A Taste Of The Carolinas: Part Deux

Where was I? Oh yeah - the Cheerwine kreme-filled Krispy Kreme doughnut that I was supposed to have reviewed 2 months ago...  True to form, I procrastinated and finally got a box of these on July 31, the last day they were available (until 2011 anyway, maybe forever). Essentially, the doughnut was pretty much what I expected.  But I was surprised at how true to the taste of Cheerwine the "kreme" filling was; otherwise there were no big taste explosions or revelations to relate here.

In hindsight, the idea of this doughnut is sort of like a french tickler in a truckstop vending machine - the novelty creates a desire to have one, but what are you really going to do with it?  I know I'm an easy mark (I also want a Shark steam mop based on an infomercial I saw while walking on a treadmill), and I will admit I got ahead of myself with North Carolina pride on this one, because the doughnut itself breaks my entire short list of unwritten doughnut commandments right out of the box: 1) doughnuts shall have holes  2) doughnuts shall not have gooey cream filling, and  3) doughnuts shall not possess an outer layer of frosting and/or sprinkles.

So, to sum it up, the Cheerwine kreme-filled Kripsy Kreme doughnut -- Novel, yes. Edible, quite. A marriage of two NC institutions that make me swell with pride, absolutely. BUT... Krispy Kreme's best offering? Hardly. I'll stick with the original glazed from here on out, and so should you.

AAAACK!

It was announced in late August that the Cathy comic strip would be ending in October. I was floored. Dumbfounded.  Aghast that Cathy was still published.  No one outside of Cathy's target market (which I assume consists primarily of single women of questionable sexual orientation, much like the title character) will notice or care.  Nothing against Cathy specifically, but comic strips are just another dying art form that can't seem to find a place in our modern age.

When's the last time you really read and laughed out loud over a comic strip?  I haven't had an ounce of interest in the "funny papers" since Gary Larson retired The Far Side in 1995. (Moment of silence...)  There's no way to pinpoint exactly what set the Far Side apart from the other frames that cluttered up the comics page, but it was inarguably the Seinfeld of comic strips - absurd, ironic, polarizing, about nothing at all, yet hilariously relatable and memorable.  As required reading, I strongly encourage that you spend your hard-earned dough for the hardbound edition of The Complete Far Side, a two-volume set that contains the whole shebang of over 4,000 Far Side cartoons.

On a side semi-related note, here's Exhibit Z illustrating what an odd-ball kid I was... Long before I realized that a person could exchange money for goods like Far Side calendars and comic strip compilations, I would hoard the funnies from the Winston-Salem Journal in a yellow cloth suitcase, clip out the Far Side cartoons on rainy days, and then glue them into my very own Far Side scrapbook.  Aaaack, indeed.

I've Seen It All In A Small Town VI

A Taste Of The Carolinas

Sorry, 48 other states and District of Columbia, but you can't have one.  Cheerwine Kreme Filled Krispy Kreme doughnuts are hitting the shelves today in approximately 1,000 grocery stores across North and South Carolina.  The only way that this doughnut could be any more North Carolinian would be if two of them were sandwiched around a hunk of barbecue, and a Camel cigarette was placed in the center, birthday-candle style.  These are only going to be available in July.  My wife has balked at the concept, but I will administer a taste test before these disappear from the shelves.  Stay tuned.....

Hillbilly vs. Bigfoot

This will be the grudge match of the century.  I wonder who will win - the hairy beast that lives in the woods or Bigfoot?

I Pity The Fool

The A-Team was once the highlight of my Tuesday evenings.  In elementary school, three of my friends and I formed an authentic schoolyard re-creation of the A-Team.  Our group never fought as soldiers of fortune, though.  We existed really for no other reason than to call one another by our character names: Hannibal, Face, Murdock, and B.A.  The square-jawed blonde kid was Hannibal, because blonde was as close as you could get to gray at age 8. Face was in constant rotation, depending on who was in our good graces at the time, because even as boys, men won't dare admit that one of their own is handsome. By default, the lone black kid in the class was B.A., and yours truly was Murdock, primarily because there wasn't a true-to-life A-Team character that ate too much macaroni & cheese and wore husky jeans.
 
I was a marketer's dream, falling hook, line, and sinker for anything and everything emblazoned with an A-Team logo.  I even had an official A-Team Action Activity Book that consisted mostly of word puzzles.  It seemed a wise purchase for $ 1.95 at the Pinebrook Elementary School book fair, but turned out to be a dud, with puzzles like the one that  instructed me to unscramble the following letters to find the name of an A-Team member - DURMOCK. The book had a picture of the cast on the back of the cheap cardboard cover, and one Saturday, I cut the picture out and took it to the little league baseball field, hoping to convince the younger, more gullible kids that I was indeed a close, personal friend of the A-Team.  Faced with any doubt, I'd simply whip out the picture as proof of this solid relationship.  Certainly the A-Team wouldn't hand out flimsy cardboard headshots to just anyone.  Turns out my gig was up pretty much before it started. A quick-thinking kindergartner called my bluff, noting that my photographic evidence had been snipped a little too crudely around the edges.  Apparently, my wife is right--even then, I lacked attention to detail. I could have gnawed the picture out with my teeth and gotten a cleaner cut.

