Bubble Boy Blog - Welcome to Life in the Bubble

Jim Henson's 8-second slices of brilliance

2009-06-15T20:24:00.006-04:00

Some of Jim Henson's best (and more original work) was his early commercial spots for various companies. These were very different than the other types of advertising styles prominent in the late 1950's. It amazes me that, even fifty years later, the tone and strong message of these spots still resonates today.

This got me thinking about the current state of advertising on the internet. With each day that passes, a growing number of media consumers are turning away from conventional mass-media outlets, and getting more of their entertainment and news from streaming sources on the internet. With this reality comes the inevitable quandary from content producers: How can we monetize content delivered on the internet so that we can sustain the livelihood of our creative teams and facilitate the future production of more quality content?

The old school media answer to income generation has always been the 30-second sponsor commercial spot. Various other models have been tried with some success (including the single sponsor movies and variety programming that gained popularity in the early days of television), but the bread-and-butter of all the major networks through the years has been, and continues to be, the ubiquitous 30-second commercial.

There's a problem, though, when old school media tries to apply this successful model to financially support their internet delivered offerings: It doesn't work. Nobody wants to sit through a 30-second ad in order to watch a video that is less than 5 minutes in length. And, due to its inherent, yet slowly changing, shortcomings, including small video display sizes, download wait time and other issues, most videos created for web delivery have been edited down to less than 5 minutes in length. Until very recently, many video hosting sites had a ten minute limit on video length. Add to this the changing viewing habits of most people turning to the web for their media consumption, where on-demand viewing and sharing of short videos with others on social networking sites is the dominant activities, and a shift to a much more narrowly-focused style of content being offered by many unconventional producers as well as most amateur creators, and one can see that much of the video content created for the web in the future will continue to be short-form, with lengths of less than 10 minutes.

Sites like Hulu, that essentially rebroadcast long-form old school media content produced for television, are about the only example that can be argued in support of a 30 second commercial spot model. These shows have the typical 22-plus minute length to better offset the need of a viewer to sit through multiple 30 second commercial spots. There is a real chance, however, that as higher numbers of advertiser-coveted 20 and 30-somethings turn to the internet for more and varied content, fewer costly 30-minute sitcoms, hour-long dramas and reality shows will be produced by old school media outlets. They just won't have the viewer numbers to support the rates they currently charge advertisers for 30-second spots. It won't be long, then, that those advertisers will really start to look to the internet as their grade-A marketing option, instead of the "oh yeah, we should probably create a flashy banner ad thing for the web also" throwaway idea that many agencies currently see as adequate for the web.

And if advertisers want to be successful on the internet, they better pay attention to what works and what doesn't. Their audience on the web will be a far more specific, much narrower demographic. The smart content producers will be angling their shows toward a specific audience, too. Gone are the days where a particular show has to be "dumbed down" just so it might gain mass appeal (and be more attractive to advertisers looking to reach a broad audience). This is already starting to happen. The successful ads in the very near future will be targeted, sniper-like and precise. They will cut to the chase and make their point known in a short time frame almost unheard of today. These will be fluid, engaging ads that will make people think, laugh, or hopefully both.

Yes, the successful internet-delivered ads of tomorrow, produced by forward-thinking marketers and embraced by savvy sponsors and their consumers alike, will be truly ground breaking in this medium. They'll also look a lot like these 8-second commercial spots created fifty years ago by Jim Henson. What is old is new again.

These tv-spots ran from 1957-62.
More info here.

I see what they did there.

2009-05-31T13:34:00.002-04:00

They've taken the game of shuffleboard and sort of ramped it up a bit to appeal to a younger audience demographic. Okay. I get it now. But seriously, Japan. I mean, sure, she's got really nice boobs and everyone seems to be having a good time, but can't you all just be content playing the flippin' Plinko game like the rest of us?!!

Theresa Andersson - An amazing musical talent

2009-05-22T17:51:00.001-04:00

Incredible talent!

See and hear more at her home site: www.theresaandersson.com

More American Workers Outsourcing Own Jobs Overseas

2009-05-10T12:18:00.001-04:00

More American Workers Outsourcing Own Jobs Overseas

Elizabeth Gilbert: A different way to think about creative genius

2009-02-22T16:44:00.002-05:00

This made me think ... and I agree. Although, now I don't have a valid reason to shop for fashionable outfits for the little disembodied and cockeyed creative geniuses that hide under the kitchen sink and help me out once in awhile. But yeah, good stuff ... made me think.

Muppets doing what Muppets do

2008-10-26T13:11:00.002-04:00

It's so good to see Disney finally getting the Muppets out there in a meaningful and fun way. Welcome back, Rowlf.

"It's like something from a bait bucket..."

2008-10-11T10:28:00.004-04:00

I find this clip exceedingly funny, and Liv pleasantly adorable, no matter how many times I run across it. So now it's posted here, too. And that makes it more likely that I will find it again and again.

Brackish pond water, indeed...

R.I.P Don

2008-09-03T00:06:00.001-04:00

You will be missed.

Maria Bamford's final SuperDeluxe Episode

2008-07-22T19:41:00.004-04:00

Say it ain't so! Well, it is. I even waited a few months after it aired just to make sure it was really over. But I can't feel too sad since Maria is on to other projects now, like taping her third comedy CD. Hopefully it'll go along with a new DVD performance, too.

For anyone who hasn't seen the last Maria Bamford Show episode, here it is. And don't forget to watch the other 19 on her show page. You'll laugh. You will.

Uh

2008-07-11T09:59:00.001-04:00

Uh. This made me smile today.

Writing for Puppets and Animation

2008-06-15T11:20:00.006-04:00

I've recently discovered a podcast about screenwriting called On The Page. The topics are mostly geared toward writing for major media distribution (TV, Hollywood movies), outlets that are quite removed from my own modest goals, but I did cull a bit of useful info from an episode called Writing for Animated Characters and Puppets. More importantly, though, it reminded me of a trend in puppetry and animation that I've wanted to write about for a while now.

Listen to it here:

Click To Play

The podcast features guests David Skelly (Writer/Director, Pixar story artist) and Kirk Thatcher (Writer/Director, The Jim Henson Company). Both offer a few interesting anecdotes about different projects they've been involved with. While I wished for more substance in this piece, it was nice to hear them both reaffirm an underlying principle about writing for puppets (and animation) that many creators (especially those driving their content out primarily for internet consumption) seem to often forget, or never consider at all: If it doesn't work with the sound off, perhaps performing a piece using puppets or animation is not the best choice to convey that particular idea.

The principle refers to the "talking head" phenomenon that many online puppet work (lots of my work included), and far too many of the current animated offerings on TV and the internet these days suffers from. Family Guy is a perfect example of an animated cartoon where the dialog is dominant and the animated action adds little to nothing but a few keyframe visual posters to support the punch line. In other words, the visuals are hardly needed to make the script funny. There really are very few exaggerated "cartoony" styles in the drawing and most of the visuals that support the script could be recreated in live action fairly easily. This is a cartoon being a cartoon for the sake of it, and the show is not written to really require animation in order to convey the ideas in the script or to make the dialog funny (unless you have to be reminded what a *insert random pop culture icon* looks like every time one gets mentioned during each episode). John K's excellent animation blog often blames this type of situation on talentless studio executives. While they are ultimately the ones who greenlight and push this stuff out to the masses, it's the creators who are really to blame for this pervasive trend. This is one reason why classic Warner Brothers Loony Tunes, Pixar and Jim Henson's work, among others, always stand out among the mountains of stuff that's been created over the years. Simply put, the visuals orchestrated by these creators always added something to the stories being told. The action and design of the characters meant something. And, often times, the situations created could not have worked using actors in a live action set. That's why the choice to tell those tales using animation and/or puppetry was often times the only choice that would have worked.

In an attempt to help audiences recognize the great difference in entertainment that this type of creative choice brings, I think it is a worthwhile goal for both beginning and established creators to strive for a better balance in puppetry and/or animation content they offer for public consumption. I'm not suggesting that "non-cartoony" shows like Family Guy should get cancelled, or that people creating countless "puppet talking at webcam" shows today should quit. But I am interested in seeing a return of animated "cartoony" cartoons, where situations are created that have to be seen to be enjoyed. It would also be a refreshing trend in puppetry to see clever ideas and characters in situations where the performance was just as or even more important than the words being said. Why are Frank Oz and other top Muppet performers so revered by other puppeteers and audiences alike? Because the well-defined characters they performed were amazing actors, and that acting not only spoke the words in the script, it made the characters alive inside the story. What makes puppetry and animation special artforms is its ability to bring interesting characters to life that humans alone could never become, and put them in situations that are entertaining because of what they are, not in spite of it. The performance of the character inside any story will ultimately make the piece entertaining or not, but the initial decision to portray an idea using the art of puppetry and/or animation is just as important.

It's something that I will be continually striving towards in my own work. It would be wonderful to see other smalltime web-based creators embrace this, too. Trends have to begin someplace, afterall.

Read and Publish - ISSUU is Cool

2008-06-07T14:37:00.004-04:00

This is just a quick post to spread the word about issuu, an online publisher of sorts that offers writers and artists a world platform to distribute their creativity and efforts for others to see and share. The site is also an amazing place to browse and discover established artists and publications from all over that, without it, you might never have stumbled upon.

