cal alum Zahra Noorbakhsh and elder comedy statesman David Kleinberg, and you've got a stellar lineup that does not discriminate based on race, age, or gender.

Admission is $10, and while the SF Comedy Club now serves wine and beer, there's still no drink minimum. The Club is essentially besieged by quality Indian restaurants, and you can feel free to bring in food to your table or booth. I'm much funnier when the audience has been primed with booze and curry.

What I'm most excited about is that it's been five years, and as such, it is now officially OK to make jokes about September 11th. I'll be commemorating the anniversary of the World Trade Center disaster and America's subsequent victory over terrorism with some leftover jokes that simply haven't been acceptable until today.

Here's a little sample:

"So the Arabs crashed two planes into the World Trade Center on 9/11. If it's Arab pilots, you'd think the attack would have happened on 7/11. Thank you, bomb again."

Pure gold! And I've been sitting on that little gem for five years! I don't want to give away too much of the material, but let's just say a certain Osama "Been Hidin'" will not escape unscathed by my precision, bunker-busting comedy assault.

Official promotional info, including a link to an overwhelming and confusing Craigslist announcement, is after the jump.

Beginning in 1999, the Heuristic Squelch put on comedy shows at UC Berkeley. By 2001, the shows had gained momentum, and the Squelch had ended its contentious partnership with ASUC SUPERB, the arm of student government in charge of putting on entertainment, and the same people who paid Uncle Joey 10 grand to perform on campus. We had up-and-coming comedians lined up to perform, and we had a great venue to put on show's in Blake's on Telegraph. Our first show would feature comics Jim Short and Rob Cantrell, along with future expatriate Luke Filose. It would take place on a night free of competition from other comedy clubs, and early enough in the semester that students weren't swamped. Yes, September 11th, 2001 would be a big day for comedy in Berkeley.

I went to bed on the 10th after staying up late, furiously re-writing jokes and practicing my Young Sean voice. I woke up to early knocking on my bedroom door, with my roommate warning that I probably wanted to get up and watch CNN.

There's nothing profound for me to say about the actual events. I didn't know anyone in New York at the time, so there were no frantic phone calls. What I remember was how quiet everything was. No one was out on the street, no planes flew overhead, and even the guys next door had stopped revving the broken-down Camaro in the back yard.

We didn't know whether to cancel the show or not. Ultimately we decided to go through with it, partly because there was no real way to cancel at that point. At Blake's, the crowd was surprisingly large, albeit shell-shocked. I had some snarky material about the day's events, Bush's competence, and TV coverage, but ultimately, I decided to start the show with a simple disclaimer. I told the crowd that the day had been terrible, everyone was confused, and we all felt nothing but sympathy for the victims. But, no disrespect, we were still going to do the show, and we hoped no one thought we were assholes.

And then I started to do my act. When you go first at a comedy show, it's called "taking the bullet". I would say that talking about a massive terrorist attack is one of the toughest intros you can face as a comic, even worse than following a guy who rants incoherently about his blind bluesman friend. The first joke I told didn't go over all that well. But a strange thing happened once I got going. When a joke succeeded, it got a huge reaction. It was as if all of the twelve hours of stress, fear, and compulsive CNN-watching had built up, desperately wanting some kind of outlet. And, damn it, jokes about little girls with T. Rex arms provided that outlet.

It also helped that the pro comics went out and kicked ass. Rob Cantrell was his usual stellar self, and Jim Short was flat-out amazing, doing a good fifteen minutes he must have written that afternoon, all about CNN and planes and racism. I eventually felt confident enough to assert that Blake's might eventually become a terror target - there's good beer, the music rocks, and you just know Bin Laden hates that shit.

Everyone felt a little better walking out, or at least until they got upstairs and saw the footage of the planes hitting the towers playing over and over on the bar televisions. So we yelled, "Let's roll", charged the bartender, and changed the channel to Comedy Central.

Too soon?