This weekend, the television series I recall with such nostalgia is being released (2000s style) on the big screen.  I won't be seeing it. Hollywood's penchant for remaking television shows is long standing but never affected me personally until they began tinkering with shows from my generation (i.e., rewriting history and pissing on my childhood memories). 2005's The Dukes Of Hazzard is outright sacrilege.  The real Uncle Jesse has been dead for a while, and I'm sure he was rolling over in his grave when that piece of garbage hit the theaters.  Similarly, I cannot and will not accept that Rampage Jackson, an ultimate fighting goon, is now playing B.A. Baracus. There has always been and will forever be only one B.A. Baracus (rumor has it that the real Mr. T has seen and is not too fond of the remake), just as there is one Luke Duke, and even one Karate Kid.

With precious few exceptions, they got it right the first time.

Now Hear This

Record companies tend to spoonfeed us the overproduced music that they want to market (and that a handful of their "target listeners" have told them they want to hear in so-called market research), as opposed to the music we might actually want to hear.  This mass-market approach to music will eventually become the death knell for commercial radi0--maybe not in the near future, but at some point. Trust me. 

But take heart, music lovers -- really good, original music is still out there; it just needs to be sought out.  Thankfully, the finding has become a whole lot easier with the introduction and evolution of iTunes, XM satellite radio, Pandora, etc.

I suppose that the evolutionary accessibility of wide ranges and styles of music via the aforementioned internet phemnomena could also put the final nail in the coffin of the great American jukebox, as well.  And the fact that it now takes paper money to feed a jukebox doesn't help--remeber quarter songs?!  My cousin and I used to mess around with old 45s that had been in an old jukebox that my granddad used to own, so I've always had an affinity for and a desire to have an old jukebox of my own.  I told a friend about this a few years back, and he held up his Dell DJ and said, "That's essentially what this is - a jukebox."  Shortly thereafter, I got a Dell DJ of my own.  I endured a lot of good-natured ribbing from friends for having an MP3 player without an Apple logo seared onto the backside, but I later upgraded to the iPod when my DJ crashed (surprise, surprise...).  And having had a genuine iPod for more than 3 years now, I am still amazed that I can have 28,288 songs on a single device that's not that much larger than the pack of More cigarettes that my mom used to buy at Food Fair. In essence, I have that jukebox I always wanted, and then some...

Submitted below, for your review and feedback, are some of the more recent albums and tracks (among the 28,288) that have been in rotation on my iPod.  My musical taste changes pretty frequently, and I really believe that music is more subjective than any other form of entertainment, so I won't bother with assigning grades to the tunes.  Just give them a listen and judge for yourself.  Allow me to spoonfeed you for a change (instead of those dull, canned, banal radio stations you have programmed into numbers 1-6 on your car radio):

• The Meters - Funkify Your Life
• Citay - Dream Get Together
• Drive By Truckers - The Big To-Do
• Rocketface - Rocketface
• Dangermuffin - Beermuda
• The Gourds - Haymaker
• Them Crooked Vultures - Them Crooked Vultures
• Cold War Kids - Behave Yourself EP
• Alberta Cross - Broken Side Of Time
• One Eskimo - "Kandi"
• Zeus - "The Renegade"
• Locksley - "The Whip"
• Hooded Fang - "Land of Giants"

I've Seen It All In A Small Town V

Breakfast Meat Bonus Track

It's been established that I love bacon, but not as much as Randy Taylor enjoys sausage.

Best....Bacon....Ever

If you've never been to New Jersey, then you likely envision some stereotypically negative scenes at the mere mention of said state - hypodermic needles littering the shore, corrupt politicians, big hair, bad drivers, and Snooki.  My wife and I visited our friends Mike, Michelle, and Milo in Princeton, NJ, several weeks ago, and thankfully we got to experience a side of Jersey that few really know exists -- wildlife, picturesque farmland, colonial history, and bacon.  Delicious, succulent, out-of-this-world bacon. 

Michelle snagged some honey-maple bacon at Smoker's Deli, a vendor at a Pennsylvania Dutch farmer's market in Princeton (they were either Amish or Mennonite -- either way, they had no trouble plugging the cash register in and making it sing, so they're pretty progressive) and cooked it up for breakfast. Now, Mike & Michelle had raved about this bacon, to the point that my expectations were so high that they couldn't possibly be met....or could they? 