It's free and has a very nice user interface that makes it easy and enjoyable to view magazines and other collections on screen (something that usually causes this particular bubbleboy quite a bit of fatigue). It also has a social networking component similar to Flickr and Deviant Art.

I've just recently begun exploring issuu and it is very cool thus far.

The Perceived Value of Certain Things

2008-05-21T01:21:00.002-04:00

I've earned a living as a photographer for about fifteen years now, and have also worn the hat (made of wool, but not itchy at all, oddly enough) of a "graphic designer" for most of those. In that time, there have been numerous occasions where I was asked to produce work for somebody else in exchange for "the countless promotional opportunities that the public distribution of said work would bring me," instead of, you know, actual payment in cash. Rarely if ever do these work-for-free-publicity arrangements ever result in tangible increases to my bottom line due to an onslaught of new clients and "for pay" job opportunities. After sampling this work model early in my career (before it was actually my main source of income), it became very apparent that the promised "free publicity and advertising" promised wasn't actually FREE since I wasn't being paid for the work up front. I, and everyone else who accepts this deal ends up PAYING what they should have EARNED from the client for the services.

I write this today to remind others, who may be starting their respective careers in a creative industry, that they need to be paid for what they are worth, and what the work they produce is worth. There are very few instances where working for free (ie: in exchange for promotional inclusion or some other form of mass-produced bartering) is justified. What will happen instead is, by working for free, or below the "going professional rate" (ie: drastically undercutting your competition), you are devaluing the services provided by your colleagues and harming the future earning potential of yourself. It may not seem to be a big deal when you are just starting out, but the pay rates of certain creative jobs are quite precarious and volatile. In some cases it has taken many years for people in creative fields to earn the professional respectability required in a particular industry so that they are treated and compensated at similar levels to people in creative, but different fields.

This is important. Yes, it may look cool and earn you a few bragging points on a resume to have your work (and name) published someplace in exchange for your donated time and efforts. This rarely leads to actual increases in your earnings, though. And money, afterall, is what everyone ELSE charges people for stuff.

Thanks to all for taking the time to read this. Now enjoy a well-spoken rant on this subject by writer Harlan Ellison.

For mom, on her birthday.

2008-05-09T15:30:00.003-04:00

Chet uses his webcam to share the gift of song with mom.

The Imported Birthday Gift

2008-04-20T18:10:00.007-04:00

Tom went on a mission to find a unique birthday gift for my sister, Pamela. He talks about it here, in this video.

Penny's Special Birthday Gift

2008-04-20T16:00:00.005-04:00

For my sister, Penny --- who seems to have just about everything she needs already. :)

But how do we educate farmers about nuclear attack?

2008-04-16T21:35:00.006-04:00

Well, we use marionettes, of course. Nothing speaks to the sensibilities of the rural farmer quite like a string puppet.

A special thanks to archive.org for continuing to preserve and make available ephemeral films like this one and so many others.

It's JerryTime!

2008-04-15T00:46:00.006-04:00

A very long time ago, during a "character-building" year of my life otherwise known as the seventh grade, I experienced an embarrassing swim class-related incident that continues to serve as a reminder of humanity's aptitude for cruelty. This will, undoubtedly, be the subject of one of my own works some day, but until then, please enjoy the excellent storytelling of Jerry Zucker, and the sharp-witted animation accompaniment of his talented brother, Orrin Zucker, in their swim class-inspired horror short film called "The Naked Swim."

Please do check out their other equally excellent film shorts here.

Where has all the intelligent TV sketch comedy gone?

2008-03-30T13:47:00.006-04:00

I'm quite certain that brilliant sketch comedy will return to television some day---probably about 3 minutes after my head explodes from accidentally viewing a promotion for yet another tired reality-based show.

In the meantime, perhaps the classic argument clip that follows below will help the media money people reflect a bit on how far their current entertainment offerings have fallen down the sinkhole of lowest common denominator audience demographic target desperation. And maybe, just maybe, they will take a chance on the next group of brilliant comedy writers and actors who walk through their door with a pitch for a new show. And maybe, just maybe, they'll put the same marketing forces behind this new show that they use to convince millions of people to watch the current swamp of reality TV drivel they produce.

Foster Farms Chicken

2008-03-08T14:26:00.005-05:00

A very well done parody of the Dove "Evolution" ad spot, created by The Character Shop.

Are schools designed to stifle creative expression?

2008-02-20T22:18:00.006-05:00

"We do not grow into creativity...we grow out of it." -Sir Ken Robinson

It's Time For Creative Puppet Peeps To Focus Less On Prime Time TV

2008-02-16T11:35:00.012-05:00

Will we ever again see a puppet-based program like The Muppet Show on prime time television? Short answer: I don't know.

I would love to see another Muppet Show type of thing broadcast to the masses, but I don't think "prime time" is the best way to go about this anymore. And it shouldn't be the only goal that creative people strive for.

It would be great to see new prime time offerings (or ANY time offerings for that matter) featuring puppetry. Something that has the potential to appeal to a wide enough TV audience to make it feasible for producers to take a chance, but not something that has to be so watered down and vanilla to meet that potential.

The wishing is the easy part, of course. From everything I've read on the subject, getting any program from idea to pilot to an actual season on TV, let alone a primetime slot, is exceedingly difficult. Especially an idea featuring puppets. I'm not saying it can't be done, just that it is an especally steep hill to climb.

Jim Henson developed short ideas that were featured on popular primetime shows like Jimmy Dean and Ed Sullivan for many years before a forward-thinking Brit by the name of Lew Grade gave him a chance to produce the Muppet Show. It took someone outside of Hollywood to take a chance on Jim, eventhough his success had been pretty well confined to American TV sets in the years prior.

Since The Muppet Show run, there really hasn't been a purely puppet-based production that has seen anywhere near the same success (even the Henson follow-ups never had the same wide audience appeal needed to keep a show on TV, for one reason or another). And since then we've seen more niche shows like Crank Yankers, that appeal to a smaller core audience, get a chance to shine. But this is a far cry from the "prime time network TV" exposure that many creatives still set as a goal.

The reason I get into the history a bit here is to set up the following idea:

The old idea of getting a show on TV and in a prime time slot is changing every day that the internet becomes a greater and greater mass media delivery system for the masses. I don't think we are at the point where the power of the old network model can be completely discounted or ignored --- mostly because the companies that own those networks ALSO own most of the internet portals delivering broadband media entertainment on the web. But the days of begging for a chance to make a pilot for a show, and then a chance for that pilot to be advertised and aired at a decent time to build an audience, and then for a network to agree to pick up the idea and buy a season or two worth of shows based on the ratings of that pilot, are being changed every day by the rise of the internet delivery model.

Think iTunes and YouTube and SuperDeluxe and Blip.tv and any other number of popular ways people are experiencing the very same shows via the internet that other people are watching on cable or over the networks. Now think about how many more people will be getting their daily and prime time doses of entertainment delivered to them over the next few years. There is a huge shift happening in the delivery system and that is going to change the way shows are made and the way they are marketed.

Audiences are already changing. Fewer people tune in to network TV during those, once-coveted, prime time slots to get their entertainment. Many people never turn in at all during those times. They use on-demand services or record programming on DVRs and watch when it is convenient.

The idea for the show and the production still needs to be good in order to be successful, but the argument to get a puppet-based show in the "primetime" slot on TV in order to make it available to a wide audience is not the only thing to consider anymore, and it is getting less and less important every day. As more viewers switch to the On-Demand model of watching programming, the notion of "prime time TV" will become completely abstract. People might start to equate "prime time" with "quality programming" and THAT is where most productions on the internet currently fall short. And by "quality" I am referring to production quality, in addition to performance, etc.

So, all my yammering leads me to this point: It was difficult for Jim Henson to do what he did, but he succeeded BECAUSE he was a genius who worked his arse off and had a lot of support from fellow geniuses and visionaries. And then, after that amazing alignment of stars in the galaxy happened, the real "prime time success" really eluded Henson for most of what he created following the Muppet Show run.

But with the changing internet delivery model, a new group of geniuses have the potential to make magic once again. Only this time, they do not NEED to appeal to the Neilsen Ratings Family of TV viewers in order to be deemed successful and stay on the air. They can build a rabid following though all the new media delivery portals out there.

This has the potential of reaching a much larger audience of people of similar tastes, without a show's creators facing the almost impossible task of repeating what Henson was able to do with The Muppet Show --- create something with mass appeal for a large and varied audience demographic.

Could that type of mass appeal for a new show happen again? Sure! But it is highly unlikely.

What is highly LIKELY, though, is a new show featuring puppet characters being created that appeals to a core audience of a fairly narrow demographic. But with the right internet delivery systems in place, that core audience has the potential to be MUCH larger than any audience of a typical prime time network or cable TV broadcast.

Then what could happen is the new delivery system could influence the decision making people who control the old delivery system. Popular internet programming will and should be offered on traditional network schedules, giving those shows the chance to find an even wider audience --- one consisting of people who still get most or all of their programming delivered the old way.

