California Seething

[California Seething] – Passover in the 11th Plague

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : April 12, 2020

Category: California Seething, New

Tags:coronavirus, Covid 19, passover, seder, Zoom

About 20 years ago my parents moved to Albuquerque. I guess they wanted to see where Bugs Bunny had taken a wrong turn so many times, or maybe it was easier to find a synagogue there than in Outer Mongolia. And indeed, they found Congregation Albert, which is better than any temple I’ve ever been to in America let alone Ulaanbaatar. Sure, Temple Beth Ghengis Kahn is nice and all but they sing everything like this-

which works for Adon Olam but that’s about it.

Every year since my parents moved to Albuquerque I’ve been coming out for the Seder, but since my travel plans are often dictated by my work schedule, we haven’t always done the Seder on the same night of Passover. Some years it’s the third, some the fifth, some the weekend before. About 5 years ago we actually managed to have the Seder in the first night and Elijah was so shocked he didn’t come. He was already in Albuquerque but thought there was no way we’d have the Seder the first night so he did the Breaking Bad Tour instead. Look, Albuquerque, I’m all for making a buck off the tourists but all the Breaking Bad stuff is a bit much. Between the locations, souvenirs, and kiosk at the airport you should change your motto from “Land of Enchantment” to “We take the ‘Meh’ out of Meth!”.

At any rate, in mid February (or One Month BCE – Before Covid Era) I was in Albuquerque and I thought “wow. It’s gonna be practically impossible to get out here for Passover. We’ve got shows at all three theatres, there’s a first preview at the Douglas on the 8th for a show opening on the 10th. I guess I could fly out early on Saturday the 11th, have the Seder that night and fly back early Monday in time to be at the office for a meeting at 10. Oh well, Passover comes whether I’m ready or not, so we’ll find a way to have the Seder.”

Flash forward to the end of March, or the Year 5000 CE (or Two Weeks, whatever), and I’m standing at the Ralph’s in Venice practically weeping with joy because unlike our neighborhood supermarket, they have eggs, sanitizing wipes, and even toilet paper. And not some sandpaper, off-brand, one ply nonsense – but honest to God legit Charmin! Fortunately, the moment was captured on video:

All the shows have been cancelled, the office is closed, and getting to Albuquerque is even more impossible than I could have possibly imagined.

And yet, on the first night (the first, mind you! No one was more shocked than me, except maybe Elijah) of Passover, I found myself looking out at tableau of my family. We were in different homes, across 3 time zones, My aunt was actually floating in outer space but I think that’s just cause she trusted her son to get her set up on Zoom and we have a proud, long standing tradition of smart-alecky behavior in my family. Case in point this photo of my grandmother from my wedding:

We were not sitting around a physical table but rather arrayed in those oh so familiar Brady Bunch squares which form the matrix of our lives these days. I screen-shared a custom Hagaddah which I created for the occasion filled with all sorts of lefty, progressive, inclusive readings (thanks Haggadot.com), seduced my family with promises the Seder would only last an hour, and we shared a Reform, accessible, interfaith friendly touchy-feeley Seder (touching the heart- not the face!) in virtual space.

And it was wonderful

My wife pointed out afterwards that, as she looked out at all the people participating, she could not remember a time when all these various segments of our family and close friends had ever been in the same place together. She reminded me of an observation I shared when we did a FaceTime happy hour with her brother and his girlfriend in Denver. That we could have always been connecting in this fashion with friends and family in other places, but until now it never would have occurred to us.

I’m not denying that things really suck right now. We live in unprecedented and unpresidented times. To call this country a dumpster fire is an insult to hard working dumpster fires all over the world. But if there is one drop of wine in the otherwise empty glass, it’s that we have learned, quickly and of necessity, how to untether community from geography and come together like never before. Perhaps in future years there will be a screen on the table to welcome those to our Seder who are far away or not able to leave their homes. The screen will also serve as a reminder of this time, when we chose as free people to remain confined in our narrow spaces because a plague came that affected us all. A plague that didn’t bother to check your doorposts for blood. In that sense, we are all Egyptians this Passover. May our hearts never grow hard, like Pharoh’s.

The question with the most obvious answer right now is “How is this night different from all other nights?” except for maybe “who should I vote for in November?” or “Dude, are you watching Tiger King?” The question I’d rather ask, though, is “how is this Seder the same as all others?” After all, the story of Passover is still the same (spoiler alert- we’re free!), my family is still delightfully unruly despite my best efforts (how did I end up being the Clark Griswold of the Sims Family Virtual Passover Vacation?), my sisters still each play their appointed roles of the Wicked Child and Simple Child (family is like the old Hollywood Studio System- once you’re typecast, you’re typecast for life), I still giggle when I hear “House of Bondage”, the matza is dry, Dayenu is too long, the jelly in gefilte fish is one of life’s great mysteries, and a young goat can still be purchased for the low, low price of two Zuzim. If my grandfather were there, I like to think he’d still make the “month of Datsun” joke when the “month of Nisan” is mentioned in the Seder. I know he would have dug into his wallet like a man extracting his own kidney to reward the afikoman finder with the big prize of ONE DOLLAR. “Big spender” my grandmother would have said derisively, and maybe, somewhere this year, outside the range of even Zoom, she did.

As the Seder ended, we drank our third and fourth cup of wine (or fifth or sixth or cup number DON’T JUDGE ME), opened the door for Elijah to make a contactless delivery of messianic redemption, and returned to the reality of our separate homes. For some participants, it had already been dark outside for a while, others were just sitting down to dinner as the sun was beginning to dip in the sky. For 90 minutes though, we had been connected in a space outside our distant homes, telling the ancient story together. And, yeah, yeah, I know I told everyone that Seder would only take an hour and it went way longer – that’s just another way this Seder was like all others. SUCKERS!!!

I’ll close this post the way we began the Seder. By saying Shechiyanu. By thanking God, whoever or whatever that may be (is the Flying Spaghetti Monster still a thing or did atheists have to dump him after too many people started actually believing in it? Cause the same thing happened to Joseph Smith), for bringing us to this place- safe, healthy, in a home with food and soap and hot water, and for the miracle of technology that provides a gossamer thread of human connectivity when we desperately need it most.

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam,
she’hecheyanu v’ki’manu v’higi-anu laz’man hazeh.

Praised are you, Adonai, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe,
who has sustained us, maintained us and enabled us to reach this moment in life

Have a happy Passover, a happy Easter, joyous Flying Spaghetti Dinner, or just the best week you can muster at home with a minimum of uncontrollable sobbing (PRO TIP: you don’t need to wait for the Seder to have four glasses of wine. DON’T JUDGE ME.) Wishing you all strength and love.

Hashanah be Zoom, l’shana ha ba’ah be Albuquerque. This year on Zoom, next year in Albuquerque- and may Elijah be “the one who knocks”

[California Seething] New Amsterdam or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Legal Weed and then Started Worrying All Over Again Cause Weed Still Makes Me Paranoid as FUUUUCK

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : September 4, 2018

Category: California Seething, New

Tags:Axe Body Spray, Bird Scooter, Cannabis, dispensary, Fantasy Island, Jay Leno, Maltipoo, Melania, weed

Chapter One: Fantasy Island

There comes a time in every Angeleno’s life when they Google Map “recreational dispensaries near me” in order to find one that’s within walking distance from their house. For me, that time came a couple of days after seeing the Dead & Company at Dodger Stadium. I was sitting on the couch late at night watching clips from old Dead shows on YouTube and trying to decide between having a midlife crisis and walking the dog- until finally I realized- – why not do both? And thus the search began!

Of course, I the only reason I had to look for a recreational dispensary is that I’ve always been too superstitious to get a medical weed card. You see, my mother always told me it was bad luck to fake an illness and of all the motherly advice she’s given me in the last 45 years, that’s the one fucking piece I decided to take. I didn’t listen when she said “don’t walk under the bridge at night cause there might be axe murders.” I didn’t listen when she said “don’t take Uber cause the driver might be an axe murderer (my mom thinks axe murderers are a big problem in this town- when the real problem is Axe Body Spray. She needs to watch less Criminal Minds and more Entourage.) I also didn’t listen when she said “don’t let the dog lick your head” cause I still let my little Punky-poo go to town on my head like it’s snack time at camp and she’s got a big, sweaty Otter Pop. And, I sure as hell didn’t listen when my mom said not to smoke weed in the first place. “Just Say No” was the only thing I said “no” too. I said “HELL, YEAH” the first time a scraggly nickel bag was offered to me Freshman year of High School. I smoked those stems and seeds out of an old Sherlock Holmes pipe I had lying around. In more innocent times (8^th grade) this was part of a Halloween costume along with a deer stalker cap and plaid bathrobe. Sherlock Holmes as proto-Lebowski, I guess? Come to think of it, that would have been a pretty great look for my walk to the dispensary- which, as turns out was only 0.2 miles away! How awesome is that? The last time I lived this close to a recreational dispensary, I was in college and his name was Tyrone.

Now, there were some distinct advantages to going weed shopping at Tyrone’s. Like the 3’ bong that circulated endlessly through his living room as though propelled by Newton’s Laws of Marijuana Motion (ganja in motion shall remain in motion unless bogarted by some fratboy douche with the Axe Body Spray and the “Cheat on your girlfriend not your workout t-shirt. Seriously, who invited that guy?) Tyrone smoked A LOT. He smoked like he was training for the Weed Olympics (or “X-Games”) and gunning for Willy Nelson’s spot on the American team.

The selection at New Amsterdam on the other hand blows Tyrone’s out of the bong water. I can’t even compare buying weed in college to shopping at New Amsterdam without sounding like a Yakov Smirnoff bit: “At New Amsterdam, they have big selection of cannabis- indica, sativa, oils, creams, edibles, vape pens! In college, we have two kinds of cannabis only- weed in bong or weed in bowl- if you want edibles, smoke out of apple. New Amsterdam- What a dispensary!” Holy crap- if they ever legalize weed in Branson I’m totally going to open a dispensary with Smirnov. We can call it “Branson Buds” and then do a reality show called “Branson BUDdies.” And then we’ll flip houses! And holy shit I could go for some Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch right now! Sorry, sorry, sorry- I shouldn’t have started hitting the vape pen while I was still writing this.

Oh right! The vape pen- that’s what I wanted to buy at New Amsterdam. I first used one when I went to see the Dead and Company and I can safely say I was the highest person in Dodger Stadium since Darryl Strawberry went to rehab. But unlike Darryl Strawberry, the vape pen never disappoints! It just kept going and going like the Energizer Bunny or like a 90’s hack comic who still uses the Energizer Bunny (or Darryl Strawberry) as a punch line. Yup, that comic just keeps going and going and going until he drops dead of cirrhosis outside the Ha Ha Hole in North Hollywood while trying to squeeze one more punch line out of Lorena Bobbit, dolphin-free tuna, and Zima and, yes, that comic is Jay Leno.

And much like Jay Leno, the vape pen is disposable and leaves an artificial taste in your mouth though, unlike Jay Leno, it comes in a slim, attractive package and always makes you feel good. Hey- turns out I like my cannabis like Donald likes his wives- slim, attractive, fake and disposable (and probably not made in America.) Ohhh, I’m sorry- did that make Melania feel bad. Well, “I really don’t care- do u?” #BeBest

Anyhow, the dispensary was closed the night I first looked it up, so a few days later my wife Lauren and I strapped our presumptive little maltipoo Punky into her harness and set off on the journey to New Amsterdam. For as the Chinese proverb says, “the journey of 0.2 miles begins with a single step and ends in like 500 steps or 1000 if it’s a round trip.” I say presumptive maltipoo, because we never actually gave her a DNA test. This is partially because they’re expensive but mostly cause I don’t want to know who that crazy bitch has murdered. Sure- she seems cuddly and adorable, but she’s really a ferocious killer. It’s like Child’s Play 8- Dog of Chucky. That’s why Lauren and I both went- because Lauren had to wait with Punky outside. I mean, sure I I could have said she was a service dog- assuming you consider running around in circles like a little white blur yapping her head off like a coked up Herve Villechaize the day he finally kills them all (“Za Plane! Za Plane! SO MUCH BLOOD!”) every single goddamn time she sees some douchenozzle in Axe Body Spray ride by on a Bird Scooter to be a service, which I ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO but the ADA doesn’t see it that way- gotta get Betsy DeVos on that. Or, wait- who’s in charge of ruining protections for the disabled? Jeff Sessions? Stephen Miller? The Mooch? Surely someone in this garbage administration is responsible for hurting the handicapped? What the hell is Putin paying for anyhow?

So Lauren waited outside as our little Tattoo freaked out (“Za Bird Scooter! Za Bird Scooter! SO MUCH BLOOD) and I entered New Amsterdam. I gave my ID to the beefy man behind the desk in the registration area (oh THESE are the groceries that Donald was talking about) and the beefy man gave me his scowl of approval. With that, I stepped forward into a whole new world- one I can only describe as my college self’s Fantasy Island. (“Za Weed! Za Weed. SO MUCH BUD)

Now where’s my goddamn Cap’n Crunch??