First of all, this bacon was thick and meaty, as any good breakfast meat should be.  If you have bacon that's tissue-paper thin, what little goodness that's there will melt away as grease.  When this happens, all you've done is dirtied a pan and insulted your tastebuds.  On presentation alone, this bacon had already scored higher marks than what I'd give most restaurant bacon.  Next, it was time to dine on swine.  Five hundred miles I'd flown, so this better be good.

The bite started out with a slight saltiness.  It was just enough to remind me that I'd have to heed Larry King's advice to pop a tablet of Garlique later in the day.  BUT the sweetness that followed was more than unique -- it was incredible.  Each bite was better than the last.  It was a carnival of sweet-salty flavor blanketed by a tent of deliciousness.  Truly perfection.  This was seriously the best bacon ever.  My mind draws a blank when I try to think of the right adjective(s) for this, the most awesome breakfast meat that I have ever eaten.  The tag team of sweet and salty had never been so perfectly in sync as it was at the table that morning.  The "ooh"-ing and "aah"-ing over this bacon rang like a chorus that was equal parts religious, sexual, and psychedelic, and it was the only true testament to a taste that can't be summed up in writing.  It's a shame it didn't last longer.  There was no self control, and soon, there was no bacon. 

Needless to say, the trip was worth it - if not for the company of old friends, then definitely for that bacon.  It bums me out, though, that this deliciousness is found so far north.  North Carolina has a person-to-pig ratio of 1.03 to 1! We can't get enough pork down here -- as country ham, barbeque (chopped, pulled and whole hog), sausage, chops, and the list goes on. But do we really know the pig like we think we do?! Not if we can't crack this elusive, top-secret, Princeton, New Jersey Pennsylvania-Dutch honey-maple bacon recipe. Even if it's terribly complicated, we've got plenty of pigs to spare for trial and error, so let's get on the ball.  Or it could it be that it's so painfully simple and right under our noses.  Those damn yankees have never been more maddening.

Bug Flies Into Reporter's Mouth

It may take several viewings, but see if you can pinpoint the exact moment when this reporter throws professionalism out the window.  Parental Advisory: Salty Language

Movie Purge: March

Gran Torino was the first DVD that I got when I joined Netflix in December, and it only took me 3 months to watch it.  Lest you think I'm wasteful, I've been taking greater advantage of their streaming service through my Xbox.  This movie is Clint Eastwood to the core, with the nearly 80-year-old actor serving as director, producer, star, and even getting credit for writing music for the film.  It's also vintage Eastwood, playing the type of hard-nosed, no B.S. character that's made him a Hollywood legend.  This time, Eastwood stars as Walt Kowalski, a prejudiced blue collar Michigan veteran who's living in a neighborhood with a growing Hmong population that many, including Kowlaski, aren't thrilled to see moving in.  Kowalski hesitantly bonds with the Hmong family next door and sets out to reform a wayward youth while taking a stand against gang violence.  B

For All Mankind chronicles Apollo 11 and the first manned flight to the moon.  This doc consists entirely of original NASA footage that made the cut from over 6,000,000 feet of film.  There is no voiceover - the only voices throughout the film, aside from a small clip of JFK's 1962 speech declaring that we'd go to the moon by the end of the decade,  are of the astronauts and mission control.  The visual element is awesome.  There's great footage of blastoff, orbit, and landing, as well as clips of the astronauts on the moon.  What struck me most was a shot of the Earth, as seen from Apollo 11, growing more distant -- I wondered at how alternately exhilirating and terrifying it must be to be a pioneer in infinite blackness.  B-

Shakes The Clown is one of the worst movies I've ever seen. Long and short, it stars Bobcat Goldthwait as a clown and follows his misadventures living in Palookaville, a community of... clowns. I'd heard that it's got a huge cult following, but I'm not drinking the Kool-Aid.  The only redeeming value is a few very bawdy lines from LaWanda Page (Aunt Esther from Sanford & Son).  That still won't raise the grade from an F.

You're Gonna Miss Me is an excellent documentary that profiles Roky Erickson, the lead singer of the 13th Floor Elevators, an underrated 1960's band that was a pioneer in psychedelic rock.  Erickson hovered somewhere around the corner of Genius and Lunatic, and took the 'psychedelic' term too literally.  After battling through LSD binges, schizophrenia, shock therapy, and a stint in which he thought aliens were coming after him, he still hasn't received care enough to fully come back to Earth.  A

Born To Be Mild

I thumped a pit bull in the testicles once.  I was young, innocent, and hadn't yet learned about the equal and opposite reaction caused by pressurized contact to the testes.  Blue was the name of my grandmother's pit bulldog, and why he didn't rip my throat out after I did that, I'll never know.  He was enjoying a nice summertime snooze, lying on his side on the linoleum floor with his back legs crossed.  I wondered to myself - what's that dangling between Blue's crossed legs?  I calculated my aim precisely, followed through with the fiercest thump I could muster, and heard three distinct sounds - the "whoosh" of my finger whizzing through the air, the "fwap!" of impact, and a cartoonish series of "yelps" as Blue ran from one corner of the house to another exhibiting that mixture of pain, shock, and fury that males of all species can appreciate.  It was the closest I'd ever come to a potential mauling.