This is where the new shows could find themselves in prime time TV slots because they will be coming at the network with a huge audience following already (so much different than the old make-a-pilot-and-cross-fingers model of yesterday).

But as the days go by, I find the NEED for shows to make it to prime time network TV less and less necessary. More people are watching what they want to watch WHEN they want to watch it using alternate delivery systems on the internet (or even DVR systems if you want to extend the analogy to cable and DirectTV viewers a bit), and because of the personal freedom of choice this gives people, having a handful of studio executives deciding the handful of shows they are going to provide to the public on TV between the hours of 8pm and 11pm just feels like a really arcane method, doesn't it?

THE CREATORS AND THE GENIUSES HAVE MORE OPTIONS THAN EVER NOW AND SHOULD FOCUS ON DEVELOPING QUALITY AND ORIGINALITY AND THEN FOCUS ON DELIVERING THAT TO THE INTERNET TO FIND THEIR AUDIENCE.

:)

We already have good puppet-based shows available online. We need much better ones. And I believe that when the skilled and creative people out there begin focusing on the new delivery models and letting go of the old ones, we will see a ton of shows of a much higher caliber on the net than the smallish, more hobbyist type of puppet stuff that currently dominates YouTube and the rest.

A non-puppet-based show that was created by veteran TV people for delivery to the net with high production value is Quarterlife. It is now going to have a run on traditional TV. I give this as an example not because I think this show reached an unquestionable level of success on the net and is now poised to reach a larger audience in primetime (I think this show was always intended to be on TV --- the network execs were just dipping their old school toes into the internet water to see what it felt like), but instead as an example of an "internet production" doing it right. The show's production value is high (if a bit "indie"), the acting is excellent, the writing seems solid (not my demographic, but I can see the appeal for their probable "twenty-something" target audience) and the delivery system on the net is well organized, attractive and fast.

There is no reason that a puppet-based series cannot be produced with similar production values and delivery mechanisms. THIS is the kind of thing people will come back for. THIS is the kind of thing that will allow a show to build an audience on the internet.

Once more seed money gets offered to today's creative people with great ideas, and their efforts get focused not on prime time TV (or cable), but on the internet, and that common goal results in a show with a high production quality to match the amazingly creative show concept, PUPPETS WILL BE BACK IN THE MINDS AND HEARTS OF MILLIONS OF PEOPLE AGAIN.

I like what the Henson company is doing with some of their "Henson Alternative" (ha!) productions. They are good ideas with high production quality, delivered to the internet to gain an audience. But I think even Henson is still thinking old school and are too eager to get something on the networks to find that next big success. They should be improving their content delivery system, creating a unique web experience where shows can be easily watched (unfortunately, this is not the case with most of the things they have done online to date --- their internet delivery system is abysmal).

But they obviously have the talent and the production know-how to make it happen on the internet. Someday maybe they will. Hopefully.

And there are countless others out there who could do it, too. They just need to set their focus on the new delivery systems and continue to work on improving the overall experience for the viewer.

Oh yeah, they also have to come up with REALLY GREAT AND ORIGINAL IDEAS FOR SHOWS and then PRODUCE THEM WITH AMAZING PERFORMANCES AND HIGH QUALITY STANDARDS THAT WOULD MAKE JIM HENSON PROUD!

Just a lil minor detail there. ;)

Thanks for reading.

A new spot to see my short films

2008-02-02T13:30:00.000-05:00

The Bubbleboy Short Films site is now here. It will feature short films. Each film will be short. But not short like the opposite of tall. Short like the opposite of long.

Enjoy!

A Random Moment with Chet

2008-02-01T10:15:00.000-05:00

The turtleneck.

A Non-Offensive Moment with Chet

2008-01-21T17:53:00.001-05:00

Chet's vlog no.13

2008-01-18T19:41:00.000-05:00

Chet ventured out of the bubble recently to attend the Lisa Lampanelli comedy show. This is what he thought of it.

I suck at napping

2008-01-04T03:59:00.000-05:00

I don't do this often, but tonight I did.

Feeling as though the workday-long pressure of sinus muck pressing against my rods and cones was going to result in some undesirably violent illustration of exactly what a full-on brain conniption actually looks like, I decided to take a nap.

This would rest my rods and cones, and my brain, I thought. I was reclining in my La-Z-Boy chair. This was at 7:23 p.m. tonight.

I woke up at 1:40 a.m.

I don't consider that a nap. Thirty minutes is a nap. Even sixty minutes is a nap. Six hours and seventeen minutes is NOT a nap --- It's called SLEEP! And now it's 3:55 a.m. and I'm still awake. I've been surfing the web, not sleepy in the least. Sure, my rods and cones aren't as pissed off at my sinuses now, but I'd be willing to wager my entire collection of Muppet videos that my eyes (or some other body part that is currently drunk on post-nap, zen-like calm) won't be feeling so peaceful when the alarm fires off to wake my ass up tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m.

I suck at napping.

Happy Holidays from Chet

2007-12-24T04:28:00.000-05:00

S.U.D.S. Coming Soon

2007-12-21T10:22:00.000-05:00

Quality Time with Basil Von Vanderhoozen

2007-11-18T18:38:00.000-05:00

The Mystery Thing

2007-11-17T01:58:00.000-05:00

Found Ramblings

2007-09-08T18:23:00.000-04:00

I wrote this in 1994...

ONE DAY, WHILE PONDERING A DILEMMA

What is tofu? Where is East Jahunga? Is it safe to have sex with ANYONE nowadays? Is flame broiling really better than frying? Whatever happened to Spuds Mackenzie? Should I move to South Carolina in spite of its high pollen count? As you can probably ascertain, my meager mental processes have been inundated with trivial concerns for sometime, and I might add, through no fault of my own. I've come to the conclusion, or at least I think that it was me who came to this conclusion, that my brain is truly a separate entity from the rest of my vital organs. It lives in the vacant space above my sinuses, just below the inevitable future home of low-budget hair plugs: my scalp. I'm quite convinced that this brain is its own being and that my body is just leasing a tiny fraction of it in order to sustain life support systems. It doesn't even appear to be the type of lease that offers an option to buy at the end of the term. I find this especially troubling, or at least I think that it is me who finds this especially troubling. Of course, it is possible that every thought that I muster is simply an extension of an idea that the brain has, and not really an original thought of my own at all. The greatest source of anxiety that I feel (at least I think that it's me who feels this) is not knowing what thoughts come from where. When I make an inquiry as to the whereabouts of East Jahunga, for example, I have no way of knowing if I really care, or if the brain actually does.

As complicated as this scenario seems, my dilemma is quite simple. Should I continue living the way that I've been, or should I tell the brain that it is no longer welcome to reside in the neighborhood, sponging off of my system. What seems simple is, in truth, extremely complex. You see, I have no valid function for weighing my options because I can't be sure if it is me or the brain doing it. I've tried asking the brain what it would do if it were in a similar situation, but it always says the same thing: "Why don't you stop worrying about this shit and start worrying about important stuff like SEX?!" That's another reason why I would like to get rid of the brain. It rates the act of sex number two on the official list of things that a body can't live without; second only to Kellogg's Pop Tarts for breakfast. I don't need that kind of pressure. I have quite enough to worry about, or at least I think that it's me that has enough to worry about. I'm going completely nuts thinking about this!

If I tell the brain that it can't stay anymore, will my life drastically change for the worse? Will it change for the better? Might I become an articulate linguist as a result? Or will my speech patterns deteriorate into random groupings of nonsensical babble? Perhaps I'll be able to watch Peter Greenaway's "Prospero's Books" and actually understand it. I just may acquire an ear for country music, but that may be asking too much. You see my conflict, don't you? You can fathom my misery, can't you? You can understand that if I do not resolve something soon I may have resort to drastic measures!

What drastic measures, you ask? Well, to be honest, I haven't had a chance to think of any yet. I'm sure, though, that whatever I decide will prove to be quite drastic. If I'm capable of anything on my own, it's devising drastic measures. Ask the brain, it'll tell you. What it won't say is what it actually does for me, and whether my life would dramatically change if I instructed it to leave. Would I become a vegetable? If I became a vegetable, would I then enjoy country music? Is there anyone who can help me here?!

That's it. I'm fed up with pondering the possibilities! OUT, I say! Vamoose, you neurological vermin that breeds thoughts that I cannot be sure of. Leave my skull and leech off someone else for a change! I've grown tired of it all! (Is this dramatic enough for everyone?) Exit at once or I'll :::DOINK::: mmpht icg hbryt mas dif bubbalibabiba... le oof! Mum de podlin tines fromo cat di dee dee duh... Me make poo poos...

"Are there any other questions that I can answer for you?" — BRAIN.

.

Sniff. Sniff. Snork. Blah.

2007-08-18T18:39:00.000-04:00

Phlegm. Everyone has it. I have too much of it. And on days when it is especially invasive, all jammed up in my sinus cavities like fruit cake batter overflowing its bundt pan, one of my only defenses is sitting still.

That's it. Sitting upright and very still in the bubble seems to work. Sure, the Sudafed helps. The sinus flusher squeeze bottle pseudo nettie pot thing helps too. Mostly, though, I've learned over the last few years that the best way to quell the discomfort and aggravating byproducts of my high maintenance noggin caverns is to just sit still.