Chapter Two: It’s Summer Time but the Vapin’ Ain’t Easy

As you’ve already guessed, I’m old. Not Honeymooners, Ed Sullivan, moon landing old but Yakov Smirnoff, Zima, Challenger explosion old. Quick test to see if you are Gen X: What does NASA stand for? If you answered:

National Aeronautics and Space Administration– You’re too old.
Need Another Seven Astronauts– You’re Gen X! “Congratulations”
Alexa, what’s NASA? – You should stop reading this right fucking now. You’re either too young or the President of the US and either way this ain’t for you.

Sure, I shopped for cannabis in stores before, when I lived in New York in the 90’s. There was that video store in Spanish Harlem or “Hamilton Heights” as it is known by real estate brokers and college kids who don’t want their racist parents to worry “It’s not Spanish Harlem, Mom, it’s Hamilton Heights- yes, like the musical. Of course it’s safe- it’s quiet uptown”. This video store had like two copies of Quiz Show, a bunch of empty boxes and $30 eighths if you showed the “green membership card”. Sorry, did you hear that? It’s the sound of 10,000 former Blockbuster owners kicking themselves at once. Seriously, how did you guys miss this? Block-BUD-ster? Eh? Eh? It was right there for you and now Yakov Smirnoff and I are gonna open one in Branson.

And there was Juice & Juice in the Village where for $12 they sold you a small juice and a dime bag. This place still exists, which is cool, but now they charge $15 and you only get juice.

But New Amsterdam was the first store I ever entered that sold cannabis unabashedly. Clean, bright LCD screens advertising the specials of the day. Free pre-rolled joint with purchase of $100 or more. Small plastic purple jars brimming with luscious green buds available for connoisseurs to smell and compare. Young women behind the counter with t-shirts, name-tags, nose-rings, and knowing looks eagerly waiting to fulfill your every cannabis need. It was crazy – all my life marijuana was forbidden fruit and now- instead of offering me the apple, the serpent brings me to an Apple Store. Fantastic. I sauntered confidently up to a young lady behind the counter whose name tag identified her as “Ariel” and said, a little too loudly, “I would like a vape pen, please.”

Nothing

I tried again

“I would like a disposable vape pen, please.”

Nothing.

Ariel just gave me the kind of expectant and slightly terrified look you get when you walk into Starbucks and just say “coffee” and the barista is staring at you and just praying to Howard Schultz that you’re not some crazy person cause she can’t remember under what circumstances she’s allowed to call the cops.

Finally, Ariel realized she was going to have to give me my cue: “Indica, Sativa?”

I was frozen. I had heard these words before, but never bothered to learn what they mean- it never seemed to matter. Like Yakov Smirnoff would have said “when you wait in line all day for toilet paper, you don’t ask is it Charmin?”

So I relied on my old “I have no idea what to choose” standby. I gave Ariel what I hope was a probing look and said “What do you recommend?”

She asked “Do you get paranoid?” Which is a terrible question to ask a paranoid person, but I resisted the urge to say “Who’s been saying that about me??” and said instead “Yes, a little.”

She reached under the counter without hesitation and pulled out a little white package and said “Try an indica blend, this one’s Bananaberry. $47.95. Plus tax”.

And so, $52 later, in cash (they don’t take credit cards. THANK GOD. At least something about this transaction was shady) I was back out on the street with Punky, Lauren and an Indica Blend Bananberry Disposable Vape Pen.

Later that night, after a couple glasses of rose, I decided to test out my new purchase. After spending only ten minutes figuring out how to open the package, a pulled out the slim black rod. One end was flat, the other had a pinhole. Remembering the Dead show, I put the pinhole in my mouth and sucked and…nothing. The tip lit up bright green- but nothing seemed to come through. Still, I held the nothing in my lungs and breathed it out. Could it really be this smooth, this effortless? Sure I didn’t feel anything, (suck) but maybe it creeps up on you. (suck, suck) Like…slowly (suck, suck, suck) Like….really slowly?

Nothing. Like the girl in Chorus Line, I felt nothing- no matter how much I reached deep down to the bottom of my soul and tried.

Maybe there was something I was missing? I opened up the packaging and peered inside. Was there something I was missing? A book of instructions with the Ikea dude showing me the do’s and don’ts? A bag of little screws? An allen wrench?

Nothing.

I scrutinized the vape pen- was there an on/off switch, home button, fingerprint pad? Maybe it’s voice activated “Hey Vapey, get me baked?”

Nothing. How could I possibly be failing at this? It’s technology and weed- I should be crushing this! Hell, I’m the one who first taught my mother how to program the VCR and later introduced her to Emoji (MOM EMOJI PRO TIP: Ghost pirate is the closest to Axe Murderer). And I’m the one whose mastery of Microsoft Access once made me feared by men and beloved by women (specifically the women at Apple One.) And I’m the one who made a bong out of a coconut cause there was a coconut in the apartment and why the fuck not? I used to be a genius- how could I suddenly be so dumb? And if I am so old and dumb- where will my help come from? Clippy, Clippy- why hast thou forsaken me???

Noticing my struggles, Lauren asked- “How is it?”

“Oh, it’s good, you know. Really smooth.” – Oh don’t look at me like that- of course I lied. How could I admit that the vape pen was a bust, that I’d wasted $50, that the emperor has no buzz??

Turns out, it’s surprisingly easy. The next day, when my friend Scott came over after brunch, I handed him the vape pen to see if he would have better luck. He took one suck and said “dude- this things broken- take it back.”

Right.

Brain go boom.

Of course – I can just take it back for a refund.

Channeling Yakov Smirnoff: “At New Amsterdam- when drugs not work- you take back for full refund. In college, when drugs not work, you lie to your friends about how awesome they are – ‘oh yeah, dude- I can totally feel the acid kicking in…it’s reeealll mellow.’ What a Dispensary!”

And so, we leashed up Punky and took the 0.2 mile walk to New Amsterdam. When we got there, Scott played Mr. Roark with crazy little Tattoo and I went inside.

I walked up to Ariel and pulled out the package with the vape pen.

“Hey – I think the vape pen that I got here yesterday might possibly not be working.”

“Sorry to hear that- can I see you hit it?”

OK- here we go- the moment of truth – I pulled it out- sucked and….

“Oh yeah, that’s not working. Let me get you new one” She took the package and in seconds replaced the broken vape pen with identical one. “Try this”

Skeptical, I put in in my mouth, took a big suck and

COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH
COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH

So that’s what Bananaberry tastes like. It tastes like VICTORY.

And so I left New Amsterdam the proud owner of Indica Blend Bananberry Disposable Vape Pen that actually works which I’ve used exactly twice. Cause like the title says- weed still makes me paranoid as FUUUUCCK.

Now- who took my goddamn Cap’n Crunch? Sic ’em Punky!

[California Seething]- Hurray for Donald Pumpkinhead

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : October 30, 2017

Category: California Seething

Tags:Donald Trump, fearless flyer, HGTV, Property Brothers, pumpkin, tiny house hunters, Trader Joe's

Look, pumpkins are gross. They’re like Donald Trump’s head- orange, bulbous misshapen things filled on the inside with disgusting slime. And, just like Donald Trump’s head lots of white people are obsessed with them. Sure, there are a few differences- pumpkins don’t insult war widows, throw paper towels or Tweet. And no matter how popular pumpkins were last October, they were all gone and forgotten by November 8th. But the big difference is that not everyone who likes pumpkin is a loathsome sack of shit.

See, I may not be a big pumpkin fan but if you like them, I’ve got no problem with that. Get your ass down to TJ’s and buy every damn thing in the October Fearless Flyer (the Fox News of pumpkin propaganda): pumpkin cheesecake muffins, pumpkin chai spice cake, pumpkin cream cheese, Greek pumpkin yogurt, “Pumpkin Walks in to a Bar”, Joe’s Pumpkin O’s cereal, pumpkin tortilla chips, pumpkin salsa, pumpkin beer, pumpkin butternut squash bisque, pumpkin rolls with pumpkin spice icing and yes, even pumpkins. If you want to hit Starbucks five times a day for pumpkin spice lattes- go nuts. Get down with your yoga pant self. I may think they taste like caffeinated vomit juice – but I don’t judge you. When it comes to pumpkin spice lattes- it’s hate the sip, love the sipper.

And at this point, Republicans are gonna say- “well, why can’t politics just be like pumpkins and we can agree to disagree over Trump”- because of course they set such a good example of civility by screaming for Obama’s birth certificate, chanting “lock her up” at political rallies and losing their goddamn minds six years ago when the President wore a tan suit. Cause CLEARLY it was just the tan suit they objected to and not the black skin that happened to be underneath it. But, OK, all that aside- you want to know why I can’t just treat Trump lovers like pumpkin lovers- I’ll tell you:

Pumpkins aren’t stripping away healthcare from millions out of spite, greed and malice.

Pumpkins aren’t undermining environmental protection using the goddamn Environmental Protection Agency.

Pumpkins aren’t stoking the flames of racism and xenophobia

Pumpkins aren’t deporting children who’ve grown up in this country to satisfy the blood-thirsty howls of a deranged mob.

Pumpkins don’t ban people from traveling to America based on their religion.

Pumpkins don’t rip away the civil rights of people I love.

Pumpkins don’t joke about lynching people I love.

Pumpkins don’t speak in front of known hate groups that target people I love.

Pumpkins aren’t alienating our allies.

Pumpkins aren’t taking us to the brink of nuclear war

Pumpkins don’t try to squash peaceful protest.

Pumpkins don’t try to intimidate the press into complicit silence.

Pumpkins don’t blatantly lie to the American people with every word that comes out of their jaggedly carved, slime crusted mouths.

Pumpkins haven’t made our nation a global disgrace.

Pumpkins don’t represent a terrifying threat to American democracy and the very continuation of life on this planet.

Oh- and – one more thing- Pumpkins aren’t using the Presidency to cynically enrich themselves and their soulless, dead-eyed, repulsive family members. Yup- that’s just one more difference between pumpkins and Trump’s kin.

Much like pumpkins, there are a lot of subjects I can agree to disagree over The Lakers vs the Celtics, the Patriots vs the Good of Humanity, Cris Collinsworth vs Jon Gruden vs the voices in my head telling me to KILL CRIS COLLINSWORTH AND JON GRUDEN BEFORE THEY SAY ONE MORE ASININE INCOMPREHENSIBLE THING, books, movies, music, which House Hunters would be most fun to punch in the face (uh- Tiny- duh), which Property Brother’s mangled corpse would be most fun to feed to a pen full of blood thirsty pigs (oink oink chomp chomp- there goes Drew!!), whether subjecting a fellow human being to Lottery Dream Home is in direct violation of the Geneva Convention (HGTV is the only channel on DirecTV’s Guantanamo package.) I can even agree to disagree about politics- assuming that we share a mutual respect for the values this country was founded on and not merely the symbols that represent us. A shared commitment to the equality of all people and to the idea that life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are inalienable rights- even for aliens. If we’re both committed to this idea then, sure, I’ll carve up a political pumpkin with you all day. But the minute you start carving out certain groups of people as being inherently less equal than others- I’m done with you. You can gourd fuck yourself.

My best advice to you, Trumpeters is to take a lesson from Pumpkin Heads. No matter how beloved your repulsive, bloated orange lumps are in October- they will fade to insignificance and rot in November….although, sadly, not this November but a November coming soon…right? Wait- what? Three years??? Are you kidding me? WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE.

OK, well, three more years. Sigh. Until then, if anyone needs me, I’ll be in solitary confinement watching Flip or Flop: Fort Worth. May the Great Pumpkin have mercy on us all.

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A Walk Through the Store

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : October 23, 2017

Category: California Seething, New

In 1987, I spent the summer in Israel with my middle sister and my Dad. We’d lived in Israel from around 1978 to 1983 in Arad, a small town in the middle of the dessert that was far enough from any armed conflict to be safe for seven year old kids to walk home from school alone. After 1983 we moved back to the States to the leafy green and profoundly disappointing suburbs of Albany (Smallbany), NY- specifically, the town of Delmar (Dullmar).

My Dad was still a partner in a small apparel company with a factory in Arad, so we spent summers and holidays and every week we could in our apartment there. I loved that apartment. The cool tile floors and big balcony window from which I could see past the end of town to the blue mountains of Jordan beyond. So much better than our US brown two story carpeted house which overlooked nothing but the construction sites of our Dullmar development and the high school that would someday form the backdrop of all my grown-up anxiety dreams (for the love of God, when do I stop panicking about failing French???)

Anyhow, the summer before my Freshman year in High School in 1987, my mom and oldest sister stayed back in Dullmar while the rest of us went back to Arad. It was probably the greatest summer of my life. Not because of all the touchy-feely lovey-dovey family bonding crap we did- but because my Dad worked all the time, my sister and I were teenagers and he left us THE HELL ALONE. The only time we HAD to be home was when my Mom called so that we could reassure her that he was doing the bare minimum to keep us alive. Though, of course, there was the one week I missed that call because I was hiking up north. When she called, he just said I was “outside…somewhere” – which was technically true- I was, in fact, outside…six hours away, straddling the fence to the Lebanese border, rappelling down a dry waterfall and eating lunch on an overturned tank in a river. I don’t know how the rest of that conversation went, but I do know that no simple phone call would suffice when I came home- NO SIR! I had to sign an affidavit as proof of life and fax it to her post-haste. I’m surprised she didn’t make me take a picture holding the newspaper.