That lone incident aside, I'm not a dangerous person and have never taken to rough-housing or staring death in the face, but lately I've been considering turning over a new, harder-nosed leaf.  Gangland, a documentary-style series on the History Channel, has given me this new inspiration, and each weekly episode plays as a de facto recruiting tool.  The burning question, though, is how do I, with no "bad boy" experience, find the gang that's right for me?

Ethnically, I'm barred from the obvious gangs - Crips, Bloods, MS13, etc. - and am too much of a pansy for the streets.  I'd probably gravitate toward the gangs that offer incentives, such as motorcycles and cool leather vests.  The list quickly dwindles here.  The Mongols almost always require at least some fraction of Hispanic background.  The Hell's Angels are too chic and trendy at this point.  They're like the department store of motorcycle gangs, when what I really want is to be a part of a mom-and-pop club.  I thought I'd finally hit paydirt when I saw an episode of Gangland featuring the lesser-known, homegrown motorcycle gang the Devil's Diciples.  Everything sounded great - Harleys, chicanery, ol' ladies - but then I looked a little closer.  They spell their name wrong.  It is literally D-i-c-i-p-l-e-s, and everyone knows it should be D-i-s-c-i-p-l-e-s. 

As the 1986 Spelling Bee champion in Mrs. Simmons' 4th grade class, it's really my obligation to be troubled by the fact that they've left the "s" out of 'diciples,'  More importantly, shouldn't it bother the 'diciples' themselves? Has none of them noticed such an obvious grammatical faux pas?  As polarizing as their morals (or lack thereof) might be, there's still somebody somewhere that's responsible for at least a tiny bit of PR work.  Is the guy at Kinko's too intimidated to call their spelling into question when they drop their pamphlets off?  Does the sweet old lady that sews the patches onto their vests not have the courage to point out such an egregious error?  Allegedly, the 'diciples' misspell the name intentionally, but when I tried to copy an image from one of their affiliated websites, the warning window below popped up, proving that they're not only habitually poor spellers (carefull?), but they don't know their contractions.

And so, the Diciples  represent yet another gang of which I can never be a part. In the end, maybe it's a safer option to be a one-man gang, bound by both the laws of man and the King's English.  I hereby proclaim the inception of the Grammatics. Grrrrrrrr.

Go Ahead, Bite The Big Apple

If you've never taken a moment to peruse the FDA's Defect Levels Handbook, then you'll probably never want to.  The Defect Levels Handbook is a government publication that lists levels of contamination (mold, insect parts, filth, hair, etc.) in food that are acceptable and pose no health hazard.  For example, pizza sauce may safely contain either 30 fly eggs or 2 maggots per hundred grams (just not both, which is nice).  If you'd rather remain oblivious to what you might be ingesting, then steer clear of this link that contains a complete list of incidental contaminants.

I've Seen It All In A Small Town IV

Rolling Out Of Vancouver

I'm a much bigger fan of the Winter Olympics than I am their summer counterpart, primarily because the winter games consist of events that, from top to bottom, I could never participate in.  I'd love to ski, sure, but I'm 6'5", and my center of gravity is precariously high. Snowboarding looks fun, but my shoulder hurts when I sleep on it, much less if I were to fall and slam it into a mound of snow.  Could I go on about other winter sports for which I'm duly unsuited? Sure. But I'll spare you.

And yet, every 4 years I enjoy sitting on the couch and watching people do all the things I can't.  The athletes and the competitions in this year's Winter Olympics were as entertaining as ever, but I came away with a few unanswered questions:

• What are the long-term effects of mogul skiing?  I have a genuine concern for the mogul skiers.   There's no way that hitting those bumps at downhill speeds can be anything but detrimental to any joint located at or below the hip.  I just know that in 20 years, every mogul skier is going to have graham cracker bones like Sally Field.
• Where has aerial skiing been?  I don't remember ever seeing this event before this year's Olympics.  Hurling oneself fifty-some odd feet into the air on skis is brave enough, but performing loop-do-loops and whirleybirds during the descent back to earth is downright ballsy.  I'm now obsessed with finding an aerial ramp and pushing someone toward it against their will.  Y'know, just to see what would happen.
• How many entertainers must have said "No" before Anne Murray seemed like a good feature performer?  The opening ceremonies featured the Canadian Songbird, but there's arguably no singer more irrelevant in 2010 than Anne Murray.  If I could put it in terms of American talent, I'd say it'd be the equivalent of having the Crystal Gayle performing at an Olympiad on U.S. soil.
• How do you really pronounce "Olympic"?  It's basic knowledge that it should be pronounced as /əl'ɪmpɪk/, but this rule was thrown out by Morgan Freeman.  Freeman's voiceover for the Visa spot touted it as the official card of the O-lympic games.  There has never been a long "O" in Olympic.  Consider this a pretty bold statement from someone who grew up hearing lazy Southern drawls for words like go-rilla and mo-ron.
• Is Bob Costas afraid of Father Time?  I want to tell Bob Costas that it's okay to age. Really. He doesn't need that awful dye job that looks like someone spilled furniture polish on his head.
• Is anything less exciting than curling?  My first instinct when I try to write about curling is to hold the "z" key down on my computer.
• Is Lindsey Vonn hot?  Call me hard to please, but I don't think so. Her eyebrows are too manly.  Not terribly thick, but much too wiry.  To me, it makes her look sinister and untrustworthy.  A woman's eyebrows shouldn't look like Snidely Whiplash's mustache.
• Does hockey matter to Americans?  I average watching one hockey game in it's entirety every 2-3 years, and I'm not in the minority.  I'll admit that it's an excellent sport to watch in person, and it would've been awesome to see the US beat Canada, but no one capable of tanning in the sun follows this sport closely.  So, now that the games are over, Americans can go back to not caring and Canadians can go back to not mattering.

Another Man's Treasure

I've finally found justification to be a pack rat.  A North Carolina woman recently sold an original Nintendo system and 5 games on Ebay for upwards of $13,000.  This will never be my luck, although I did sell a Michael Jackson 1988 tour jacket for $ 80.00 on Ebay once. (I paid $ 3.00 for it at a Goodwill store in Lenoir, NC).  Ever since I "flipped" the jacket for a profit, and especially since Jackson died, my dad thinks that anyone who owns a copy of Thriller is now an instant millionaire.   He may be on to something - there are only 110 million copies of Thriller known to exist.

An Open Letter To 1990

Greetings from the future.  I'm writing to caution you about a frenzy that's going to turn the world on it's ear in 20 years.  You see, here in 2010, social networking is much more than attending a job fair in your Sunday best. Social networking is a phenomenon that takes place on your computer and is way more involved than having that hard-bound edition of Who's Who Among American High School Students that your proud parents will be conned into purchasing. 

Computers are now used on a daily basis and for things far greater than playing Oregon Trail.  There is now something called an internet, and on this internet are pages of information called websites - hundreds, dare I say thousands of 'em - that can inform, entertain, arouse, or disgust you (or any combination of the four).  There are several social networking sites where you can catch up with old friends and make new ones.  Tread lightly - this can will become addictive, and there's a chance that all of your networking via the internet will leave no time for social activity with actual flesh and blood.  

These social networking websites have places where you can type up short sentences that let everyone else on the website know what you are doing or thinking. Such typed personal updates are called "status updates," known in some circles as "tweets," and they give you the opportunity to keep your friends in the know...about everything. You can save yourself a lot of embarassment by thinking of your status as a microphone that's announcing to the whole world what's on your mind.  Please, please don't abuse this.  There's now a constant need-to-know culture that's been cultivated by instant celebrity, and it will tempt you to habitually type up and share (post) your status and journal your every waking moment.  As a courtesy to your fellow man in 2010, try to avoid posting the following:

•  What you're eating.  Unless you're a diabetic subtly crying out for help, you should never post, "Bob is eating a Snickers bar. Yum!" or "Bob brought a peanut butter sandwich for lunch.  I forgot how much I like peanut butter."  Surprisingly, most of us can get through a given day without knowing your eating habits. If the status-as-microphone analogy didn't take, think of it as a telephone.  Would you ever phone a friend to let him or her know what's going down your windpipe, and then slam the phone back down on the cradle?
• Unoriginal political soapbox stances.  Example: "This country is sending aid to (insert impoverished/disaster-stricken nation here), and we won't even help out our own.  I bet nobody will have the courage to repost this, but I do!"  Wait. What? Courage?  I never want to be in your foxhole if cutting and pasting is the bravest thing you can do.
• Song lyrics.  This is a bit of a gray area, because lyrics themselves aren't too bad. Just refrain from inserting yourself into the song.  Example: "Bob's not aware of too many things, but I know what I know, if you know what I mean."  Please do not do this.  Edie Brickell doesn't know you, and you weren't her inspiration. 
• The obvious.  In the future, spouses will still love each other (most of the time), and moms will cry when Junior upgrades to a big boy bed. So there's really no need to publicly announce events and emotions that are generally regarded to be true. Example: "Bob has the best wife in the world! I love you Sandy!" Reaction: "Who the &@!# cares?!"  What would be much more post-worthy and interesting would be something like "Bob is only staying in this sham marriage with Sandy because of the children he never wanted to begin with." 
• Anything more often than twice a day. If you post more frequently than this, you are likely someone without enough to do and without real-life flesh-and-blood friends.