And whilst I sit here in this chair, fighting the urge to jam the hose of an industrial strength wet/dry vacuum cleaner up my nose, I calmly pass the time by watching TV, surfing the web, and making mental notes about what I'm going to do when the nasal dike breaks free and all manner of sinus sludge comes pouring out.

Laundry. Dishes. Clean the bathroom. Write something. Draw something. Design something. But most importantly, change out of these flannel pajama pants because it's still August for peep's sake!

An Indelible Impression

2007-08-11T19:34:00.000-04:00

La-Z-Boy. The company has always built chairs with comfort in mind. The style of many classic La-Z-Boy chairs is unmistakable, and often utterly utilitarian by design. This adds to the aura of Archie Bunker-like mystique that seems woven into the upholstery of nearly every La-Z-Boy model that has rolled off the assembly line since the mid-seventies. Their catalog today does have plenty of contemporary offerings, featuring models with notable styles and varied design. But for many folks, the name La-Z-Boy conjures but one visual: Big, comfortable chair.

My La-Z-Boy recliner is covered in green fabric with a short pile and subtle checkerboard pattern. It has very comfortable pillow arm rests and a two-section pillow back rest that's cupped in just the right places. The cushion attached to the foot rest is very soft too, and the section between it and the seat cushion is connected by a padded panel of matching fabric that forms a Chaise Lounge type of design when I recline.

It's not an ugly chair, but it will probably never win any style awards, or appear on the cover of Chair Aficionado Monthly. It is what it is: A remarkable example of a proven, utilitarian design that continues to fulfill the same purpose for which it was originally conceived. It suspends my body in near perfect stasis for the entire duration of time that I chose to remain seated. It provides for total relaxation.

My ass never falls asleep in this sucker either.

I've tested the chair's design throughout many hundreds of hours of television watching, internet browsing, reading, writing, and, I'm not ashamed to admit, eating. It continues to feel as comfortable and structurally sound today as it did three years ago when those two guys who smelled of coffee and cigarettes delivered it to my bubble. I have no doubt this La-Z-Boy will continue to serve me well for many years to come. I really could not ask for anything more.

I do wish it didn't have that Archie Bunker-esque vibe some days. And yes, there is a good chance that, somewhere in the United States, an eighty year-old guy with leaky Depends is sitting on the very same model chair, with the same green checkerboard fabric, and that it matches the decor of his home perfectly.

But at least Art Linkletter didn't tell me to call and order it. THAT and my recliner's unwavering devotion to comfort has to account for something.

Viva la La-Z-Boy!

[I'd post a photo if I had a camera here]

I'm not very strong at math.

2007-08-05T12:09:00.000-04:00

I'm observant. I'm logical (at times even reaching a level of hyper-logicality that folds back inward upon itself, illogically so). I have more than a passing fascination with technology, design and the science behind many things. I'm a critical thinker.

I can't not watch the Discovery Channel and its many variants on my cable TV lineup.

I could be a really really good research scientist, as long as it was in something that I was really really interested in.

I could be an accomplished designer. One of those all-encompassing kinds of designers who touch upon countless facets of human life --- like Leonardo da Vinci, but with a lot less body hair.

I could be so much more than I am today. Unfortunately, there is precious little quantifiable data on paper to prove it.

This brings me to the subject of math. I hate it. It bores my pants off. I can't remember a time in my life when I actually did NOT feel this way about it --- even as far back as the third grade.

[note: I can remember a few things from second grade, but nothing math-related. First grade memories are just a blur of post-kindergarten, full-day activites, but lasting only like two days, which is weird because I was definitely there for the whole school year --- I'll dig into that matter in a future post. My recollection of kindergarten consists mainly of sleeping on a small, portable carpet, and tying knots instead of proper bows using a set of larger-than-life shoelaces affixed to a pair of cardboard cutouts shaped like sneakers, but absolutely no math in sight. I should also mention that that was in 1975, a time when the American public school education system still mocked its Japanese peers for teaching calculus and quantum physics to all of its kindergarten-aged children. In contrast, seventies-era American public schools placed their daily instructional focus on the finer points of eating paste and nap time. Each day ended with every kid sucking down a sixteen-ounce glass of cherry-flavored Koolaid, followed by a long and bumpy ride home on a bus with no seat belts, no air conditioning, and windows that only opened two inches from the top --- designed thusly out of fear that, on a daily basis, dozens of otherwise well-adjusted children would choose to hurl their bodies out of fully-opened bus windows during the ride home in an attempt to escape the hefty academic demands of kindergarten.]

For me, sitting through math class was like experiencing an appendectomy of the brain without anesthetic. It didn't matter which particular species of math was being served at the time. That had absolutely zero effect on my negative experience. I hated it all, from my earliest recollections of basic arithmetic in the third grade, throughout high school and its many involuntary mathematical delights like algebra, geometry, trigonometry and pre-calculus (or, for the uninitiated student, there was "Math 11" which, despite its course name, was offered to seniors like me who had already met the absolute minimum requirements in math to receive a New York State Board of Regents diploma, had no interest in further taxing their already stressed bubbleboy brains, but did not want their parents to think they were total retards who couldn't handle some type of math class in their senior year).

I even managed to avoid all forms of math-related course work during my numerous years of full and part-time college enrollment. I am not counting the fifty minutes I spent staring, glaze-eyed, at the syllabus during my first and only day in "Psychological Statistics," realizing that the interesting, attention-commanding curriculum that I had previously experienced in other psychology classes (you know, the psychology classes that actually had something to do with psychology), was definitely NOT going to be repeated during this "math-inspired" one.

This all leads to my point (and thank you for hanging in there, folks). I am not completely unfulfilled by the artistic duties of my chosen profession, and I have managed to accomplish at least a few of the creative ventures set forth in my brain over the years; However, I firmly believe that I could be so much more. I could become a true, modern day renaissance man (err, bubbleboy). One who spends his days offering life-improving design and creative expression to all of humanity through his passion for art and science!

Now I realize what has been holding me back from doing truly amazing things (besides the asthma, allergies, and other items listed in the depository of bubbleboy life --- referenced case-study available upon request). Now I know what has been keeping me from becoming the next Leonardo da Vinci (excessive body hair, notwithstanding).

MATH! Math. Math. MATH!

If I gave a shit about math, my ascension to renaissance-like enlightenment would be complete! I would no longer be just another bubbleboy with a big screen TV and high speed internet. Things would be so different if my eyes didn't frost over and my entire frontal lobe didn't completely shut down at the mere mention of "extra-curricular mathematical education."

With math I could change the world!

And I've recently discovered the one tool that will assuredly uncork the brilliance of my inner-mathdom. I am certain that this will be ALL that's needed to reverse nearly 37 years of pent-up math hatred inside my brain. Nothing can prevent my inspired, creative genius from positively effecting the world now. BRING ON THE MATH!

Now all I have to do is find a frickin' record player and I'll be set.

Basement Boy

2007-07-28T00:16:00.000-04:00

It seems like an entire lifetime ago, the hours spent in the basement of our home during my formative pre-teen years. Even at that young age, my inner bubbleboy was seeking refuge away from the hustle and bustle of neighborhood goings-on (which usually involved the older kids next door and their ATC or snowmobile-enhanced backyard antics).

I enjoyed the comfort and solitude offered by our basement, with its seventies decor of paneled walls, red indoor/outdoor carpeting and regulation-size pool table in the back. Dad taught me how to shoot pool and I really enjoyed that, but rarely played if he wasn't also there to join me. We also had these large boards that covered the table, and a net that converted the whole thing into a fantastic ping pong setup. Dad and me played countless hours on that too, and chased many a paddled plastic ball around the basement in the process. What fun that was.

As early as my eighth birthday, I can recall spending a significant portion of most days alone. I was big time into Star Wars and had many action figures and spaceships from the movie. I loved to draw and loved The Muppets and had a brain that could remember just about any commercial on television, word-for-word. I was much more comfortable being in surroundings that I had complete control over and had little or no desire at all to be "out of my element." This included playing outside with neighborhood kids, playing inside with neighborhood kids, and getting involved with any organized group activities like sports, camp, or school-related productions.

In our small, ranch-style home, the basement became my fortress of solitude. And the wooden ping pong boards that sat atop our pool table became a vast, green field of playful possibilities. Many elaborate stories unfolded on that stage including tales of adventure, science fiction journeys, epic struggles and daring car chases. My thespian troupes were often as unique as the stories they performed, with Storm Trooper and Jawa action figures fighting side-by-side on the same team with Smurfs, Matchbox Cars, Penny Racers, a really cool rubber Incredible Hulk, and various generic action figures from long forgotten toy companies that had been modified with markers, tape and other crafty whatnots into original (and far more interesting) characters by yours truly. Their adventures took place on mountain peaks (folded-up piles of mom's hand crocheted blankets), immense industrial complexes (Lego buildings, Lionel train bridges, and stacks of carefully arranged pieces of wood scraps from Dad's workshop) race tracks (plenty of fast straight-a-ways on that ping pong table) and into the unknown reaches of outer space (thanks to the dark basement corners and four ceiling-mounted florescent lights, each with its own switch for perfect atmospheric control).