Of course, we did do some stuff as a family- like when my Dad took me and my two best friends to Jerusalem and made a brief pit-stop in the West Bank so he could pick up some Hebron wine glasses. He made each of us memorize three items on his to-do list of the day. I suppose in the days before Siri, taking three freshly bar-mitzvah’d boys to an incipient war zone was the next best thing. Naturally, the Hebron glass guy knew my dad. Wherever he went, everyone always knew my dad. There was one time, several years before this amazing summer, when we were hopelessly lost in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem. We drove around in circles for what to a restless 10 year old seemed like FOREVVVVVVVER until he finally stopped at a restaurant to feed his weary and hungry family. How noble. How heroic. He positively insisted he had never been there and we believed him completely right up until the owner greeted him with a convivial “Shalom Alan!” as soon as he walked in and the waiter brought him a big bowl of Ful Medames right after we sat down. His Ful made fools of us all.

I thought of this recently when we went to his favorite ice cream place, “I Scream for Ice Cream”- or “Bill’s” as he called it- referring to the owner’s name, a few days after he died. He loved that place. In fact, during one of the very few conversations my Mom and he had about the afterlife, she asked “where do you think we go?” and he said without hesitation “Bill’s.” Anyhow, we all walked in dreading the moment that Bill, would smile broadly behind the counter and ask “where’s my friend?” But he didn’t. Bill came out from behind the counter and hugged my mom. We didn’t run an obituary but somehow Bill knew, just like the owner in that long ago restaurant knew my Dad’s name and favorite order. That’s just who my Dad was.

It may come as a surprise to those that met my Dad later in life that so many of my memories involve him being in motion. Walking, driving, flying, playing racquetball. Either that or working. He was always working until Parkinson’s made him stop. I didn’t think about it then but as I get closer to the age he was when he was diagnosed I find I work like he did- wrapping myself in my work like a familiar scratchy blanket. And so the thought of just giving it up is as unimaginable to me as I’m sure it was to him. And yet- he did- without a moment of regret or remorse. He just gracefully moved on to a new phase of his life as he gradually pursued what would become his longest standing occupation- working with Bar and Bat Mitzvah students on their D’var Torah, or as it’s more commonly known “speech”. When I was a Bar Mitzvah student there was a simple formula to follow – all platitudes, no insight. The Torah portion wasn’t something to be digested- simply regurgitated to the tune on the tape the Cantor made. But he expected his students to dig deep into their Torah portion- to savor it in all its richness and share the complex flavor with the congregation. So many of his former students came up to us after his Shiva services at Congregation Albert, the Albuquerque temple that became my family’s spiritual home. Time and time again they said the same thing “your Dad was the best teacher I ever had.”

Everyone who met him after they moved to Albuquerque knew him as this inspiring guy in a wheelchair spreading wisdom. The Yoda of Torah. A wise and spiritual man. Funny, patient and infinitely generous of spirit. And, to be sure, he was all of those things. But one of the things he and I were talking a lot about as his days were winding down, was the way in which Torah refuses to make saints of our teachers and leaders. And as so many people told me how amazing he was, I kept thinking about the other side of my Dad- the guy who could be exasperating, stubborn and infuriatingly single minded- especially when food was involved.

In 2002, I directed The Lonesome West at the Powerhouse Theatre in Santa Monica. It was my first show in LA and my parents came. Even back then, it was challenging for them to travel and I was extremely grateful that they had made the effort. It was an older theatre, and our idea of ADA accessibility was getting the whole cast out to carry the guy in the wheelchair up the four steps from the small lobby to the back row.

Anyhow, once we got my Dad situated, my friend Julie sat next to him in the back and I went to the front with my wife, and my Mom so she could hear better. I was pleased we had gotten him in and proud to share this play that I felt I directed so beautifully. I thought rather a lot of myself then.

What I didn’t know as I moved to the front row, was that he had brought with him a GINORMOUS bag of jelly beans. To this day, I don’t know where he had those hidden and how he smuggled them in. Now, it’s one of the mysteries of the universe.

Anyhow, about halfway through the play was my favorite scene. It was a quiet conversation shared by a young girl and a priest in torment. I thought it was some of the best work I had done, subtle, nuanced and suffused with the pain of unrequited love. And half way through, as the audience sat in rapt attention and the theatre was absolutely silent… CRASH!!!!! The whole bag of jelly beans came splattering to the ground. And I was in the front row just fuming- where did the jelly beans come from? How did he sneak them in? Why did he bring them to the show? Who, who WHO eats jelly beans at the theatre? And WHY IN THE NAME OF EVERYTHING THAT IS HOLY did he have to pick this exact, beautiful, perfect moment to drop them all over the ground???

And then, while most people would have just left them on the ground quietly and gone back to focusing on the UNBELIEVABLY BEAUTIFUL FREAKING SCENE THAT I DIRECTED – he started rustling around and picking them up and I was sitting in the front row going out of my mind silently screaming at him to CUT IT OUT. One jelly bean….rustle rustle rustle….. Two jelly beans STOP IT! Three jelly beans…rustle rustle rustle….four jelly beans….JUST LEAVE THEM! My friend Julie leaned over to him and said “Mr Sims, what are doing? Just leave them on the ground.” But he wouldn’t. He wanted those stinkin’ jelly beans and nothing was gonna stop him. Five jelly beans….rustle rustle rustle….six jelly beans…and then…. CRASH… One jelly bean….rustle rustle rustle.

And the best part was, later on that night, my brother-in-law told me that the best piece of advice he ever got from my Dad was “Don’t spill your candy in the lobby” And I thought, of course, yes, that’s great advice! Why drop your candy in the lobby when you can drop it RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE QUIETEST MOMENT of the show and then try and pick it up again piece by piece by piece AND DROP IT AGAIN. Oh yes. OH YES. CLEARLY THAT’S MUCH BETTER.

And there you have my Dad. If there was something in life he wanted to taste, he wouldn’t just leave it lying on the floor. He would try and try and try again to experience the full sweetness of life and wasn’t going to let anything stop him. And I thought of that when I saw a picture of him sitting in the garden after being in bed for three months, about a week before the end. I’ll admit, I didn’t think he would ever make it outside again- but then I realized- ah! There was one more piece of candy left, and with all his might, he managed to eat it.

The last time my Dad was in the hospital, he started working on a book called Walk Through the Store. It was his guide to common-sense leadership inspired by role models in his life and biblical figures. The title came from his experience at Jordan Marsh as a very young manager. Every Saturday, store Vice-President Cameron Thompson would walk through the whole store engaging with employees, hearing their concerns, observing customer interactions and making notes to share with his fellow executives. This made a profound impact on my Dad. While I don’t remember him ever talking about it before he started working on the book- I certainly observed the impact of this experience on his leadership style. He got to know the people working for him, talked to them with respect, got involved in their lives. When we were in Israel, that crazy summer of ’87, we had dinner at the home of one of his Bedouin employees- though it was really more of a compound than a home. A large, sparsely furnished concrete structure with beautiful rugs on the floors, a kitchen swarming with women covered in head scarves making pita bread, some windows with glass, some just rectangular openings to the outside, kids everywhere running around and playing soccer and a permanent tent where his older parents lived. They had come to terms with staying in one place, but living encased in concrete was more than they could adjust to. We sat in the tent drinking mint tea and eating watermelon. My Dad’s employee was so proud to share his world with my Dad- and my Dad asked questions, engaged with the whole family, made sure they knew what an honor it was for us to be there. I remember thinking “this is pretty cool. I’d like to be the kind of boss my Dad is. You know, Someday- after I retire from the Boston Celtics.” Anyhow, I guess that’s what he thought when he saw Cameron Thompson walking through the store. And fifty years later, as he lay in bed eating pureed food, he was determined to convey this message to future generations.

As my sisters and I each came to visit, we would sit with him, talking as much as his energy and Parkinson’s would allow, taking notes on our conversations, inching the book forward like a relay race of mismatched penmanship, with mine being the worst of the bunch. He and I talked a lot about Abraham as a biblical role model of leadership, and I encouraged him to include Moses as well since there are a lot of tricky aspects to Abraham’s story (e.g. the whole “Sarah? Oh no, she’s not my wife, she’s my sister” bit.) A couple of weeks before he died, my Dad asked me to think of examples from Moses’ life that we could use in the book. I took that as a win. Luke scores a point on Yoda.

I was scheduled to fly out on Rosh Hashanah- Thursday, Sept 21. The night before, my Mom called. It was a call I had been expecting for almost a decade. Every time she called at an unusual time, a small pocket of dread would open up in my stomach. Usually, it was nothing and the pocket would close up again releasing a sweet cloud of pink relief. Sometimes there was serious news- emergency room trips, hospital stays, falls, new symptoms. Each of these developments was like a step down on a ladder of wellness- and after each step, they would fight their way back to a new version of normalcy. But this time, there was nowhere left to go.

He talked to my sisters first and then me. He couldn’t really say much on the phone, so I did most of the talking. I talked to him about Moses. I reminded him that, at the end of Moses’ life, he couldn’t enter the Promised Land. He could only see it from the mountain top. I told him that he too was at the mountain top- and from there, he could see his legacy carried forward. He could see his kids, his grandchildren, his students, his friends. All of us that learned from him. All of us that were touched by him. All of us who were better people for having known him. He might not finish the book- but he could see from the mountain top that his lessons were secure and a new generation would carry them forward. It wasn’t fair. It never is. It wasn’t fair for Moses and it wasn’t fair for him. But at least he could see his promises fulfilled. At least he could see us walking through the store.

And so he spent Rosh Hashanah on the mountain top while his body struggled for breath in bed. I arrived on Thursday. He slept a lot. He couldn’t eat or drink. When his eyes opened, he looked up at the ceiling towards a fixed point. I hope it’s a long time before I know what he was seeing. He couldn’t talk, sometimes he gasped and we thought….and then he would start breathing again. CNN was on TV but the sound was off. So when no one was talking, there was just the oceanic rhythm of the oxygen machine endlessly pounding the surf.

On Friday night, we welcomed Shabbat in the bedroom standing around him. We lit LED candles, so as to not blow up the oxygen tanks, and did Kiddush. He hadn’t spoken or even really verbalized all day. And then- as I finished the blessing on the wine we heard “Amen”. It was the clearest thing he said in days. It was the last thing he said. He died on Saturday morning, holding my mom’s hand while she talked to him about the lesson plan she was preparing for Sunday School about the High Holidays. A team to the end and beyond.

At 7:30 AM on Saturday morning, September 23^rd, the 3^rd of Tishrei, she called me into the room.
“I think he stopped breathing”
I put on shorts quickly.
I entered the room.
His eyes were closed.
He lay still.
We said our first goodbyes.
We talked about what to do next.
Who to call,
When to call,
What to say.
She turned off the oxygen machine,
And the room
went
quiet.
It was jarring,
how quiet the room was
then.
It’s jarring,
how quiet the world is
now.

There is a line in Hamilton- in the song “It’s Quiet Uptown”, which is sung right after Alexander and Eliza Hamilton have lost their son Phillip to a duel:

“If you see him in the street,
Walking by himself,
Have pity.
He is working through the unimaginable.”

When I saw the show, three weeks after my dad died, that line broke me open, weeping.
Because that’s how I feel.
Nothing in my life has changed.
Everything is fine.
I’m just working through the unimaginable.
I’m just working through the unimaginable.

I love you, Dad.
I miss you.
I hope that you saw me from the mountain top.
I hope you were proud.
I hope you’re free now.
To go where you want eat what you want do what you want.

And if you see me by myself, talking to myself.
walking through the store,
Don’t worry.
I’m just working through the unimaginable.
I’m just working through the unimaginable.

Enjoy Bill’s. I’ll see you at the mountain top.

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[California Seething] 2016. Ugh.

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : January 3, 2017

Category: California Seething, New

Tags:2016, Clinton, Colin Kaepernick, Grim Reaper, James Comey, Jimmy Fallon, racists, Trump, Vladimir Putin

Once upon a time, when I was a ambitious young know-it-all moron in New York, I worked at the Strand Bookstore. The slogan for the bookstore was Eight Miles of Books (no relation to the Eminem movie. I know, I was disappointed too). My job was to shelve books along with an army of other ambitious young know-it-all morons. The Strand was constantly buying used books for resale. Every day New York’s Desperate Class would line up with hungry eyes, hoping to trade books for cash and, like an eight-mile long coiled python, the Strand would spit out loose change, devour the books and deposit them in some corner of its endless belly. Our job was to help the serpent digest.

Every day we walked in to work with dreams in our hearts and crumbs in our beards and were assigned a section of the store. No matter what the section was, there was a waist high stack of books lining the aisles. Our job was to find room for these books in the alphabetically correct position on the already bulging shelves. After a few hours of this, when we were about half way through the stack, we’d go to lunch. And when we returned 30 minutes later, the stack was exactly as high as it had been in the morning and while there were more crumbs in our beards- the dreams were gone. When I asked my boss if I could put “Sisyphus” on my nametag, her cold, dead eyes told me that she’d heard that joke. A lot. I didn’t last.