These items to avoid posting apply not only to status updates but also to social groups that you'll be tempted to join.  Groups such as I Bet I Can Find A Million People Who Hate Cancer.  Wow.  What a hardline stand.  I'm not one to make generalizations, but I'm pretty sure it's a safe assumption on my part that mankind as a rule hates cancer.

And so, with this info in hand, you are armed with the knowledge that will help you avoid certain shame in 2010.  You'll be ahead of the game, and well on your way to establishing meaningful relationships with your internet "friends," most of whom will just be little square faces in a digital mosaic that has no bearing on your reality. Or Bob's.

P.S. - There are no flying cars in the future. Sorry.

Don't Wear It Out

My name is Dustin. Remember that.  In 1977 (the year I was born), my name was the 81st most popular boy's name in the US, barely edging out the ever-asexual "Jamie."  "Dustin" has since fallen to the #303 position -  a drastic decline, yes, but not surprising since the name does come with a certain cross to bear. 

You will never have a clearer indication that your existence has no impact on your fellow man than when your identity is constantly mistaken.  I have been called Justin (a lot), Dusty, Jason, Doug, Kevin, Dwight, Don, and Rusty.  Most often by people who should know damn well who I am.  And Dusty irks me the most.  I was branded with this misnomer on the first day of 7th grade by my gym teacher.  She took attendance by calling out our full name, and then she followed up by asking what name we went by.  When she got to me, "Dustin" was obviously my reply.  "Okay, Dusty!" she barked back as she made a notation in the roll book with what must've been a permanent marker.  Though I repeatedly corrected her for three straight years, it never sank in. I was Dusty day in and day out with that woman.

I also happened to meet Dusty Rhodes in Charlotte last year, and I got an autograph.  He asked me whom to make it out to, and I told him, you guessed it, "Dustin."  He forgot before the cap came off of the Sharpie and had to ask me again.  I know the man has taken numerous blows to the head in his life and has probably met more than his fair share of fans - what with him being the American Dream and all - but his own son's name is DUSTIN.

And it's not just the name.  Physically, I should stand out in a crowd.  I'm almost always the tallest and/or broadest person in the room.  There can't be that many clumsy oafs in this world whom I resemble.  Or can there?  I have been mistaken for

• A UPS driver
• A brick mason from Clayton, NC
• An exterminator ("I apologize - you look like someone who kills bugs," a complete stranger told me at Borders. "You should be flattered. They make a lot of money.")
• My granddad mistook me for my uncle once
• At a gas station in South Carolina, someone thought I was his supervisor from work.  Does he not see this man on at least a semi-regular basis?
• A friend of a friend told me once that I resembled Vincent D'Onofrio.  Even though I wanted to ask her which Vincent D'Onofrio character she thought I looked like, my gut instinct is that she had the psychopath from Full Metal Jacket in mind.

So make a conscious effort, folks.  Play Brain Age, order a memory-boosting course from the back of a comic book, do something - anything to help you remember the name of the next poor schmuck you meet.  Don't burden So-and-So with the angst of being forever referred to as Such-and-Such.

I've Seen It All In A Small Town III

Movie Purge: January

Brother’s Keeper centers on the Ward brothers, illiterate dairy farmers living together in a shack in upstate New York, and the trial of Roscoe Ward, who’s been accused of the mercy killing of one of his ill brothers. The pace of the movie gets bogged down at times, but otherwise it’s an intriguing doc. C+

Two Days In April follows four college football players, each at a different level of stardom, as they prepare for the NFL draft. I thought it was interesting to see not only the physical aspect of readying themselves for pro football, but also the mental preparation and training that’s required of them by their agents.  The best and most gut-wrenching part of the movie is on draft day, as the cameras roll while these prospects count down to either the realization or the shattering of a dream that they've been playing for their whole lives.  Some dreams come true; others remain just that. A-

Forgiving Dr. Mengele is a film about unfathomable forgiveness.  Josef Mengele was a Nazi scientist who conducted inhumane experiments on identical twins at Auschwitz during World War II.  Eva Kor is a surviving 'Mengele twin' who has publicly forgiven Mengele and the Nazis, and the film documents her life and her quest to understand her history and navigate both emotion and circumstance. A