Hours would pass and I would completely lose track of the real world down there, locked away inside of my imagination. Mom would have to call me repeatedly for unimportant life events like dinner and bed time. The basement was my bubble for many years, and while I now remember only random details from the stories that unfolded --- the heroic battles fought, the rescues and escapes, the races won, and the miniature cars, injection-molded figures, and the articulated plastic characters who played out every adventure on the four feet by eight feet piece of pressboard that covered our pool table --- there is one thing about the hours spent in my cellar dwelling that I will NEVER forget:

The trance-like state that would commandeer my brain for countless minutes after slothing up the stairs and having the shocking, out-of-basement reality and bright lights of the world slap me in the head without warning.

That trance-like state looked much like this...

Animated Brilliance from 1986 called "Family Dog"

2007-07-15T14:01:00.000-04:00

Inspired by the best of Chuck Jones and other creative geniuses from the golden age of WB Looney Tunes cartoon shorts (that's the 1940's to you and me), Brad Bird created this gem fresh out of Cal Arts. Spielberg liked it and included it on his Amazing Stories series on NBC.

For all the one-joke, cliche-ridden, pun-filled chuckles (surrounded by positively BORING animation and design) that modern cartoons like "Family Guy" muster, I really do miss the fun, exaggerated animation and character development that was so evident in the Looney Tunes and this particular short titled "Family Dog."

Enjoy.

Mite Be Gone

2007-07-13T23:57:00.000-04:00

The teeny tiny creepy crawly things, affectionately known as bird mites, have ended their unwanted invasion of my bubble. Following five days of anal retentive bathroom wall inspection and subsequent execution of any random mites I would find, the birds --- occupants of the nest that turned out to be the origin of this infestation --- decided it was time to move out. Their funky nest was quickly transplanted to the bottom of a Hefty garbage bag by a rubber-gloved guy named Jim --- the person who owns the flat that I rent with the bathroom connected to the exhaust fan that welcomed the accidental avian troublemakers and their mite-infested love children.

Nest gone. Mites gone.

End of an ordeal, so it seems. I won't, however, be taking my toothbrush out of its protective Zip Lock bag until I've culminated more data to confirm the mite's complete departure.

And now the Italian Appreciation Festival has begun on my street. For the next three days my neighborhood will be a bit busier and a bit noisier. But at least with the street barricaded off for the festival patrons and vendors, the ambiance in front of Chez Bubbleboy (located a scant block away from the end of the street-fest where traffic is forced to make an abrupt left or right turn), should see much less needless cruising by dudes who compensate for their own tiny-equipment by driving obnoxious and annoying bass-thumpin'-in-da-trunk automobiles.

BOOOOOOM thump. Da da da da DOOOOOOOOOOOM thump.
Bump bump bump bump DOOOOOOOOOOOOOM bump bump bump bump.

Crap. Never mind.

Teeny Tiny Crawly Things

2007-07-02T12:38:00.000-04:00

It's official. The birds living in in the vent of my inoperable bathroom exhaust fan (much ado about their existence previously written here) have over-stayed their welcome. Immediately following the birth of their first brood of chicks in May, the horny couple got right back to business. Their new family hatched about two weeks ago and I've been enduring their incessant chirping since. As I wrote before, I don't love this, but I can handle it. After all, aside from a bit of nature-inspired noise pollution (that happens to be noticeably amplified by the aluminum vent their nest is built inside---which, as it is installed in the wall, also happens to be a mere three inches away from being INSIDE my bathroom), the birds are really not causing me any harm.

So I thought.

This morning I walked into the bathroom, reached down to lift the lid, and was greeted by a small army of very tiny creatures crawling all over the thing. A quick glance around the immediate vicinity revealed the commode was not the only fixture covered by these nearly invisible insects. It looked like black, gritty pieces of dust moving around in haphazard formations. I had to bend down within inches to even begin to guess what the hell they were.

Spiders. I think. Hundreds, maybe thousands of baby spiders, no larger than the smallest spec of sand, crawling in tiny groups all over the toilet, the floor, the walls, the bathroom counter, the sink, and, to my horror, MY FUCKING TOOTHBRUSH!

[edit: after receiving credible info from Jenji, it appears that these are most likely bird feather mites or red mites...note the magnified and decidedly creepy photo]

I grabbed the spray bottle of Clorox Kitchen and Bathroom Cleaner and went at them like a bubbleboy who has just learned that the sanitary integrity of his bubble has been compromised. These were resilient little suckers and continued to crawl around even after getting sprayed repeatedly. I was forced to get out the big guns -- Full-strength liquid Clorox Bleach. I snapped on the latex gloves, doused multiple wads of paper towels, and proceeded to vanquish the formidable foe from every bathroom surface that they dared to crawl.

The vaporous Clorox cloud immediately starting killing my brain cells, so I stood up to open the window. It was then that I discovered the source of my insect infestation. The little suckers were streaming through a tiny space between the plaster wall and the bathroom fan's chrome trim. The inside flap of the fan assembly has been sealed up with aluminum-coated industrial heat duct tape since I moved into the bubble three years ago, but I hadn't noticed the tiny gap around the trim piece until now. It couldn't possibly be a very large space, though, because I've never felt cold air coming in during even winter's coldest months (and I do make a point to notice these sorts of things if they do, in fact, exist).

The nano-sized bugs were marching through the gap and down the wall and all over everything, INCLUDING MY TOOTHBRUSH! While continuing to pounce on them with bleach-soaked paper towels (ravishing more of my own brain cells in the process), I surmised that this ordeal was a direct result of my over-sexed avian neighbors living in the bathroom fan. Their decision to make a second batch of babies instead of leaving the area after their first chicks moved out, had, undoubtedly, welcomed a slew of unsavory bug infestations into their nesting materials.

It probably happened like this: The first eggs hatched and those little babies filled the place with their own nastiness -- moldy, regurgitated worm carcasses and the like. And poo. Sweet Jesus, the poo! Anyone who's spent any amount of time near a baby of any type will know the nastiness I'm referring to. Then, following the kid's departure, I can't imagine mom and dad cleaned out the double-wide love nest much before throwing on some Barry White and getting their freak on again. So add the old baby funk with the new baby funk, plus no opportunity for mother nature's winter weather onslaught to clean out the nasties (like she's been able to successfully do every winter before), and what you end up with is a bird's nest that is jammed in a bathroom vent and incubating millions of insects, along with microscopic, single-celled bacterial nastiness that would love nothing more than to start families of their own inside MY BUBBLE!

After dousing the area with bleach like a latex-gloved germaphobe on a bender, I used two-inch wide plastic weather tape and sealed all visible cracks and crevices around the bathroom vent. Then I stood vigil for the next fifteen minutes to make sure that nothing else was getting in. At least nothing I could SEE was getting in, but I'm still convinced that that pig sty of a bird's nest has already fostered, and put me in direct contact with, countless forms of highly undesirable bacteria!

I had to toss a SEALED six pack of toilet paper that was sitting on the floor after seeing a few of the little suckers frolicking INSIDE the rolls. I tossed the open box of Kleenex that was on the counter because they found that too. And I tossed my fucking toothbrush.

Now every time I see a tiny piece of black grit anywhere in the house I'm going to obsessively stare at it to make sure it's not moving. I've already given harmless crumbs near my toaster oven an unwarranted once-over.

Imagine that. I'm profiling crumbs now!

Fuckin' birds.

Look, Jenji!

2007-06-26T00:12:00.000-04:00

It's a 3-tier craft box. It has lots of storage slots and holds many many things. It's really really nice!

I call it my secret box, but don't tell anyone.

Oh crap, I just did.

The Denim Patch

2007-06-25T00:25:00.000-04:00

I have a hole in my jeans. No. Strike that. It's not an actual hole yet, but it will be. Right now it's a frayed area the size of a pinky finger tip, located right near the zipper of my favorite pair of denim blues.

I purchased this particular pair from The Gap last year sometime. The Mexicans who made them included a bunch of really nice character-adding fade patterns on the thighs, and minor scuff marks on the cuffs. Pretty cool. The zipper area was, for good reason, left un-worn, un-scuffed, and in every other way untouched. Zippers need to zip, after all, and most people who wear pants with the intention of covering parts of their parts, appreciate when the mechanics built into the crotch area of said pants function as expected. I am one of those people.

After a solid year of use, I'm happy to report that the zipper on this particular pair of Gap jeans is working flawlessly. The fabric area near the flap where the zipper is attached, however, is not. What began as a tiny fade mark caused by fabric being stressed in some way (no, not in THAT way) has graduated to a full-on scuff mark with visibly broken threads and a sign that reads "Coming Soon: A New Entrance to Neverland."

Since I would like to continuing wearing these jeans to places that typically do not encourage full-frontal exposure of the undapants kind, I decided to embark down a path of previously unchartered territory in the Land of Bubbleboy.

Denim repair.

After purchasing a small assortment of iron-on type, self-adhesive denim patches from the fabric store, I read the instructions carefully and mentally prepared for what was to come.