Anyhow, I bring up this unpleasant chapter of my work history as way of explaining why I haven’t written much in 2016.

Every day last year, I woke up with my head crammed full of information in various sections- Family Tragedy, Syria, Celebrity Death and, of course, Election. And just as I was in the midst of formulating a coherent (by my standards) reply- another load of horrible news would be dumped in the section I was working on, and I had to start over. And so my mind is filled with fragments of posts that chart the mood of 2016- grief, numb horror, outrage, frustration, exhaustion, cautious optimism, fleeting hope, crushing disappointment, grief, daily mortification, rage, terror, grief, grief.

And now I find myself wanting to write something funny and wise or at the very least comprehensible (again, by my standards) which will wrap up this terrible year- but what to say? Usually, one can rely on Top 10 lists in these situations- but what kind of list would suit 2016? “Top 10 Deaths that Ripped the Heart Out of My Chest Still Beating Temple of Doom Style”? Or maybe “Holy Crap! These 10 People ACTUALLY Survived!” or maybe the “Top 10 Totally Inappropriate Tweets that Demonstrate the Terrifying Degree to Which Trump is Not Suited to be President Sent Since 3:35 This Morning”?

I mean, sure- all good- options- but I think I’ll cut right to the chase and go with the “Top 10 People or Groups in 2016 Who Can Seriously GO FUCK THEMSELVES”

Who Else? The most dangerously underqualified person to ever be elected to any public office in the entirety of human history since Og beat Zog by a landslide promising to “make cave not stink again.” Even though Og failed to keep this promise by constantly farting in the cave, his supporters called his shameless flatulence “refreshing” and said “his butt say what people are thinking”. And he was still soooo much more qualified than the brainless hateful demagogue who won. And so before he fucks the country like he wishes he could fuck his daughter- he should go fuck himself.
The idiotic idiot racist idiots who voted for Trump and are also idiots. Now – I know that you Trump voters resent us coastal liberal elite types for looking down on you and thinking you’re dumb. But the only reason we think you’re dumb is that you actually are. And the way we know for sure you’re dumb is that you’re TRUMP VOTERS.
Also – I know that you get upset when we accuse of being racists- but….I mean…..you did vote for the dude who was endorsed by the Klan. Which is….you must…admit…kinda racist. I mean, if he was endorsed by My Little Pony, I’d say you were Futtershy fans, but it’s the fucking KLAN. And it wasn’t just some half-assed, obligatory “oh, I guess he’s the lesser of two evils for the white race” kind of endorsement. No- they gave Trump their full throated, whole hearted support. Hell, if the Berniecrats supported Hillary like the Nazis supported Trump we would have WON THIS GODDAMN THING. So- yeah- I’m calling you racists and worse. Cause if you walk like a duck and quack like a duck and Sieg Heil like a duck and degrade women like a duck and support conversion therapy like a duck and rip of Hijabs like a duck and deface synagogues with feces and Swastikas like a duck AND VOTE LIKE A DUCK then yes, yes you’re a misogynistic, xenophobic, gay bashing, hate mongering, anti-Semitic RACIST ASSHOLE DUCK and that’s exactly what I’m gonna call you (also- I’d like to apologize to ducks- not sure why I dragged you guys into this). Oh- and- yes- as I mentioned earlier- you’re also quite dumb.And don’t give me any of this cutesy-pie “Alt-Right” nonsense. This isn’t “Alt Country”. You’re not Wilco fans- you’re Nazis and you should all go fuck yourselves. Oh- and- right- did I mention already that you’re all very dumb?
Anyone over the past few months who uttered the phrase “Clinton and Trump are basically the same”- especially if you didn’t vote or voted third party.I know that in America we’re often asked to choose between two products that are basically the same- but let’s be very clear- Clinton vs Trump was NOT Coke vs Pepsi. No- Clinton vs Trump was Coke vs shoving your face over a streaming geyser of raw sewage and holding it there with your mouth forced open by Kellyanne Conway for four years – taking breaks only to go bobbing for bullshit in a tub full of Mike Pence’s puke. Boy – I bet that can of Coke sounds pretty refreshing right about now doesn’t it, sugar, carcinogens and all? Well- it’s too bad- you didn’t think it mattered- so it’s sewage for everyone! So- yeah- thanks a lot. When nobody has healthcare, Russian tanks roll over Europe, Exxon is drilling in Yosemite, Muslims are rounded up, Planned Parenthood has been replaced by a wire hanger and a punch in the gut and you shake your fist at the heavens (Facebook-wise) and say “oh- if only there was something I could do to stop all this!” – just remember- there was – and you didn’t. So go fuck yourself.
Hillary bashing liberals. Hey guys- remember the Primaries? Weren’t those fun! Posting all those memes about how lame Hilary was, spreading right-wing Clinton basing propaganda repurposed for the left, crucifying her on Facebook because she gave a couple of speeches to stock-brokers and GASP helped raise money for Malaria drugs, lambasting the DNC for being annoyed with your petulance. Sigh. Good times. So many fine memories to look back on between waterboarding sessions at the internment camp. Oh- but wait- I forgot- you’re a white, straight male- so you won’t actually experience any consequences for the reckless role you played in destroying American democracy. Why your 401(k) might even go up! Hell, the closest you’ll come to internment camps is reading about them while you’re in the doctor’s office waiting for the free physical that comes with your employer sponsored health insurance. But boy you sure will be outraged when you find out about them! You’ll sign all sorts of petitions on Change.org and share links from USUncut and DemocracyNow! And all your little Bernie Bro Buds are just gonna be so impressed with you that they won’t be able to resist responding to your post with Outrage Face Emoji. There’s sticking it to the man! The power elite is simply shaking in their boots thinking about how many Likes you get from your skinny-jeans friends and I can’t wait to hear all about it while I’m busting up rocks in Jew Camp and thinking just how much you should all really go fuck yourselves.
The thieves who steal email, the crooks that put them up to it, the sleezeballs who publish the emails and us suckers for lapping it up. So- you know how like 44 years ago a couple of burglars broke into the DNC headquarters to steal some documents and the nation was so aghast when we discovered the President was involved that he had to resign in shame? I know right- how adorable we were! Clearly we hadn’t yet learned that the right way to react when confidential information is stolen is to scrutinize it for petty, irrelevant nonsense scandals while totally ignoring the criminality of the act committed and rampaging corruption behind it.
Let me put this differently- let’s say your credit card number was stolen and used fraudulently. Which of these two responses would you prefer?
1. Bank contacts you immediately asking to confirm charges. If you can’t, the account is closed and flagged in case there are any future uses, the fraudulent charges are reversed and a new card is sent out with an apology.
2. Credit card thieves publish your entire purchase history which is promptly scrutinized by everyone in America. Outraged imbeciles share click bait headlines with fake scandals (“These FIVE purchases by Eric will PUT HIM IN JAIL FOR SURE!” like there’s some law in this country against a 44 year old man visiting the American Girl Store and Build a Bear Workshop which of course there only is in North Carolina and we’re hoping it gets repealed). The credit card company does nothing cause they don’t want to seem like sore losers and the scumbags who ripped you off are hailed as folk-heroes and “whistle blowers.”
  Oh, shut up, you would pick A and you know it. But that’s not the choice we made during the election, is it? We chose to be outraged by the stolen emails so now we get to be terrified by Donald Trump’s tweets- lucky fucking us. And for that we should all go fuck ourselves.
James Comey. Oh, go fuck yourself
Vladimir Putin. Oh- you- SERIOUSLY go fuck yourself
Jimmy Fallon. This one hurts. I really liked you but you just couldn’t stop humanizing Trump. I mean – bringing him on the show during the height of the campaign after all the terrible shit he said, so you can ruffle his hair like a lovable golden retriever? That’s like bringing Hitler on after kristilnacht and doing Movember bits about his mustache. And I know you don’t want to live in Trump’s America any more than the rest of us – you just can’t help yourself. Ass kissing is heroin to you. So now make it up to us- use your show for the next four years to spread the message of love, equality and acceptance. Show us with joyous enthusiasm how great this country can be when we celebrate our diversity and play together. Or just bring Billy Ocean back on. That would be cool too. Meanwhile, I’ve sadly got to ask you to go fuck yourself.
Colin Kaepernick. So let me get this straight- you kneel during the anthem to protest injustice but you can’t even be bothered to vote? Fuck that. It means nothing to be “woke” when you sleep through election day. You want to be a leader- lead to the polls. Now you might as well take pride in your choices and stand tall during the anthem- cause like it or not- this is the country YOU made through inaction. Thankfully you’re a terrible quarterback and nobody’s gonna care next year if you kneel for the anthem while you’re eating Cracker Jacks in the stands. Meanwhile, please go fuck yourself.
The Grim Reaper. Dude- you were off the chain this year. How about giving us a fighting chance next year? Like maybe instead of chess, we could play vintage Atari? Cause you may be able to checkmate us into the grave- but we will kick your bony ass in Frogger.
And I’m not just talking about all the beloved childhood icons you took or the artists and leaders whose voices will be sorely missed during the difficult years ahead. I mean, that all sucked, but I’m particularly referring to the two people I love that you took within a week of each other.
Mike & Sheila – you each deserve a much fuller and more articulate tribute (by any standards) than I can give you right now 2000 words deep in this post. Suffice it to say that we love you, we miss you, and we feel you absence every day. The world is a better place for the time you spent here, but God, it could be so much better if you were with us still.
And so Mr Reaper, for everyone you took this year and all the sorrow you left behind, you can seriously go fuck yourself.

So, yeah- that’s my list. There are a lot more people I could have put on- Kellyanne Conway (the answer to the SAT question _____ is to Ann Coulter as W. is to Trump), the Fox News Legion of Doom being considered for the cabinet, Debbie Wasserman-Schultz for mostly sucking at her job and, of course, GFY list perennial Bill Belichick – Trump’s pick for the Director of the Bureau of Weights and Measures. But I’d like to wrap this up on a positive note and I need to finish before the end of 2017.

So….here we go:

Ending on a positive note!

This past Hanukkah, I lit candles with my parents on Facetime every night. This may not seem like such a big deal- but my dad’s had Parinkson’s for 25 years, and this year was particularly difficult (cause of course it was.) There were times back in the spring that I doubted that on December 31^st we’d be singing the blessings together. And yet- there we were. And it was a miracle. That we’re lighting candles together while thousands of miles apart. That another year has passed and we’re singing the blessings off-key- thanking God for the gift of the candle lighting ritual, for making miracles, for sustaining life. And I was, in that moment, truly thankful for the miracle we were experiencing. And I will be thankful for it always.

Yes, there are many lights which are extinguished much too soon. But Hanukkah we remember: sometimes there’s only oil enough for one day but it miraculously lasts for eight. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Alright- so 2016- we’re done with you- go fuck yourself. Bring it on 2017- death, injustice, love and miracles. We’re ready for you. No matter how bad things get- they could be a lot worse. I could still be working at the Strand.

Ugh indeed.

[California Seething] The Very Best Part of a Very Crappy Year

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : August 21, 2016

Category: California Seething

Tags:Bernie or Bust, Cris Collinsworth, Donald Trump, Exxon, GM, Hilary Clinton, Kirsten Bell, McDonald's, Michelle Obama, NBC, olympics, Patty Hearst, Rio, Rio 2016, SeaWorld, SLA, Stockholm Syndrome, subway, Ted Danson

Look, who are we kidding? 2016 is a horrible fucking year to be an American. OK, well, to be more precise, it’s a horrible fucking year to be ANYONE. Seriously, 2016- what the fuck? One minute you’re cute little baby new year, the next you’re a moustache twirling black-clad villain tying our hopes and dreams down to the tracks so they can be run over by the freight train of despair. Fuck you, 2016. You want to know how we feel about you? Just take a look at this:

And, while every county in the world has experienced it’s own brand of crappiness- in the US we’ve had to endure the sickening dread brought on by this god-awful presidential election. I was really struck by this a couple of weeks ago when the fires from the Santa Clarita valley were raging out of control. There I was- going about my business, running errands while the sky was darkened with smoke and lit with an eerie orange glow from the flames and I thought- yup, that’s being an American in 2016- trying like everything’s normal while a toxic orange cloud hangs over our heads.

Now, he may be a Crypto-Fascist Oompa Loompa (“what do you get when illegals come in/killing and raping and dealing in sin/let’s build a wall and let’s make it real tall/and Mexico will pay for it a-a-all/Oh yeah, you’d better bet they will/ Truma lumpa drumphidie drumph/do lies sound like truth when you shout them enough?/Tumpa drumpha and Mike Pensey, too/ Jesus would never vote for you-oo-oo/he’d so be a Bernie guy”) but he certainly does have the crowds eating out of the palms of his tiny hands. And oh, what, fun they seem to be having! Frothing at the mouth, screaming “Mexico”, taking incomprehensible loyalty oaths, shouting down protestors- why is it any wonder that leftists decided to create a crazy pants movement of their own?