The Atomic Cafe chronicles Cold War hysteria from the atomic age of the 1940's through the 60's.  The film consists entirely of government propaganda film clips, newsreel footage, and military training films.  It's comical now to see how dismissive of atomic warfare the government wanted to appear. The format grows a bit tiresome, so I'll caution that this is for history buffs only.  B-

A Certain Kind Of Death investigates what happens when someone dies and leaves no next of kin.  This documentary may sound morbid, and there are a few graphic scenes, but it really approaches the subject matter of death from a business-like standpoint. What happens to someone who has no one when they die? Who sees to the final affairs? It was darkly fascinating to find out.  A

Coping With Cabin Fever

Eight inches of snow isn’t quite as foreboding as it once was.  But the local news would have you believe that it was going to be certain Armageddon.  In fact, when it snowed 8 inches in our area this weekend, the local news station had a cardiologist in studio to let me know that prolonged snow shoveling could make my wife a widow.  Let’s be realistic here - I’m snowed in, sure, but I’ve got better things to do than shovel snow. I've got 28,000 songs on my iPod, thousands of streaming TV shows and movies on Netflix, and a few shows on DVR that I’ve been meaning to get around to watching anyway (I’m currently catching up on PBS’s “Soundstage” and am confused and curious about Jackson Browne’s physical transition into a lesbian professor).  Has there ever been a better time in history to fend off cabin fever? Here's how I spent my snowed-in Saturday:

• Found out Saturday morning that yes, Virginia, you can make pancakes with water. I later gorged on Krunchers jalapeno chips. I was a big fan of Krunchers as a kid, and until Friday hadn’t been able to find them in years. The Krunchers brand is back and is now owned by Snyders of Hanover, which will hopefully mean better distribution, so look out world!
• Held my own personal DVR mini-marathon of Elvis Costello’s “Spectacle.”  This show airs on the Sundance Channel, and Costello may very well be the worst interviewer ever, but his guests are stellar.  I watched the Bruce Springsteen episodes – parts 1 and 2 – and an episode with Lyle Lovett, John Prine, and Ray LaMontagne. Good stuff.
• Shoveled snow off of the driveway -- didn’t have a heart attack.
• Read this week’s Entertainment Weekly, which had a good article about the “Fletch” movie franchise.  I had no idea that another “Fletch” has been floundering around Hollywood for decades.  Kevin Smith wanted to do it with Jason Lee as Fletch, but Miramax would never sign off on it.  Zach Braff was eventually cast with another director at the helm, but Braff backed out.  It seems to be a cursed sequel.  The full article is available in the Feb. 5 issue of EW. 
• Made a bit of progress on a book I’ve been reading, “The Year of Living Biblically,” by AJ Jacobs.  Jacobs chronicles his attempt to follow the Bible as literally as possible for an entire year.  I’ve read mixed feedback on the book, but so far, so good for me.
• Filled out Mad Libs.  Lots of them. It's great to be an adult now and to have free rein to be as vile or vulgar with Mad Libs as I wanna be. Some of them are really pretty hilarious.
• Surfed the net and came close to buying this T-shirt. Very close.

• Polished off a build-your-own six-pack from Total Wine that I had stashed for the winter storm.  There’s usually one dud every time I build my six-pack, but this one was a well-rounded combination that deserves high marks.  The beers in my sixer were:  Monty Python’s Holy Grail Ale, Bear Republic Red Rocket Ale, Great Divide Brewery’s DPA (Denver Pale Ale), New Belgium Mothership Wit, Harpoon Leviathan IPA, and Dogfish Head Palo Santo Marron.  All of these were really good.  Most were full-bodied and high gravity, with the exception of the Holy Grail Ale and Mothership Wit, so enjoy responsibly.
• Wrapped up my snowy Saturday of overindulging on comfort food (lunch was homemade chicken noodle soup; snacks were plentiful and salty delicious) by savoring a pizza that my wife made. It was out of this world. The kicker was a mix of freshly sliced garlic, olive oil, and crushed red pepper that she let mingle together for about 30 minutes before coating the crust with it. I swear I could’ve drunk that oil.

How To Record Streaming Audio

Most freeware downloads aren't as good as promised and, more often than not, you'll fall victim to the old bait-and-switch--it only performs half-assed unless you upgrade to a paid version.  But recently I downloaded freeware that, surprisingly, didn't disappoint. When I have that rare moment that I get some level of satisfaction from something that normally makes me go postal, I feel the need to share!

Last month, my friend Mike V sat in for a couple of hours as an "alumni air talent guest host" on WRHU, Hofstra's student-run radio station.  To listen to the show, I'd either have to drive 600 miles to tune it in locally, or I could sit back and listen online - as pantsless as I cared to be.  Problem was, I had missed the first internet airing, and had plans that were pulling me away from listening to the rebroadcast.  This is precisely where MP3myMP3 (a free recording software) saved the day.