Step 1: Wash garment before applying patch. check
Step 2: Cut swatch of denim patch material slightly larger than area to be covered. check
Step 3: Set iron temperature to "cotton setting" and preheat for 5 minutes. check
Step 4: Using iron, warm fabric to be repaired before applying patch. check
Step 5: Place patch material onto area to be repaired and press firmly with iron for 45 seconds. check
Step 6: Remove iron and allow fabric to cool. check
Step 7: Check that patch is secure and repeat step 5 if necessary.

A slight tug at the patch tore the sucker right off, so I repeated step 5 as directed. Same result. Three times.

Fahk.

Then I realized that the glue on the patch had successfully transferred to my jeans, but no amount of additional heat was causing the patch to fuse into the denim fibers. So much for that idea. Ah well. No big deal. I'll just use the remaining denim fabric patches in the set I purchased to --- um. Ummm.

Oh right. Denim fabric patches are only good for one thing: FIXING HOLES IN DENIM!

Scientific geniuses have put a man on the moon and landed a robot on Mars. They built the internets, providing a way for everyone with a computer or cell phone to access maps and the weather and information about puppies and burkas and puppies wearing burkas and a million other things, any time they damn well please. They gave us Oreos without fat and cars powered by water. They can clone sheep and grow human ears from scratch in a petri dish. It's impossible to go about one's day without bumping into some life-altering product, invented by some scientific genius for the sole purpose of improving our quality of life.

Pasteurized milk. Microwave ovens. The polio vaccine. Listerine that doesn't burn one's tongue. Important examples of scientific discovery, all. And they actually work as advertised.

Now get crackin' on the new-and-improved denim patch kit, Mr. or Ms. Science, before I have to resort to wearing a crotch burka instead.

It's not a good look, I tell you. And it has become quite the problematic bulls eye target for feral dogs in the neighborhood. I don't enjoy running when it's humid outside and I'm almost out of Snausages, so get the lead out!

Breakfast Courtesy of Don Pedro

2007-06-17T11:04:00.000-04:00

The sticker on the organically-grown banana that I just ate instructed me to "visit our farm at doleorganic.com - FARM 776."

So I did. This is what I learned.

DOLE PRODUCER CODE: 776
Farm Name: Don Pedro Farm

In the heart of La Guajira desert with a great view of the snowed peaks of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, Dole Colombia operates a farm called Don Pedro. This farm has over 310 hectares of organic bananas and was established in 2005. This farm is currently certified under EU and NOP organic rules, ISO 14000 and SA 8000. Don Pedro promises to be one of the best producing organic banana farms in Latin America.

It goes on to say that in January 2007, the local Government Authorities from Riohacha, La Guajira, awarded Don Pedro Farm for its contribution to the economic and social development of the region. This is followed by a link to a nice story about the woman in the tan shirt pictured above.

And to think that all I had originally set out to accomplish by eating a banana this morning was increase my potassium level a tad.

I wonder what Gueldis Elit Deluque Jimenez is doing right now. Hopefully she's not listening to her son Eduardo whine about wanting to see Shrek The Third.

Gueldis, if you're reading this blog on the WiFi at Don Pedro, tell Eduardo that Jenji said the film really isn't that good. There are many other reviews that support her opinion. And you all should definitely wait and rent it on video, or wait until it loops ad nauseam on TBS, or not see it at all. Seriously, it's two hours you'll never have back. Tell him to watch old Warner Bros. Looney Toons or Jim Henson Muppet Show reruns instead. Now THOSE productions had original ideas with story narratives and comedy that didn't rely solely on cliched pop culture references and celebrity voice-overs.

And thank you for taking such good care of my banana.

There they are.

2007-06-16T00:07:00.000-04:00

Pollen spores. Magnified by 500 times. Look at their thorny, spiny, spiky-ness. It's no wonder my head feels like someone stuffed it full of thumb tacks and the glass shards from Whitney's broken crack pipe.

Fahk.

Thump Thump Mmmmmm Bump Bump

2007-06-10T12:24:00.000-04:00

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Doooooom thump. Doooooooom thump.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Doooooom bump-bump-bump-bump. Dooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Every day, the entire front facade of Chez Bubbleboy vibrates from a mess of ultra-low frequency, subwoofer-born musical miscalculations.

Doooooom thump. Doooooom bump.

It's the almost only negative aspect of living on a well-traveled city road, and near an intersection with a traffic light. With popular ethnic eateries nearby and plenty of patio bars to impress, veritable convoys of slow-moving cruisers snake their way down this thoroughfare on a daily basis. Most of these vehicles are perfectly harmless, merely carrying passengers from A to B. If I wasn't looking out of the window when these particularly harmless vehicles drove past, I'd have no idea they were even in the neighborhood.

The same cannot be said of the small percentage of vehicles that make their presence blatently well known from blocks away.

Thump thump mmmmmmmmmm. Bump-bump-bump doooooooooooooom.

These idiots (I really tried to wordsmith a more eloquent description, but "idiot" is just too perfect to pass up in this case) and their do-it-yourself, trunk-mounted bass thumpers, disrupt the tranquility of my bubble, sporadically, each and every day. At certain times, the parade of noise pollution foolishness is quite pervasive. This is especially true when the traffic flow has to linger at the stop light.

Doooooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump doooooooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

The sound waves permeate every insulating wood, steel and glass comfort and sanity barrier between me and the street below. I hear and feel every last amplified decible of low frequency rumble, but don't really hear any actual music.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

And there's the rub. I like music. I can appreciate many forms of musical expression. I can do without most rap, country or excessively metal or Top-40 crap, but in controlled moderation, I can honestly endure most musical genres for at least a short time without feeling as though my head is going to explode, or that the enamel is going to shake from my teeth.

Doooooom thump. Doooooooom thump. Bump-bump-bump-bump.

But when I've retired to the bubble---to my sanctuary of convoluted and carefully contrived comfort---I do not desire to, nor should I have to, endure what I have not, myself, initiated. And I especially do not want to experience sensory distractions from the very activities that I have decided to embark upon. With windows and doors closed, and living behind a curtain of heavy, 100 year-old wood timbers, modern fiberglass insulation, brick and mortar, I should be able to recline in a comfortable chair and write, read, watch something on the tube at a reasonable volume, or just glow at the prospect of doing any one of these well-earned paths of self-fulfillment in the near future.

Thump thump. Mmmmmmmmm. Thump thump.

At certain times of the day it is impossible for me to do any of these things without first acknowledging the existence of the idiots and their vibrating everythings. I don't want to think about them. This is ME time, dammit. But no. It's impossible to ignore the vibrating everythings. I assume it is music they are playing. I can sort of detect a rhythmic beat of some kind. There's definitely a pattern, anyway.

Doooooom bump-bump-bump-bump. Dooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

Based on what I can hear, and assuming it is indeed music at the root of these low-pitched drones and thumps, it is safe to say the following:
I HATE THIS FUCKING MUSIC!

Seriously. Why do these idiots think that creating such a negative experience for innocent bubbleboy bystanders is a wise path to choose in life? Don't they know that if I didn't detest physical violence in all forms, I would probably pop a lead cap in their ass? Maybe that's what drive-by shootings are really all about. And who the hell is looking at their four-wheeled fortresses of frequency-mottled bassdom and proclaiming, "My goodness. Now THERE is a person who is truly giving back to society in a meaningful way. THANK YOU FOR ALL YOU'VE DONE, MISTER BASS-THUMPING MAN! We appreciate you!"

Okay. Maybe some folks say that, but I'm going to guess its a small minority.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

I'm not going to delve into how these loud disruptions may even impact the safety of police and emergency responders who rely on the ability of other drivers to actually HEAR the sirens and move their rolling buckets of thumping metal out of the street or intersection to prevent collisions. If my entire wall vibrates from a hundred feet away, there is no way the idiot driving the car with the sound system that's producing these vibrations can hear anything besides doooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

Or maybe they can.

Maybe I'm just more of a mutant than I already think I am. Maybe I'm just incapable of experiencing their music as anything but a wall of sonic frustration. Maybe I should flag one of these folks down and hitch a ride around the block so I could experience the fruits of their electronically-amplified labor first hand. Maybe I've got it all wrong.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Doooooom thump. Doooooooom thump.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Doooooom bump-bump-bump-bump. Dooooooom bump-bump-bump-bump.

Bump-bump mmmmmm thump thump.

Nope. I don't have it wrong. I also don't have an easy solution to my problem that doesn't involve a heavy duty, futuristic laser beam mounted on my bubbleporch (which, for anyone who knows where I actually live, would be a slightly inappropriate visual---especially during a shindig) that would automatically neutralize every trunk-mounted, vibration-causing sub-woofer rolling by with one zap.

The only solution I have found, thus far, is to add this little "mentally cleansing" diatribe to the blog here, and force myself to STOP bolting to the window each time an idiot drives by. Sure it momentarily feels good to get a visual lock on the would-be target, but without the porch-mounted laser beam, I'm just another kook yelling obscenities from his second-floor window.

At least I don't wear pants hiked up above my navel, have excessive amounts of ear hair, or smell like farina.

I'm far too entrenched in my manicuring rituals to fully embrace that cliché.