And so, Bernie or Bust was born! Now, for those that don’t know, the Bernie or Bust movement consists of Bernie Sanders’ most passionate and devoted followers- followers so loyal that they will do absolutely anything Bernie tells them to, except, vote for Hillary which is literally the only thing he’s telling them to do. These folks don’t care if they Nader the election and allow the most progressive Democratic platform in 50 years to be defeated by a hate mongering lunatic- they’re having too much fun! Complaining about how no one listens to them at the DNC while booing Elizabeth Warren so no one can listen to her, sharing links from Fox News about Hillary’s email, throwing money at cars as they drive to a Democratic fundraiser at George Clooney’s house- cause nothing says “I deserve higher wages and debt relief” like throwing your fucking money in the streets.

And now there are some Bernie Busters who insist their gonna vote Third Party- cause that just went so well in 2000! Thanks, guys! How did you ever get so much student loan debt and stay so fucking dumb?

So- yeah- 2016 has been a terrible, horrible no good year, but that’s OK because the Olympics are here and the Olympics make everything better! That’s right- the Olympics- that magical event that occurs once every four years when the world comes together to celebrate peace and brotherhood by kicking poor people out of their homes to build wasteful sports venues nobody needs. Which, again, is why LA would make the perfect host city- hell, we threw our poor people out of their homes to build wasteful sports venues YEARS ago. And if we need to build more- no problem- just say the word and the Boyle Heights Equestrian Center is DONE. And the Athlete’s Village- well shit, we can just give them any under occupied mixed use luxury mega complex in Downtown LA with more gastropubs than parking spots. I mean, no one can afford to live there- might as well give ito the Serbian handball team.

Still- I love the Olympics. It’s the only time I get to feel good about feeling good about being an American. Because most days, I just feel smug about how bad I feel about being an American (like when we’re bombing someone) or guilty about how secretly psyched I am to be an American (like when it’s not us getting bombed). But during the Olympics I’m as unabashedly happy to be an American as a NASCAR fan in Florida eating Chick-Fil-A and blasting Kenny Chesney in his F-150 on the way to the gun show before hitting the Trump rally and getting dinner at Golden Corral (but only cause it’s Jeff Foxworthy’s favorite) then pounding down an ice cold can of Belgian made America beer. And that’s because the Olympics is the only time America can beat the living shit out of other nations and nobody dies or joins ISIS. Hell, the only consequence of American victory is that we get to pose on a podium looking fierce in shiny new jewelry and mouthing the words to a familiar song. It’s how wars would be won if Ru Paul ran the world! Say what you will about the Iraq War- we all agree that the Middle East would be safer if Sadaam had been deposed using balance beam and floor exercise scores. Cause if point deductions could kill, they probably will in games without frontiers, war without tears.

Anyhow, the US has been kicking ass at the Olympics and all the other countries are swimming pool green with envy. But even when the Americans aren’t demolishing much poorer nations, the Olympics are pretty great. Because the Olympics aren’t just a sporting event- they’re a two week orgy of non-stop Inspiration Porn. Just look at how fucking inspiring everything is! The historic accomplishments of Biles, Ledeckey and Phelps (BOOM! Named the women first. How ya like me now, Jezebel? (they don’t)); Simone Manuel shattering expectations and boundaries; Fiji winning their first medal- a gold in their beloved national sport of Rugby which was last played at the Olympics almost 50 years before Fiji’s independence.

And then there are the profound moments of inspiration which transcend competition- the Refugee Team marching proudly into the Opening Ceremonies, the South Korean & North Korean gymnast sharing a care free selfie, showing the world how easy it can be sometimes to do the impossible. Yes, it seems the Olympics are a time when political differences are put aside and everyone is treated with dignity and respect, except of course for the Israeli team which is snubbed and insulted by athletes from Arab nations at every event they go and no one on the IOC says boo about it. But, hey- anti-Semitism is the only prejudice that the left and right can agree on- so the Jews are just bringing the world together!

Of course, the problem with all this inspiring crap is that it makes us dumb. Wait- no- maybe “dumb” is too harsh a word- let’s go with “generous of spirit”…..which, you know, means “dumb”. You see, for advertisers, selling us products on TV is like feeding a restless toddler- so they see Olympic competition is like moving a spoon through the air saying “look at the diver. Look at the pretty diver flying through the air!!! Now open up the swimming pool, cause here comes the diver” and then, Bam! We open up our minds and they shove in a big spoonful of University of Phoenix messaging all pureed up with a Maya Angelou poem. Speaking of diving, if you’re wondering why the Olympic diving pool turned green, it’s cause one of Rio’s finest pool technicians (sadly I’m not being sarcastic- he really was one of the best) dumped 160 gallons of Hydrogen Peroxide in to the pool which neutralized the chlorine and caused algae to grow. And if you’re wondering who the hell needs that much Peroxide at the Olympics- well, maybe take that up with the Shelly Fraser Pryce. Go on. I dare you.

Anyhow, for companies like Sea World, it makes sense to exploit the feel-good spirit of the Olympics to improve their brand image. Cause if you’re watching the Olympics with your family, and thinking about where to go on vacation, you’re much more likely to consider SeaWorld if it’s “America’s foremost marine mammal rescue center and theme park” as opposed to “Auschwitz for Orcas”.

Of course, McDonald’s was one of the pioneers of using the Olympics to boost their brand image. Sure they’re plugging the white meat nuggets and Apple Dippers now- but as soon as Michelle’s gone, it’s Big Mac time, baby- cause Bubba’s back!

So- sure, I get why some companies would advertise. Like Subway, which is still trying get out of Jared’s pants with their #SearchforBackgroundChecks…I mean….#SearchforBetter campaign. But the real head scratchers are companies like Exxon which has spent millions of dollars on their “Energy Lives Here” campaign. These ads feature self-consciously diverse mix of their most bright-eyed, earnest and not-evil-at-all employees talking about all the humanitarian, beneficial and totally not-at-all-evil things they do like studying biodiversity or fighting malaria…none of which makes a damn bit of difference to me when I’m deciding where to buy gas. After all, if I wanted to do what was best for the planet, I wouldn’t buy gas at all- but since I need it to feed my car’s addiction all I care about it who’s closest, who’s cheapest and who takes damn Ralph’s Rewards points. What they are doing to combat malaria never enters into it- it’s like choosing a meth dealer for his 401k plan. Come on, Exxon, you’re a scumbag oil company- just own it. Don’t get all needy and weird. It’s like JR Ewing standing outside my house playing In Your Eyes on a boombox- not a good look for you. You want my respect- keep it real. Show me bloated executives lighting $100 bills on fire after dipping them in gasoline and tag it with “Yeah, we’re Exxon. Fuck you gonna do about it?” Or, better yet, skip the advertising altogether and TAKE MY RALPH’S REWARDS POINTS.

And GE is advertising a lot, which is really confusing because I never thought of them as especially evil…but now I’m starting to wonder what they’ve done! I mean, sure, there were all those kids who got stuck in discarded fridges back in the day, but that was when kids used to play outside and Apple solved that problem. And yet, still GE keeps running commercials to try and convince millennials that GE is a cool place to get a job while millennials are like, “dude- you had me at ‘job’.”

Frankly, I’m surprised Monsanto isn’t running commercials. They could show scientists working hard in labs inter-cut with gauzy, sunrise footage of farmers in fields, happy kids around the world eating disturbingly oversized vegetables, then kids running in fields and city squares, then teenagers running on high school tracks, and finally adults running at the Olympics while a slowed-down, female-sung, acoustic version of “Feed the World” plays and a craggy American voice says “Get More Olympians with G.M.O’s”. Huh. That’s really satire. I swear.

But the most hateful ads during the Olympics are for NBC’s own programming. Look, you may think that the most powerful person in America is the President or the Chief Justice- but really it’s the NBC executive who can sit in a room full of otherwise intelligent people at the top of their field and say “hey- you know what we need- a snarky sitcom about the afterlife with Ted Danson and Kirsten Bell- where she plays a dead person who’s kind of a bitch and Heaven is just like the Grove!” and in the very long moments of dead silence that follows, not a single person in the room says “Are you out of your goddamn mind??? That’s the WORST FUCKING IDEA I’ve ever heard.” Instead they are all like “I smell a hit!”, “Everyone loves Danson!”, “we can cram it down everyone’s throat during the Olympics!” Yeah- cause that strategy worked out soooo well for The New Normal. Remember The New Normal? No? OF COURSE YOU DON’T. NOBODY DOES. The only reason I do is that NBC spent two weeks trying to cram that ill conceived shit pile down my throat during the LAST OLYMPICS.

Then again, maybe the truly powerful person in this scenario is not the executive who greenlit the show, but the Svengali like producer who pitched it. I can just hear the pitch in TV-speak: “It’s like Cheers meets Touched by an Angel in a Samsung commercial” delivered in a peppy upbeat tone as if it’s not the most horrifying combination of three things that the human mind has conceived since Puppy-Monkey-Baby. Just think of someone with these powers of persuasion could accomplish: bringing peace to the Middle East, reunifying North & South Korea, getting Republicans in Congress to do their damn jobs. And all of that miraculous potential wasted making terrible TV shows and earning lots and lots of money. I am horrified and disgusted and very, very jealous.

The other big show NBC is pushing is This Is Us- which appears to be a drama about people born in 1980 all turning 36 and finding themselves at a cross roads in their lives. And that means that….yes….wait for it…..millennials now have their own version of thirtysomething. As if Prince & David Bowie dying wasn’t bad enough, now we’ve got this little nugget to ponder when contemplating our mortality at 4 AM. Thanks, NBC for making 2016 even more depressing. I’d consider killing myself, but I’m terrified I’ll wind up in a Kristen Bell / Ted Danson vehicle.

Anyhow- I’m not sure why I’m acting so shocked that NBC’s programming is terrible. What more can I expect when everyone involved with the network who’s not named Wier, Lipinski or Questlove is hot garbage (as the kids say) (the “kids” are in their 30’s) (goddamn it) pretty much all of the time.

Unfortunately, when it comes to the Olympics, NBC is the only game in town. Mind you- there are a lot of different channels showing the Olympics- there’s NBC, CNBC, MSNBC, NBC Sports…uhm…NBC Basketball, NBC Soccer, NBC Universo- all sorts of options we can choose from to give ourselves the illusion of choice- late capitalism at its finest! And because they have us by the balls, NBC has an interesting relationship with their Olympic viewers- it’s not as much “entertainer” and “audience” or “business” and “valued customer” as it is “bank robber” and “hostage”. They know we’re not going anywhere, so they feed us just enough Olympic action to keep us docile while they collect their ransom money from advertisers. And then, just for fun, they sadistically torment us with human interest stories and the inane blather of Al Michaels, Mike Tirico and Ryan Seacrest- the Three Amigos of Announcing Awfulness. And I know some of you are saying- “Hey wait- I love Al Michaels” but that’s just the Stockholm Syndrome talking. The only way to love Al Michaels is the way Patty Hearst loved the SLA- just ask Cris Collinsworth, if they ever get him deprogrammed.

Of course, NBC executives would deny that they are deliberately torturing viewers and would insist that they are just giving viewers what they really want. And, if these executives actually believe that’s the case- well, I have even less respect for them than ever.

You see, NBC’s research team discovered that more women watch the Olympics than men- and NBC wasn’t really sure what to do with this information. So they turned it over to their cracker jack team of all male team executives who brilliantly deduced that women who watch the Olympics aren’t actually interested in “watching the Olympics”. No- what they’re really interested in is the human drama- who the athletes are, where they come from, how much their moms had to sacrifice for their success, the extent to which having babies has changed their perspective on sports (but only if they’re women, natch- boys don’t change when they have babies, silly), the vital role played by their husbands/fiances in their success (also- only if they’re women or Tom Daley). Female viewers don’t actually want to watch “sporting events”- no! For those gals, the Olympics is just one big reality show, like The Bachelor with medals or the Real Athletes of Rio, so it’s important to cram the broadcast as full as possible of human interest stories, interviews and extended shots of swimmers between events sitting in the ready room – cause there’s nothing more exciting than watching the best athletes in the world at the peak of their abilities sitting in folding chairs listening to Coldplay- can’t you just feel the drama?? “She’s sitting in a chair….She’s glowering straight ahead…wait…yes… she might be….YES…she put on her earbuds! She’s listening to music!!! She’s listening to COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLD play.” And it doesn’t matter if they air events long after they end and the whole world knows the score. Everyone knows women don’t care about scores- why all those big scary numbers just boggle their scatterbrained little heads!

And what’s really impressive about these NBC executives is that they were able to gain such insight into the minds of female viewers without talking to any actual females. I’m not sure what, exactly, their stringent research protocol was to gain such a scientific understanding of the female mind- but I can only assume it had something to do with sitting in the parking lot of a gas n’ sip drinking beer on a Friday night saying “Bitches, man” (when asked why they didn’t consult any female viewers- they responded “by choice, man. Personal choice”.)

Ironically, the real story of these games is that women- and particularly US women have been kicking huge amounts of ass which I’m sure NBC would notice if they weren’t so focused on their marriage proposals. I’m sure every young girl in America who watched the US Gymnastics team was totally inspired to follow her dreams and achieve greatness– that is, assuming her parents let her watch gymnastics at midnight- which a questionable timeslot for family inspirational togetherness viewing but a great one for lonely guys on the couch eating Pringles in their underwear and wondering when Beach Volleyball is coming on already.

Look, NBC- the Olympics don’t need you to make them great any more than American needs Tumpa-Lumpa. Trust me on this- I’ve been holed up in Palm Springs watching 12-14 hours of Olympic action each day subsisting on a strict regimen of breakfast cocktails and blender drinks (the Lochte diet.) And the daytime programming is way better because the focus is on the sports not inane blather, human interest schmaltz and inspirational advertising. I guess the evil corporations of the world figure that if you’re watching team table tennis in your underwear at 11 AM drinking pina coladas, then a lack of inspiration isn’t really as pressing a problem for you as, say, updating your LinkedIn profile or getting the hell out of Rio before the cops come for your passport.

But I think they’re just jealous- I proudly watched the Team Table Tennis finals and they were fantastic even though I had no idea which country was which or what gender they were or how many points were in a game or how many games in a set or how many sets in a match or why they kept switching between Singles and Doubles or how they would possibly know who won and when they won and how much they won by or how the hell Ping Pong ended up in the Olympics when the far superior games of Air Hockey and Skee-Ball still languish on the sidelines. And the announcer was no help- he just kept explaining the format by saying, “you know, it’s just like Davis Cup!’ – which is like giving directions to East Bumfuck by saying “you know, it’s just east of Bumfuck!” All I know is that it was crazy and fast moving and for that moment in time in that one place in the universe there was absolutely nothing more important than who came out on top. And as much as I love theatre- if I could produce or even see just one play that meant this much the people watching it or involved, then I could walk away happy except then I would have to get a real job and seriously, fuck that.

And it’s not even like I’m some huge table tennis fan. I much prefer Rugby 7’s – where, as my wife said, the whole game is like the last five seconds of a football game when the whole thing just devolves into a crazy series of laterals – and who doesn’t want 14 straight minutes of the Music City Miracle (Bills fans excluded). And then there’s field hockey- where the field is as blue as the diving pool should be; and handball, invented by an alcoholic Yugolslavian gym teacher in the dead of winter who was running out of ideas for what to do inside and clearly getting desperate. Years later on his death bed, he was heard to mutter repeatedly “Goddamn it, Dodge Ball!! I forgot about Dodge Ball!!” And then there’s soccer, basketball, volleyball and all the running, jumping, twisting, turning, throwing, thrusting, stabbing, slashing, splashing, paddling, peddling, punching, rassling, riding, rowing, ribbon tossing, gun shooting and, I guess, whatever, golf. All of which has made of a terrific distraction from the floods, fires and fuckwads which have fouled up 2016.

But all things must end, except NBC’s contract with the Olympics. Just two weeks ago, the Olympics began with a festive tribute to slavery using a human hamster wheel and an earnest segment about how the earth is getting hotter because of the actions of man. Specifically this man:

Holy crap! What’s Tongalese for “hubba hubba”? I hope you’re watching Exxon- Cause THAT’s an ad for oil!

In all seriousness, though, sustainability is an important theme of the Olympics which is why the medal winners are getting little plastic statues of the Olympic logo instead of flowers. After all, flowers are wasteful cause they die and decompose but these plastic statues will last forever in a landfill! Oh well- at least the Olympic venues are sustainable since as soon as the games are over, they’ll be recycled into homeless encampments.

And that’s going to be pretty soon- because the games are just about over. The Closing Ceremonies are upon us, and Simone Biles will be carrying the flag for the US (Ryan Lochte was invited to do it but the invite came from the Rio police.) And the team she leads out reflects not only what is great about the Olympics- with their athletic prowess, sheer determination and mostly non-douchey behavior- but what’s actually great about America. Because it is a team that reflects the population of our country- and that in turn is a reflection of the entire world. And all of you that are composing angry messages to me in your heads about how that’s a load of crap because the team is still WAY TOO WHITE and all the power is in the hands of WHITE MEN and we still have a WHOLE LOT OF WORK TO DO- well- you guys also make America great since, like Subway, you’re always #StrivingforBetter and I totally mean that in the least patronizing way possible, no matter what Jezebel says about me.

And that gives us something to shoot for in 2020- or better yet, 2024 in LA! Just picture it- President Clinton enjoying the games as her second term winds down- and why shouldn’t she? She’s done a great job and once her granddaughter taught her Snapchat her presidency was scandal free. And she can be confident knowing that her legacy will be secure- after all Michelle is kicking ass in the polls- and while that may not be great news for McDonalds- it sure is great for America (not the beer, the country. You DO NOT want to hear Michelle’s opinion of beer).

And where will I be for the 2024 LA Olympics? Where do you think? In Palm Springs, of course, watching NBC and complaining about it (a Ted Danson / Elle Fanning sitcom about the Rapture? Are you kidding me????) with a pitcher of pina coladas and a mimosa.

Oh yeah. That sounds pretty great to me.

[California Seething] Year End Wrap Up: Top Four Reasons I Avoided Reality in 2015

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Posted by :Eric Sims On : January 8, 2016

Category: California Seething

Tags:$25000 Pyramid, Bernie Sanders, Card Sharks, Dick Clark, Game Show Network, Micro-aggression, Oberlin College, Perry Mason, political correctness, Star Wars, Taco Nuggets, Trump

Recently my dad’s been obsessed with watching Perry Mason. I’m not talking about some hip new reboot/prequel on the CW network starring Ben McKenzie as a young P-Mas in which the character is “updated” from the square jawed All-American defender of innocence to a tortured little whiny, millennial Emo Kylo Ren version of himself. Nope- I’m talking about the original show from the 1950’s- black and white film, black and white values and all white cast.

I mean- how ridiculous is it that with all the hundreds of content streams to choose from, he’s watching a show that’s 60 years old? My wife and I laugh about it all the time while we’re watching Card Sharks in the morning on Game Show Network. Of course, we stop once $25,000 Pyramid comes on- cause that shit takes FOCUS. Trust me- you do not want to screw up- especially when you’re playing for the big money- because, if you do, once time expires, Dick Clark will come down from his mighty podium like a vengeful yet strangely avuncular God and force you to keep guessing meaninglessly until you figure out the category you missed just to rub in your face what a moron you are. It’s like- if you were a little smarter or a little quicker you could have guessed that when the gay neighbor from Webster was saying “an old photo, a shot in a movie, your chances of winning” the category was “things that fade” not “things that look good” – but you botched it and so instead of winning $25,000 you’re walking away with a measly $750 which in 1986 was just barely enough money to buy a medium sized house- and Clark’s gonna make sure you feel as lousy as possible about it. Gives new meaning to “Dick move”.

Look, I’m not naive enough to think the past was perfect. The 50’s was a great time, if you were a white guy (but has there ever been a bad time?) The 70’s had Cher, wide lapels and disco- and that was the good stuff! It was also a decade full of disturbing and unsettling developments- Watergate, the Iran hostage crisis, Jack Klugman being considered a sex symbol. And the 80’s? Hell, we didn’t think we would get out of the 80’s alive. We were positive that if it wasn’t crack or AIDS or Reaganomics then surely it would be the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb the bomb that would kill us.

But, of course, it didn’t. Turns out the Russians loved their children too (Putin doesn’t) and we managed to make it through the 80’s alive. And while this was a bit of a rude awakening for those of us who spent the decade not doing our homework and sneering at guidance counselors cause “what does it matter man?? We’re all gonna die!!!” it was probably all for the best.

And maybe that’s why we’re so drawn to TV from past decades. Because we know how the story ends. Look, we’re here! We made it! We can look back with a smile at those things that once terrified us and talk about them with bemused detachment like we’re telling the story of a turbulent flight at a warm dinner party with friends.

Or maybe it’s cause everything about 2015 was scary and horrible and the only way to maintain our sanity in the face of almost certain cultural and global collapse is to bury our heads in old game shows and black and white courtroom dramas. Yeah- it’s probably that.

Anyhow- 2015 has ended, and I have, despite my best intentions paid a little bit of attention- so here were the the four best reasons to avoid reality in last year.

Reason #1- The Dumb Shit that College Students Believe These Days Which is Even Dumber than the Dumb Shit I Believed When I Was a Dumb Shit College Student

When I was at SUNY Albany back in the early 1930’s, our school was voted as having the worst food in the country. We were also voted #1 party school- which gave rise to the popular joke “the food’s not nice but you taste it twice!” (NOTE: this joke was never popular). Anyhow, things got particularly dire towards the end of the semester when they were running short on cash- having blown their budget on sumptuous feasts like hot open faced Oscar Mayer turkey sandwiches with beige mucus gravy and toxic cranberry goo, and they began to get creative… or rather, more creative. And one of the byproducts of their creativity was the “taco nugget”….which is…exactly as terrible as you think it is. Now, at the time, we were not as enlightened as college students today, so we simply thought of these taco nuggets as “gross” or “grody” or ” nastachious to the extreme” but now, looking back on it from a more fully aware view point I recognize that what was truly nastachious about taco nuggets was not the flavor, but the implicit racism.

Clearly the white supremacists who ran the SUNY Albany cafeteria appropriated the authentic food of the Mexican people, colonized it into a nugget and served it up to us with a micro-aggression baked right inside (the micro-aggression is what gives the nugget it’s zip. Who knew that racism could be as tasty as MSG- and as toxic!!) If only we had been as culturally aware as the students of Oberlin College in 2015, who raised their Tweets in protest when their university served culturally inauthentic Asian cuisine- including Banh Mi sandwiches on CIABATTA BREAD (SHOCKING!), sushi with UNDERCOOKED rice (OH, THE HUMANITY!) and, most disturbing of all, General Tso’s chicken with….STEAMED CHICKEN instead of fried. Can you imagine??? They might as well just serve a burning cross on a plate (with undercooked rice). How dare the fascist oppressors running Oberlin’s food service COLONIZE this proud, traditional, authentic Chinese dish which dates all the way back to the Old Country (New York’s Chinatown) in the 1960’s. Don’t they realize what a threat this type of blatant cultural appropriation poses to the safe space which today’s sensitive college students so desperately need for their intellectual development so that they can do bong hits, puke blood and fuck each other raw in an accepting and culturally sensitive environment (dorm shower)? What’s next? Orange Drink chicken? Egg Beaters Drop Soup? Chicken McNugget Chow Mein? Will the rape of cultures never cease???? (SPOILER ALERT: No. Also- Chicken McNugget Chow Mein sounds kind of amazing. Does that make me a racist, too???? (SPOILER ALERT: Kinda))

Look, I think it’s great that you college kids want to get involved in politics and I seriously mean that in the least patronizing way possible. Hell. I was sort of an activist in college myself and I firmly believe that none of the social change we’ve witnessed in the last century would have transpired had young people not raised their voices in protest. But you’ve gotta be smart about it. When you raise your voice in protest, you don’t want to sound like an idiot, cause nobody wants to listen to a loud idiot who isn’t running for president. So- focus on the issues that matter- climate change, economic inequality, the relentless attacks on Planned Parenthood, police brutality- you know the MACRO-aggressions. Because when you raise your voice in protest over being served a sub-par banh mi at the prestigious private liberal arts college which your mommy and daddy are paying tens of thousands of dollars a year for you to have the privilege to attend and you claim that you’re being oppressed by food service workers who make less in a year than you spend on weed…well, you sound like an idiot. A big, dumb idiot. Just like when you shut down a yoga class for disabled students because of “cultural genocide” or you insist that your professor provide a trigger warning when teaching The Great Gatsby because it portrays misogyny (both true stories). You’re a tortured little whiny, millennial Emo Kylo Ren version of an activist and nobody takes you seriously. Which is a shame- cause you’ve probably got a lot of stuff to say about the world that we really do need to hear. But we won’t. Go drown your sorrows in cafeteria sushi.

Look, it’s very simple. When deciding whether to raise your voice in protest just follow this rule- black lives matter – General Tso’s chicken doesn’t. Seriously, not even General Tso would think that was worth fighting over (especially because he would have had no fucking clue what General Tso’s chicken was). Just stick to this little guideline, kiddies and you’ll be just fine- and I seriously mean that in the most non-patronizing way possible.

But even the dumb shittiest of all dumb shit college students can never hope to compete with:

Reason #2- The Big Dumb Shit

Here’s the problem with talking about Donald Trump. Whether you’re praising, criticizing, lampooning, lambasting, lauding, dismissing, condemning, wringing your hands over, skywriting about, pontificating about the significance of or shaking your head in disbelief at the unabashed loathsomeness of Donald Trump- you are still TALKING ABOUT Donald Trump- and talking about Donald Trump is the worst possible thing you can do. Because Donald Trump is like a bloated, fascist Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon and words are the helium that makes him rise up in the polls. And so the best thing we can possibly do, as Americans is STOP TALKING ABOUT DONALD TRUMP.

And I know that those of you in the mainstream media are gonna say that’s impossible- and I know where you’re coming from. Look, I don’t hate you media types- I know that you’re just people trying to do a good job, same as me. And I totally understand that because you’re a bunch of lazy, superficial, star fucking, fame whore click bait junkies (and I seriously mean that in the most empathetic way possible) you feel compelled to talk about a noxious celebrity billionaire Mussolini knock-off with a mouth like toxic waste dump (and I don’t actually mean that empathetically at all cause fuck that guy) So I have a tip for you- whenever you feel compelled to talk about Donald Trump- just talk about Bernie Sanders instead. It’s the perfect solution! Just think of Sanders as the Methadone for your Trump addiction.