Attack of the Aqua Net

2007-06-07T11:22:00.000-04:00

In my many years of living with a hyper-sensitive sniffer (that's my nose, btw), I've amassed an impressive mental catalog of various odors. When I encounter a new one, I do my best to quickly locate its origin and categorize its discomfort-causing level of putrescence for future avoidance. Then I move away from the odor's epicenter, sometimes holding my breath, sometimes just walking briskly, before my sniffer becomes overwhelmed and a headache or some sort of unattractive respiratory response ensues.

And then there was the time when I ran like a girl away from the candle-laden gift aisle at Bed, Bath & Beyond, eyes watering, holding my breath all the way to the back of the store. I did not inhale again until I was near the giant wall of kitchen and dining cutlery. I'm not allergic to those.

It was not a proud moment for me and I assure you that I don't normally run like a girl. But I was carrying one of those plastic shopping baskets in one hand, and it had a few breakable picture frames in it, and because of that I had to run with my arm sort of straight down on one side. I implore anyone to devise a method of running with one arm straight at one's side, and the other bending naturally at the elbow, that does not result in a stereotypically effeminate gait.

I find it far simpler to just log these many instances in my noggin and to avoid repeating similar activities in the future. The best way for me to do that is to keep my hyper-sensitive sniffer from discovering offensive odors in the first place. So, I file the smells and their level of affect into my bubbleboy brain, along with a mental location shot of where it came from. This coping method has served me well thus far in life. I haven't walked near the candle aisle at Bed, Bath & Beyond without taking a deep breath since, and certainly wouldn't think about lingering in similar areas of other stores without donning proper SCUBA gear and mosquito netting. [I'm not allergic to mosquitoes. I just hate the high-pitched sound their wings make when they try to fly into my ears. Naturally, I also despise the incessant ringing in those same ears that begins the moment I spastically smack myself in the side of the head in a lame attempt at shooing the little winged bastards.]

When following a car down the road, I remember to observe the condition of that car's rear bumper and tailpipe. If the exhaust is smokey in any way, or if the bumper looks as though its caked in coal dust, then past experience dictates that I should close off my car's air vents as a logical smell-avoidance precaution.

If I happen to be walking out a doorway and the person walking in the same door from outside has just exhaled the final puff of smoke from their cigarette break, I'll take a deep breath and hold it until I'm far enough away from the area of latent nicotine smog.

My smell-avoidance technique is effective 99 percent of the time.

The other one-percent is being held against its will inside the can of Aqua Net hair spray that is applied liberally to my co-worker's eighties-retro coiffure. The pungent chemical smell of this shit permeates every cubic inch of clean air to be found near the entrance to our office suite area where she sits. Necessity deems that I walk through this very area in order to reach my own desk each day.

Sometimes holding my breath works well.

Sometimes she walks into my office to ask a question or invade one of the file cabinets.

Sometimes I don't hear her coming and fail to shut down my odor receptors in time.

I'm convinced that this particular can of Aqua Net hair spray is the spawn of satan.

2007-06-03T09:00:00.000-04:00

On Sunday, June 2, 2007, Jenji inquired:

Bubbleboy.
I'm curious as to the pollen count for those of us who spend most of our Saturday ass deep in a bee bush...
I'm just curious.

Dear Jenji,

Bee bushes, in their excessively-trimmed (and possibly stunted) Rolloff-like form, have been known to be, surprisingly, pollen-free.

Following yesterday's close encounter of the bushy kind, I can concur with most certainty that the above statement is true. I found the bush, with its dwarfish twigs and leaf-challenged stature, to be decidedly free of any and all allergens or irritants.

Thanks for your question. I look forward to watching your bush grow and prosper in the weeks to come!

Bubbleboy

Too much info. Yet I can't look away.

2007-06-02T11:08:00.000-04:00

THE POLLEN FORECAST FOR YOUR AREA IS VERY HIGH...[more details]

That is the message that greets me most mornings during spring and summer. It's displayed at the top of my customized Weather.com page like a beacon of misery for my sinuses.

I check this website every morning before leaving the bubble. It helps me decide what clothing to put on my body. It helps me prepare for things I may encounter later in the day (bring a jacket just in case, Chet). It either reinforces or completely rejects what the chubby TV weather guy told me was going to happen the night before --- and that makes me giggle like a prepubescent school girl all hopped up on Pop Rocks.

But most of all, Weather.com turns my many sinuses against me, which makes me utterly miserable. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Take this morning, for example. Weather.com reports that the current temperature is 77 degrees and humidity is only 52 percent. The sun is shining and, for all intents and purposes, it is shaping up to be an almost perfect weather day.

"Not so fast, Bubbleboy," the bold text at the top of the page seems to shout. "Just look at that pollen count!"

My pending joy turns to angst as my sinuses quickly don the heavy armor they deem necessary to ward off pending attacks from billions of microscopic pollen spores that will, undoubtedly, bombard my head the moment I step outside. This is the same armor that makes my head weigh 300 pounds during most of spring and summer each year. It also causes my neck to bend towards the ground when I walk --- like a dork looking for coins on the beach.

I'm shocked I don't have a dowager's hump already.

So why don't I just change my customized weather.com settings to hide the tension-brewing pollen warnings, you ask?

I could. But then I would feel so unprepared each day when leaving the house. And my sinuses would be naked, like standing in the middle of Baghdad wearing only undapants and a "I love Bush" t-shirt.

Sure it feels like I have a full-size Sherman tank jammed up in my head. But in the world of Bubbleboy, that's the way it needs to be. If I give up, then the pollen wins.

Fuckin' pollen.

But it FEELS like Monday, dammit.

2007-05-29T09:37:00.000-04:00

Sometimes the carefully calculated and practiced schedule of my bubbleboy routine gets disrupted. Things don't seem quite as they should. I can go through the motions of morning preparation, accomplishing everything on my mental checklist, but finishing each task leaves somewhat of an empty feeling. There's a disturbance in The Force, Obi Wan. Something has tipped my world on its side. Many environmental factors can cause this to happen...

This time it was Memorial Day.

Sure, it feels like Monday. In my twisted mind, the day that follows Sunday is Monday, even when it's actually Tuesday because yesterday was Monday. And it really shouldn't matter a lick anyway since my Tuesday routine is identical to my Monday routine. I should just be able to snap out of bed, write-off yesterday as if it happened like any other typical Monday, and welcome Tuesday with open arms.

But it's not that easy.

I'm going to arrive at work in a short while, flip on my computer and launch my email program. That's when unread messages dated Monday, May 28th will start flying in. Then I'll have that moment, however brief, where I question my decision to not answer those emails before I left the office yesterday. How could I have missed an email that came in at 2:20 p.m.? It's right THERE, you blind fool! And it even has a highest priority flag icon. It could have been an emergency that only I am equipped to handle and I missed it! For a brief moment, I'll be angry with myself for failing my duties. Then I'll remember that it is Tuesday and that I did not work yesterday.

And then I'll get agitated. Who the hell is sending me a "high priority" email on Memorial Day?! Every one of my fellow employees has this day off. Either someone didn't get that holiday reminder memo, or they are doing work and sending emails to co-workers from home. Why?! This isn't exactly the time of year when things absolutely have to be done in one day or else. There are no urgent publishing or project deadlines. Sure, things still need to get done, but this is summer. People take vacations in the summer. And the workload reflects that fact. Everyone busts their collective butts throughout the year so when summer rolls around they can take it down a notch and, dare I say, relax even.

People should not be sending emails marked "high priority" during the summer since there are no short deadlines for anyone to worry about. The only reason someone might find themselves in a "high priority" situation is if they, somehow, dropped the ball and forgot to handle a long-term project in a timely manner. And now, suddenly, THEIR time mismanagement and impending deadline become MY problem because I just received their "high priority" email! I don't even want to open the message now because I'm so pissed! How dare they have the nerve to thrust their disorganization and stress on me! I get my projects done on time, or at least I make every effort to bring all the peices of a project together long before its actual deadline. That's probably what this priority email is all about. They need stuff from me, stuff that I photographed, or created before they can finish whatever it is they've been asked to do. Or I'll bet they need me to create something from scratch. Ugh! I can't stand last-minute requests for original artwork! Don't these people realize that I'm not creative 24/7?! Sometimes it takes time for an idea to materialize into a coherent design. You just can't rush that stuff, folks. I'm not built that way! I don't even want to open this email message!

And where do these people get off with even using that stupid priority flag catorizing feature when sending an email, anyway?!! Who are they to decide what messages I should be treating as priority? I'm fully capable of determining what is important for ME and what is not, thankyouverymuch. I don't need your little red fucking flag to tell me to read your message before any others! I shouldn't even open this thing just out of principle! Not only did this person use the red "high priorty" flag, they typed "URGENT!!!" in all-caps in the subject line! They must think I'm a fucking retard to have---- oh wait.

It's just a spam message for Cialis.

Never mind.

It still feels like Monday, though.

Ugh.

2007-05-28T11:12:00.001-04:00

'nuff said.

Oh, and on this Memorial Day, please don't forget all the men and women in the armed forces, past and present, who have always done what was asked of them --- even though the people asking often did not know what the hell they were talking about.

The Birds

2007-05-26T11:00:00.000-04:00

Around this time for the past few years, the Bubbleboy Bathroom Experience at the homestead changes. No, it doesn't have anything to do with the amount of soapy buildup on the shower doors (Although, I am not happy about that at all and will continue my quest for a cleaning solvent that effectively cuts through the Dove-soapy-muck without producing toxic vapors that also effectively kill more of my heavily-taxed braincells). It doesn't have anything to do with the month of May being "Bubbleboy Q-tip re-stock Month" (two ear swabs used post-shower, per day equals 730 ... yet Q-tips are sold in boxes of 300, 500, and 750, making the calculation of box overlap during "Bubbleboy Q-tip re-stock Month" very important). And it doesn't have anything to do with the warm-ish outside temperatures that prevent the Bubbleboy Furnace System from pre-heating the bathroom each morning, preventing the mirror fog-up issue that further amplifies an already unnecessarily complex Bubbleboy Morning Preparation Mental Checklist each day. It's none of those things.

May is the month the birds move into the outside duct work of my dormant bathroom exhaust fan.

I usually hear the winged fluttering of would-be squatters checking out the place in late April. This time of year must be quite busy for avian real estate agents and their clients alike. Imagine the pressure they face, having just flown some 2,000 miles from a winter home in Boca Raton, with the seemingly implausible prospect of finding a worthy mate and a suitable place to start a family in just a few short weeks time. Imagine their horror upon returning to Buffalo this year to find half the timeshares they left behind last September have either been torn down, or were so mangled by the October Surprise ice storm that they are now completely unlivable.

I'm surprised more birds haven't abandoned this city altogether. After all, so many of their friends and neighbors have begun wonderful lives in the suburbs. With its vast forests, carefully conceived (and easily avoidable) network of power lines, and a wide array of cars with open convertible tops and sunroofs driving on roads free of any and all of the buggersome old-growth tree cover that can make city streets such a challenge, the 'burbs provide a plethora of opportunities for recreational target practice SPLAT fly-overs. Many suburban birds even brag that their offspring learn more, get smarter, and grow up to become more successful than those whose young were educated in the city. While that claim may be true for some, if the number of window collisions and other daft calculations that occur with some frequency at my parent's suburban home is any indication, it is safe to report that some birds are just retarded, and it has nothing to do with where they grew up.

Still, the choice to live in the city, with its many and varied challenges (and the occasional, yet utterly senseless backlot murders at the hands of Lee Ling Li, near-sighted head wok chef at Number 1 China take-out) is not always an easy one. So, in early May, when the occasional sounds of fluttering wings becomes a nearly continuous bombardment of birdy noise pollution emanating from my bathroom exhaust vent, I do what few bubbleboys in my situation would: I embrace it.

There is something to be said for a contrived daily morning routine. It keeps me sane and assists in dealing with those events that may come later, for which I have no control. I don't shower the minute I wake up every morning, but most days I do. Following the shower is always a two-Q-tip-ear-spin, and a shave-every-other-day-unless-work-or-social-responsibly-deems-otherwise ritual, though. This is typically followed by a banana, Carnation Instant Breakfast (chocolate, of course, and mixed with 12 ounces of two-percent organically-produced milk in the most un-smug way possible). Then, eating the banana, I gaze out the front window of my second-floor abode at the sheer number of people who have seemingly been awake for hours, go about their own early morning routine with such purpose and damned awe-inspiring verve, that a banana-eating, Carnation-Instant-Breakfast-drinking, window-gawking bubbleboy can only wonder about it in dumbfounded amazement. Watching the moms and random dads in a mad, pre-work dash, dropping their children off at the daycare/preschool building across the street each day is, without a doubt, the event offering the greatest amount of comic fodder and morning enjoyment for me. That every one of these kids has the innate ability to locate, and proceed to douse their clean sneakers in to, the tiniest patch of mud next to a completely dry stretch of perfectly good paved sidewalk, all while being energetically towed by the arm into the front door of the preschool, is truly one of the unsolved mysteries of the child's brain.

I let this carefully considered and rather comfortable daily routine evolve a bit in May, though, knowing how tough it must be for birds trying to make a go of it in the city. When I hear the fluttering of wings, I make no effort to discourage their choice of my bathroom fan exhaust vent as their home and love nest for 2007 (the fan has been inoperable for years anyway). The birds move in. The birds make babies. The baby birds never shut up about being hungry. They argue over the remote, complain that one keeps touching the other even though mom said to stop it or else, and any number of other things that baby birds never shut up about. And so it goes each and every morning until late June when the kids finally leave the nest, and the parents can spend the brief, but relaxing time that remains of summer looking for bridge partners (get it? Bridge partners?) before they return to Boca Raton for the winter, and Bubbleboy's morning routine becomes much more routine, once again.

I wish them all the luck and good fortune that this world can possibly offer. I welcome them to live in peace and prosper just outside my bathroom wall each spring. I just wish the kids would contract a non-life-threatening, but very effective case of laryngitis is all.

Is that so wrong?

Little-melty-rabbit-turdy-chocolately-goodness

2007-05-24T21:15:00.000-04:00

There are many vices for people to choose from. Some are more common than others, and are often dictated by deeply ingrained societal routines practiced within various cultures around the world. Smoking and drinking are still biggies in the US. Their wide acceptance by people from all walks of life is a testament to years of careful market research, scientific formulations, and millions of dollars worth of jam-it-down-your-throat-and-pull-it-out-from-the-bottom-end targeted advertising aimed squarely at keeping these vices legal, romantic, and desirable. No matter how hard those so-called "health experts" try, the ugly and rather sordid reality of what alcohol and cigarettes does to the human body never seems to quite outweigh the sex appeal of a glossy magazine ad featuring an airbrushed babe, her Camel lights, and Mr. Tanned-like-Hamilton Sixpack, with his Sam Adams in tow, on some exotic beach nowhere near Buffalo, NY.

I don't drink or smoke.

I eat Raisinets.

There's a chance I eat too many Raisinets.

But the subtleties of this apparent addiction don't typically bubble to the surface of my own hyper-awareness of self until an unexpected causal factor influences the carefully controlled environment that I have enshrouded myself.

So I'm reclined in my comfy chair, feet up, fan blowing, hilarious re-run of "30 Rock" on the tele. The hot, humid day's air still dominates the space. No, the Kenmore UltraFreeze 8000 has not been installed yet. I'm wearing shorts and doing my best to remain comfortable. And what better way to accelerate one's path to inner-peace and comfort than to embrace the personal vice that might as well have printed on its product label: "This product will definitely make Chet happy---Fuckin' aye right it will!"

Method of consumption goes something like this:

Carefully snip off top of vacuum-sealed bag (That's right, I said bag. People should not be eating Raisinets from a tiny cardboard box unless they are at the movies and have just spent $3.50 for the privilege to do so.)
Cradle bag-o-chocolatey goodness in left hand while plucking out individual 'Nets and popping into mouth.
Savor the moment before chewing but be sure to secure any renegade shriveled grapies between cheek and gum before giggling or cackling at "30 Rock" funnies. Choking is no laughing matter at Bubbleboy's house.
Repeat above steps until tummy indicates too much of a good thing by making "gurgle sounds of the Yeti," or the right hand reaches bottom of bag.

Things were going well. The yeti was held at bay and my right hand was hitting bag bottom. Then I noticed a few stray Raisinets huddled in the sharp inside corner crease and decided a quick, upside-down shake should be enough to dish out what remained.

It didn't work.

These suckers were melted together and spot-welded in place. At times like this, only a surgical slice down the side of the bag will work. Then one needs to use his front teeth like a beaver to extrude the delicacies. To some, this act might appear quite pathetic. Fear not. It's perfectly okay to do this if, like me, the thought of popping little, melted, rabbit-turd-lookin', chocolate-covered raisins into your mouth is, quite simply, the culmination of all that is good in this world we live.

Fuckin' aye.

Thursday Confession

2007-05-24T09:45:00.000-04:00

Recycling is easy. The city even provides me with a handy plastic bin to carry my recycled whatnots to the curb. It's blue. It has convenient handles molded into the design on each side. It's sort of like a laundry basket to help wash away my carbon footprint from the planet. It sits outside, behind the garage, next to the large, city-provided, flip-top, rat-proof garbage container on wheels. That's blue too.

Every Wednesday night, I cinch the drawstring handles on my single, kitchen-sized bag of weekly garbage. Then I carry this single bag outside and place it into the hulking garbage container. This gets rolled out to the curb in preparation for an early morning Thursday pickup.

I bag per week.

On Thursday morning, I roll the blue garbage container with the flip lid, now empty, back to its holding area behind the garage. Sometimes I'll glance down at the empty, plastic bin with "recycling" marked on the side. The blue one.

Maybe if it was green I would feel differently about using it.

The Bubbleboy finds Blogger

2007-05-24T01:03:00.000-04:00

There's something to be said for A/C. And then there's something to be said for A/C at Chez Bubbleboy: it ain't in the window yet!

Yes, tonight is the first night that the ol' Kenmore UltraFreeze 8000 would have really made a difference. But that would require planning, a bit of elbow grease and more ambition than I care to muster at 1:02 am.

The reassuring fact that the UltraFreeze 8000 is resting comfortably on the floor in the corner of the spare room is enough for me tonight. The 13 pounds of humidity-induced bloat around my ankles? Not so much.

Oh yeah. I started this blog tonight.