And I know you’re gonna say that you have to talk about Trump because you’ve got some sacred duty to report the news- but that’s just one more reason why you should be talking about Sanders. Because Bernie Sanders- not Donald Trump- is the real story of the 2016 election and if you ever bothered to pull your well coiffed heads out of Trump’s pompadoured asshole, you would know that. Because- yes- a lot of us in America are angry, we do feel like we’ve been getting a raw deal and we are fed up. And yeah- a lot of us do feel sick at heart when we look at what’s become of our once great nation- and we want to make America better than it’s ever been- AND THAT’S EXACTLY WHY WE’RE VOTING FOR SANDERS. That’s why Bernie raised $33 million from over 2.5 million individual donors in the fourth quarter of 2015, that’s why he crushed Donald Trump in an online poll conducted by FOX NEWS, and that’s why he has come from total obscurity to force the whole conversation in the Democratic party to the left and has forced Hilary Republican Clinton to pay lip service to progressive issues- AND ALL OF THIS WITHOUT ONE WORD FROM YOU FUCKERS. You’re so busy falling over yourselves to breathlessly cover Trump’s latest burst of racist flatulence that you don’t see the revolution taking place right under your wet, brown noses.

But, of course, that’s exactly the way the DNC likes it. If the GOP was really serious about getting rid of Trump, they would fire Reince Priebus and hire Debbie Wasserman Schultz. Hell, if she were running things over there, Trump would be as talked about as Martin O’ Malley and JEB! would have a double digit lead.

Not that Dear Leader Debbie would ever actually own up to squelching dissent. Why she would be aghast at the very thought! “How can you say that I’m insulating Hilary by not providing opportunities for opposing candidates to confront her in a debate. I scheduled SIX WHOLE DEBATES! And one of them is on the biggest TV viewing night of the year- the Saturday before Christmas! Surely everyone in America watched that debate. OK, so sure, a FEW people might have been going to holiday parties. And I guess there was just a teensy tiny portion of the population that might have been traveling to see family. Or preparing to travel. Or preparing to receive family traveling from out of town. Or cooking. Or shopping. Or decorating. Or out seeing the Nutcracker. Or Christmas Carol. Or A Christmas Story: The Musical. Or- oh yeah – fucking STAR WARS. But certainly there were still a lot of Americans at home watching TV who could see the debate. You know, unless they were watching Frosty the Snowman. Or college Bowl games. Or, oh yeah- fucking NFL FOOTBALL. But certainly it was the PERFECT debate viewing night for football hating Jews with no friends or family who think Star Wars is dumb- and, hey- those sound like Bernie Sanders’ people to me- so, there- you’re welcome! Of course, Bernie won’t have any way to reach these people when I take away his access to voter data due to some bullshit data breach- but, you know, rules are rules! Can’t be making exceptions- after all- you know how seriously Hilary takes data integrity!”

You really have to admire her style- she’s the Passive Aggressive Commandant of the Clinton Secret Police. Hilary should really keep her around if she comes to power. “Gosh- I’m sorry you’re stuck in Guantanamo Bay with no due process. The good news is that we’re planning to have a trial for you…on the Saturday before Christmas. Assuming of course, we can find a judge who isn’t traveling, or attending a holiday party, or watching football, or….”

But despite Data Breach Debbie’s machinations and Il Duce Trump’s blustering, Bernie continues to gain momentum. And so, if you Mainstream Media Whores are looking for a New Year’s resolution- how about covering the fucking Sanders campaign in 2016 and NOT TALKING ABOUT TRUMP ANYMORE. If you do that, I might just stop watching GSN in the morning and might actually watch the news.

But, of course, as soon as I do- I’ll see something that will scare me right back to Card Sharks like:

Reason #3: Crazy White People with Guns

I’ve covered this one pretty well in my last post– so really, all I want to add is that if 150 armed black people took over a federal building, the media would call them thugs and the cops would shoot them dead, and if 150 armed Muslims did it, the media would call them terrorists and the Army would invade Syria. But 150 armed white dudes storm in and take over a federal building- and the media calls them “protesters” and “patriots” and the government is all “well, let’s wait and see what happens here. I don’t think they pose any real threat- after all, it’s just an armed insurrection against the U.S. Government – it’s not like they attacked a CVS or something.” It’s like no matter how batshit crazy they are, we’re just incapable as a nation of thinking of white people as a threat – we just call them YallQueda and pinch their bearded cheeks and think the whole fucking thing is cute. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if TLC is developing a reality show around these maniacs- they can call it the Bundy Bunch (It’s a story/of a man named Bundy/who would graze his cows on land that’s not his own/and his son thought that the fedr’al gubment/it should be overthrown.) Don’t get me wrong- it’s not like I want this thing to escalate and get violent- I’m glad we’re taking a thoughtful, measured approach. I just look forward to us taking the same measured, thoughtful approach the next time Black Lives Matter organizes a peaceful protest at a shopping mall, or a 12 year old kid is seen holding a toy gun.

Also- I was sorry to see that they were so desperate to get snacks. I guess if they want crackers, they’ll have to resort to cannibalism.

Anyhow, I think you’ll agree that these were three perfectly good reasons to avoid reality in 2015, but by far and away, the best reason of all was:

Reason #4: Fear of Exposure to Star Wars Spoilers

For the love of God- I’m only human!

Actually, I’ve already seen it- so we’re all good with this one. And, I have to say- if you haven’t seen it yet- it’s chock full of surprises! C3PO coming out of the closet, Luke finally gets to Tosche Station to pick up those stupid power converters and, of course a reunion between the two lovers whose fleeting relationship was so touchingly portrayed in the original movies and sadly cut short (Leia and Jabba the Hutt)- and, of course, the cameo by Run DMC in the Cantina (It’s Star Wars time in Tatooine / Han’s shooting Greedo in the Canteen…a)

OK- so now that I’ve seen Star Wars, that’s one less reason to avoid reality- but, no worries- there are still so many more! Climate change, economic inequality, the relentless attacks on Planned Parenthood, police brutality and all the other macro-aggressions. I wish those college activists all the luck in the world taking them on- and I would gladly join in the struggle with them- but, you know $25,000 Pyramid is on- and that shit takes FOCUS.

Happy New Year! I think 1986’s gonna be a great one- that is, of course, assuming WE DON’T ALL DIE. I can only hope the Bundys love their children, too. Now- who wants Taco Nuggets?

[California Seething] A Modest Proposal

(1 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)

Posted by :Eric Sims On : November 30, 2015

Category: California Seething, New

Tags:domestic terrorism, guns, holiday, Pilgrims, Syrian refugees, Thanksgiving, Trump

It’s been quite common recently for Republican leaders to declare that there are people in this country who don’t belong here. People that are just here to make trouble- spreading violence and chaos, with no respect for the laws of the land. People who have different values then we do- who don’t appreciate the freedoms this nation was founded upon and wish instead to impose their own religious law. People who take advantage of the inherently permissive nature of this great nation and use it to perpetrate mayhem and destruction. It is the opinion of Republicans leaders that these people need to be dealt with- monitored, rounded up, tracked and maybe even deported. And I have to admit- they may have a point. There are people in this country who are crazy, violent, fanatical, destructive and up to no good- and they do need to be dealt with harshly. I think you know who I’m talking about- and frankly, I’ve had enough. And that’s why I’m proposing that we deport all the white people.

I know that may sound harsh- but, come on, white people, we’ve been tolerant long enough and you’ve been nothing but trouble since the day you got here. You show up in this country as a bunch of dirty refugees from political persecution with weird clothing and customs. You have no jobs and no useful skills. Even though you make no effort to learn about the culture of your adopted land – or even to learn the language, you still gladly accept handouts from hard working native Americans. And then, as soon as you get settled, you so-called “pilgrims” start spreading disease, grabbing up all the land, killing everyone who’s already living here and imposing your twisted, puritanical version of religious law- like ISIS with buckles on your hats. And, on top of everything else, you have the audacity to create a holiday celebrating the fact that you suckered real Americans into helping you out so that you could butcher them and take their homes. It’s a little known fact that the Native Americans actually named the holiday “Thanksgiving”, but of course nobody realized they were being sarcastic.

This is why white people freak out when somebody new wants to come to this country. They’re terrified that the newcomers will be as bad as they were. They’re all like: “On the one hand, the Syrians seem to be in a tough spot and could really use our help. Then again, I bet that’s exactly what the Indians said when they saw us- and just look how that turned out….so- sorry Syrians. No Thanksgiving turkey for you! Maybe you should try Germany- I hear they actually feel bad about their genocide.” So, yeah, it’s not foreigners that white people in America fear at all- it’s KARMA.

But all that is in the distant past, and it’s not the reason we’re calling to deport you guys now. Nor are any of the other terrible things you’ve done in the last 400 years including, in no particular order: Slavery, Jim Crow, Japanese internment camps, Wal*Mart, the NRA, Salvadoran death squads, Thomas Kinkade, the rise of the Taliban, the Hollywood blacklist, Vietnam, inflatable lawn Santas, supply-side economics, segregation, sub-prime loans, the systematic racism and brutality of the so-called American “justice system”, and car-antlers among many many things. No- the real reason I’m calling for your deportation is that I’m afraid for my life. Practically every day there’s another news story about a terrorist attack by a heavily armed white guy on a school, church, Planned Parenthood clinic or other public gathering place and, frankly, I’m sick of it. Sure, sure you say- but those are just isolated incidents by extremists- surely not ALL white people are bad. And, OK, that might be true- but how am I supposed to tell the good ones from the bad ones? I mean, you do kind of all look the same- all pink cheeked and petrified- is it really worth the risk if I’m wrong? You say you don’t feel safe with Muslims on airplanes? Well I don’t feel safe with white guys in movie theatres. And- if these attacks are just isolated incidents committed by extremists- then why aren’t the so-called “moderate” white leaders condemning the perpetrators as terrorists? Instead, all I keep hearing is nonsense like “oh, they shooter’s motivations are unclear.” Seriously? Cause dude was shouting “No more body parts” when he shot up a Planned Parenthood- that sounds pretty fucking clear to me. Or- what, you think maybe he was pissed he couldn’t get replacements for his Mr. Potato Head and he remembered there used to be a KB Toys on that site and then started shooting when he saw it had been replaced by a Planned Parenthood?? Or, even worse, you refer to the terrorists as “protesters” – because evidently when white terrorists kill innocent people that’s just a form of legitimate protest- which is funny, cause when black people engage in legitimate protest they’re pretty much treated like terrorists. Huh. Wait- that’s not funny at all. Anyhow- if you’re not acting all baffled by the motives of killers or downgrading them from “terrorist” to “protester” then you’re make excuses for them- saying stuff like “it’s not their fault- they’re just mentally troubled kids from messed up families” Well, that’s too damn bad- you know who else was a mentally troubled kid from a messed up family- Osama Bin Laden- and I don’t hear anyone saying we should have cut him a break.

Look, OK, so maybe we don’t need to deport you guys. Maybe we can just round you up and put you in camps or something. It won’t be so bad! You’ll have Fox News and NFL Sunday Ticket and we’ll make sure each camp has a Chick-Fil-A and a Hobby Lobby. Yes, I think you’ll find that Camp Trump is just like home. Well, almost. You will have to work a lot harder than you’re used to- can’t have you freeloading off the government, after all. And while you may find 12 hours a day of forced agricultural labor to be challenging- you can take comfort in the fact that you’re finally taking good, American jobs back from the illegal immigrants who’ve been stealing them away. Oh- and I guess, you’ll need to learn Spanish. I mean, it’s not required or anything- but you’re probably going to want to be able to talk to the cop who drags you out of your truck and starts beating the shit out of you because you have a broken taillight.

But aside from the Spanish and the forced agricultural labor, it’s just like home. Oh, well, except I guess for the six hours per night of Mandatory Re-Education where you’ll learn all about Sharia law, gender neutral pronouns and spotting a racially offensive Halloween costume (HINT: they all are) among many other things. And I know that sounds like we’ll keep you awfully busy- but don’t worry- you’ll still get 6 hours per day to sleep. Assuming, of course, that you can sleep with your eyelids pinned open watching the Campbell’s Soup commercial with the two dads over and over and over again.

But it’s not all forced labor and Re-Education (or Re-Edu-tainment as we like to think of it). There will be festive occasions as well, just you’ve always had. Well, sort of. Every December 25, we’ll bring all of you together to observe “Holiday” by gathering around a 40 foot tall undecorated red Starbucks cup and singing “Imagine” in Arabic to honor the memory of an unwanted Middle Eastern refugee who spoke out against violence, condemned rich people and had two dads. And, of course, on the fourth Thursday of every November we’ll all celebrate “Thanks-for-Nothing” by throwing you out into the woods with a Smallpox infected blanket and sorta hoping you die.

And, don’t worry, you won’t be held there forever- just until you’re able to pass a little loyalty test- which will include:

Changing your profile pic to show that you Stand with Planned Parenthood, support Marriage Equality or believe #BlackLivesMatter
Using “white privilege”, “microaggression” and “cultural appropriation” correctly in a sentence. Bonus points if you use all the words in one sentence. Double bonus points if the sentence involves white rappers or yoga.
Listening to Colin Powell speak without saying “my, my, my – he’s so well spoken”
Listening to Straight Outta Compton in it’s entirety without once saying “I don’t know what this is – but it certainly isn’t music” or “All they say is N-word this and N-word that. But, of course, if I say the N-word- then everyone thinks I’m a racist.”
Memorize the rainbow alphabet- LGBTQQIAA (try using the ABC song! “Now I know my LGBT’s. Won’t RuPaul be proud of me”) and know what each letter stands for. When your kids tell you which one of these they are- listen carefully, then hug them and tell them they can always count on your love and support. And if you add “and I’ll be praying for your soul because you’re going to hell” I’ll come down to Camp Trump and beat you myself with the Tolerance Stick.
Saying “Thanks, Obama!” without being a total sarcastic dick about it.

And if you pass this little test, we’ll know you’re rehabilitated and ready to live among civilized people.

Or….you could avoid all this unpleasantness and STOP FUCKING SHOOTING PEOPLE. The choice is up to you. We can all come together and stand up to hatemongering extremists everywhere who pervert the teachings of their religion to justify their unthinkable brutality – or you can give them tacit approval by supporting politicians and pundits who fan the flames of destruction with the hot air that spews from their fetid mouths. It’s up to you, really- just don’t take too long, because we’ve got a warm bunk just waiting for you in the gender non-conforming dormitory at Camp Trump and we’re eager to Re-Edu-tain you. Don’t test us.

Hope you had a great Thanks-for-Nothing and wishing you all the best this Holiday season. Maybe try celebrating this year without guns. Cause, best case scenario, you just shoot your eye out- and worst case scenario….well, let’s make that a Christmas story we don’t have to tell this year. Crap! Sorry! I mean “Holiday” story. I guess it’s off to Camp Trump for me…

[California Seething] NFL Season Halftime Show

(No Ratings Yet)

Posted by :Eric Sims On : November 9, 2015

Category: California Seething

Tags:Andrew Luck, Ben Carson. Donald Trump, Brandon Weeden, Chiefs, Chuck Pagano, Goldie Hawn, Jimmy Fallon, Lions, London, Matt Cassel, Matt Hasselbeck, NFL, Peyton Manning, Roger Goodell, Wildcats

Recently the San Diego Chargers (San Di-e-go…SUPER CHARGERS! Sorry. It’s very catchy) officially announced their intention to move to Los Angeles – just like the Rams and the Raiders. Oh goody- just what we needed! Three more middle aged losers running off to LA to get away from a loveless marriage with a city that won’t put out money for a new stadium anymore. Seriously- who do they think we are? The big breasted dental hygienist of major American cities? And, of course, they’re just setting themselves up for disappointment – expecting to move to a super-hip Downtown loft and winding up next to a Home Depot in Carson.

I mean, sure, it’s great to know that even in this era of skyrocketing rents and plummeting reservoirs, Los Angeles is still a place that the mediocre and talentless flock to so they can pursue their asinine dreams- but that doesn’t mean I want to watch them play football- hell- it’s bad enough I have to watch them do theatre!! When I watch football- I want to see Broadway, Ahmanson or at the very least Geffen level competition. I don’t want to watch the Raiders and Chargers (San Di-e-go SUPER CHARGERS! Crap! Sorry) flounder around like an Uber driver and a barista doing True West at the Complex in front of the eight friends who couldn’t think of a plausible lie when they were invited to the Facebook event. 99 seat theatre may have a place in my heart- but it has no place on my TV on Sundays, and if all these teams move to LA- that’s all I’m going to get to see.

Of course, we already do have to watch these teams way more then we should, since they’ve all been based in LA before. So really, they’re not running away to follow their dreams, they’re coming home like college graduates who can’t make it in the real world and so they have to move back in with their parents. And the worst part is, they’re going to have to move into the basement in Carson because their old stadium was turned into a guest room for USC.

I mean, I guess it might not be so bad- maybe one of these new LA teams will turn out to be really good and they’ll serve as a rallying point for the whole LA region- bringing our sprawling and fractured metropolitan area together as a community and giving us inspiration to face the challenging years ahead. Or- even better- these teams will suck, their games will be blacked out locally and we’ll never have to watch any of those fucking losers again…until they leave town again and we’re stuck with them again on TV. But hopefully they’ll move to London, and their games will be on at 6:30 AM, so we can just sleep through them.

But of course, that assumes that Roger Goodell wants to bring the NFL to London- and, I’m not really sure that he does- cause he’s sending mixed signals. I just wish that if he didn’t want to bring the NFL to London, he would come out and say so instead of being all passive aggressive about it. I mean, on the one hand, every year he schedules more games over there- but, then just look at the teams he sends over. Chiefs and the Lions???? Don’t the people of England deserve better than seeing Detroit’s worst export since the LeBaron taking on The Mustached Tomato Andy Reid and his Kansas City Crappers?? That’s not a commercial for American football- it’s a cautionary tale. It’s like sending Trump to debate Carson in Iraq in order to promote democracy. Which, of course, would never happen cause it’s way hotter than 67 degrees over there- and those ISIS guys are almost as tough as Megyn Kelly. Speaking of mixed signals- gotta love NBC- first they make a big deal about cutting ties with Donald Trump and then they have him on the Tonight Show with America’s Favorite Klutzy Bootlicker, Jimmy Fallon – who’s literally falling all over himself to wedge his nose into whatever repugnant butt Lorne Micheaels sticks in front of him (no wonder he drinks) and guest hosting Saturday Night Live- oh but, hey look, protestors – he’s onstage with a black guy, so it must be OK! Disgusting! I’m officially boycotting Saturday Night Live, starting retroactively in 1991.

The only thing I can figure is that Goodell is taking the same approach to scheduling games in London that most dudes take to folding the laundry – you know- the old “if I do a really crappy job, maybe she’ll stop asking”. Which is brilliant- because that way if he’s ever called out on it, he can just be like “What? You asked to give you games in London- I gave you games in London. I guess if you don’t want them any more, I can just stop…but only if that’s what you really want, England. I just want you to be happy.” And so, sure, that means Roger Goodell is just as shitty a husband as he is a commissioner- but, hey, I don’t see him doing dishes!

Sadly, my beloved Jets were one of the teams sent to England this year to reinvigorate interest in cricket. And while it does make me want to tweet a LeVon Bell sad-bumblebee-emjoi when I think of the Jets in the same category as the Lions and Cheifs, it’s still been a pretty good season for Jets fans. It’s not just cause Geno “Facepunch” Smith got hurt and we learned just how much better life can be without him- like when the office manager goes out on maternity leave and suddenly there’s Starbucks in the break room and the copier’s fixed. No – the real reason why this has been such a great season for Jets fans doesn’t really have anything to do with the Jets at all- it’s all thanks to the Colts.

You see, Last season in the AFC Championship, the Patriots beat the Colts by deflating the ball. This season, the Patriots beat the Colts by deflating Chuck Pagano’s brain- and I, for one, couldn’t be happier!

Don’t get me wrong- I’m not thrilled the Patriots are now Seven-and-Ugh and I don’t bear any ill will towards Chuck Pagano- though, like most Americans, I cared about him more when he was sick (he’s the Lamar to our Khloe). But I was absolutely tickled pink (in honor of breast cancer awareness month) when Pagano ran his terrible fake punt because from now on, whenever commentators talk about the worst play ever in NFL history- they won’t be talking about the Butt Fumble! Woo-Hoo! We’re not the worst anymore!! Not The Worst! Not The Worst! This is the greatest feeling ever!!! If I was a German sausage- I would be notwurst!!!! This must be what Lincoln Chafee felt like when Jim Webb dropped out; what the Ewoks felt like after Jar Jar Binks; Robert McNamara after the Iraq War; W after hearing JEB! Speak; Warrant after Nickleback; John Madden when he watches John Gruden; and what Chicago Cubs fans certainly must have felt like on Oct 21, 2015, just as Marty McFly was coming back from the future.

I shouldn’t pick on the Colts, though- they’ve had a rough season. They had to start the re-animated corpse of Matt Hasselbeck when Andrew Luck suddenly contracted Cancer of the Neck Beard- which marks the first time in NFL history that a quarterback who looks like a Civil War soldier was replaced by a player who actually lived through it. And they aren’t the only team that’s had to start a backup QB- the poor Steelers lost their starter and their back up and had to resort to starting a QB who isn’t a felon. Denver has had to start the Over the Hill Erratic Peyton Manning Who Has Cable over the Real Peyton Manning who has DirecTV. And, of course, in Dallas, Tony Romo is looking like the MVP in absentia thanks to the comedy stylings of Weeden and Cassel. How bad is Brandon Weeden you ask? He actually got benched IN FAVOR of Matt Cassel. For those of you that don’t follow football, that’s like picking Ben Carson because Trump is too crazy…..or picking Donald Trump because Carson’s too crazy. Works either way! Of course, now Dr. Ben is practically conscious with rage over the fact that “secular progressives” keep using “facts” and “evidence” to disprove all of the crazy shit he says. The problem here is that, being a brain surgeon, Carson just isn’t used to having any one contradicting him. I don’t know about you but if I’m in the hospital talking to some dude who’s about to cut open my head and mess with my brain, I’m pretty much gonna agree with EVERYTHING he says. Ancient Israelites built pyramids for grain storage? Sure! You turned down a scholarship at West Point? Wise choice!! You stabbed a whole bunch of other kids when you were younger? Alrighty then! I mean, it’s a little bit weird that you feel the urge to share that little anecdote with me right before cutting my head open but, okey dokey! Whatever you say Mr. Brain Surgery Man.

I mean, when did we reach the point in this country where a candidate lies about attempted murder in order to be MORE electable? It must have been right around the same time that we started interpreting a red cup at Starbucks as a secular attack on religion. I know I’m offended by them! Why every time I go to Starbucks I insist on giving my name as Happy Hanukkah. Ha! Take THAT Mr. Progressive Secular Barista Man! Why don’t you let Judah Maccabee motivate you when you’re doing True West tonight??

No wonder Ben Carson is so religious, BTW, he understands what a miracle it is that a doctor can learn so much about the human brain while not actually having one himself.

Now, I don’t know how religious Brandon Weeden is- but I do know that if I were an NFL QB and my coach sat me down after a game and said “Son, I really appreciate all the effort you put in our there- but I’m gonna go with Matt Cassel”- I would take that shit as a SIGN. Move to a condo, sell the Bentley, update my LinkedIn profile and finish that degree at ITT Tech- because the End is motherfucking near- and I’d damn well be ready. Unless, of course, I was Matt Hasselbeck- in which case I would just graciously retreat to my coffin in the basement of the ESPN building (Bristolvania) and wait for the next sucker to pick my dead ass up.

Alright, well, those are some of the big stories in the NFL this season as we pass the midway point. Though, wait, there’s one I’m forgetting- oh what is it? Is it how all of us who watch football are giving tacit endorsement to a sport which nurtures rage and brutality in young men, is rife with domestic violence and leaves former players physically broken, unable to function and suicidally depressed? No, no that can’t be it. I mean, why on earth would we want to talk about THAT? Oh- wait- I’ve got it- Women. The NFL loves em!! Sure there used to be all those domestic violence issues I just mentioned, but the NFL ran a PSA with Eli Manning and now there’s no violence against women at all. Problem solved (Greg who?)! Is there nothing that Eli Manning can’t do- except get a tan in his brother’s shadow? Anyhow, it’s clear that the NFL values women- just look at all the pink uniforms they made the players wear during Brand Awareness Breast Cancer Awareness month. Why for every pink uniform they sell, the NFL donates 10 seconds of lip service to giving a crap about breast cancer. Wow! Who needs Planned Parenthood’s boring old cancer screenings- I feel closer to a cure already! And, the NFL may not have any female coaches or executives but Roger Goodell did just give Wildcats a 5 star rating on Netflix- so that’s progress, right! I mean, every time Goldie runs around the track, that glass ceiling cracks a little.

Alright- that’s it for the first half of the season- but we’ve still got eight more weeks of watching Fan Duel and Draft Kings commercials briefly interrupted by penalties to go! Not to mention the Playoffs- and that’s when the commercials get really interesting. And, of course, it all culminates with Superbowl 50- or Uberbowl 5.0 as it’s known this year since it’s taking place in epicenter of tech douchebaggery. And of course – we’ve got great Monday night match-ups like the Bears vs the Chargers (San Di-e-go SUPER Chargers! Crap! Sorry. This is worse than having an Alanis Morisette song stuck in your head- and that, BTW, is NOT ironic #90’shackcomic.) Huh. That’s a terrible matchup. Jeez, Goodell- if you don’t want to have Monday night games any more- just say so!

[California Seething] – Passover in the 11th Plague

[California Seething] New Amsterdam or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Legal Weed and then Started Worrying All Over Again Cause Weed Still Makes Me Paranoid as FUUUUCK

[California Seething]- Hurray for Donald Pumpkinhead

A Walk Through the Store

[California Seething] 2016. Ugh.

[California Seething] The Very Best Part of a Very Crappy Year

[California Seething] Year End Wrap Up: Top Four Reasons I Avoided Reality in 2015

[California Seething] A Modest Proposal

[California Seething] NFL Season Halftime Show

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