I was skeptical of being able to pull this off, but it worked like a champ.  MP3myMP3's program window is simple; think of it as a 21st century tape recorder.  If you've ever used one of those old, clunky tape recording dinosaurs, then it'll all come back to you like riding a bike.  It's painlessly basic and offers so much more than any program with a pricetag.  The bitrate is adjustable too, so the sound quality can be as good as you can get it.  

To capture the audio, all I did was hit "Record" when I left the house and "Stop" when I got home.  It'll record whatever you've got playing through your computer's speakers, so it's ideal for capturing streaming audio from any radio station - great for folks who have moved from city to city and want the familiarity of their local radio.  MP3myMP3 would've been good for satellite radio, but Sirius/XM missed the bus and no longer offer free streaming radio for subscribers. 

I was able to use another free program to edit the large MP3 file.  I cut the hour or so extra that I had recorded before and after Mike's show, and I segmented the broadcast song-by-song for easier navigation (I had to make it more navigable so my wife could skip through the music.  She assessed his first selection by the Dead Milkmen as a "radio trainwreck").  I was able to add everything into Itunes and didn't miss a second.  So thank you, MP3myMP3 for making freeware easy for a change, and thanks, Mikey, for a great show!

Modern Day Freak Show

The Discovery family of television networks is to 2010 what P.T. Barnum was to 1871.  I'm hypnotized right now by TLC's logo burning into the corner of my television, topped with an advertisement for "My Giant Head" (tonight at 9!).  I can't pinpoint exactly when TLC went from educational to exploitive, but consider that "My Giant Head" will be preceded by "Human Spiders" and followed by "Super Face Surgeries."

These days, it isn't really publicly acceptable to display freaks like it was on the old traveling carnival show circuit, but apparently nobody told the folks at the Discovery Health Channel. I present to you the following shows, all playing on Discovery Health this week alone - "I Was Dead," "The Boy Who Bit Himself," "Two Sisters, One Heart," "650 Pound Virgin" (wonder why?), "The Baby Who Wouldn't Stop Crying," "200 lb. Tumor" (to be followed by the less impressive "160 lb. Tumor"), "The Breasts That Changed Color," and, of course, "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant."

This parade of freaks started innocently enough, I'm sure, but began to snowball once midgets were added to the mix. (Yeah, I know. The term 'midget' is now frowned upon, but I'm 6'5"- what's a midget gonna do to me?)  "Little People, Big World," "Little Parents, First Baby," "The Little Couple." Okay, fine. But do we really need a program about "Little Chocolatiers"?  Apparently, the network assumes that its audience believes there's no possible way that midgets could ever contribute to society.  So in its exploitive-thinly-veiled-as-educational manner, TLC features said midgets (or little people or dwarves or whatever) driving, operating heavy equipment, and providing medical treatment - all to validate that they're as normal as you and me.  My wife summed it up perfectly the first time she saw the preview for "Little Chocolatiers" -- "Okay, we get it.  Midgets can do things!"

My real guilty pleasures, though, are the shows about obesity.  Bizarre excess has been an obsession of mine ever since I opened up my parents' 1983 Guiness Book of World Records and saw a picture of the McGuire twins riding their motorcycles. I think I liked (and still do) the comfort of knowing that there were fatter disasters in the human race than me.  Disasters like Manuel Uribe, a.k.a. the "World's Biggest Amigo," whose bedroom wall had to be yanked out so that he could be hauled to his wedding on a flatbed truck.  And Billy Robbins, the virtually immobile half-ton teen who phoned his mother to remind her to swing by GameStop to pick up some Xbox games --while she was out trying to find drinking water after Hurricane Ike. I just don't understand how being unable to get out of bed is not rock bottom for people like Manuel and Billy. When you notice that getting out of bed is becoming increasingly difficult, it seems that you would (and should) recognize that it may be a good idea to cut back on the Little Debbies.  There's no way that becoming bedridden can "sneak up" on someone who outweighs most livestock. But then again, perhaps I'm oversimplifying since these shows always manage to find the husky folks whose entire existence revolves quite literally around what has to be the unluckiest sets of mattresses and box springs on the planet.

Whatever you do, don't be naive enough to think that the brass at Discovery Communications are somehow being socially responsible for airing such embarassingly addictive television. And don't think for a minute that they have anyone's best interest at heart other than their own. Face it -- there can be no real, substantive reason that we should watch a midget operate a backhoe.  And what is the true contribution to society to broadcast a 1320-lb. man's wedding?  These networks can slap compassion and education labels on these kinds of programs all day long, but they're nothing more than exploitation in the name of revenue and ratings.  And yet... we keep coming back for more because we all feel just a little bit better about ourselves when we can shamelessly gawk at those in situations and places "worse" than our own, taking empty comfort in the fact that we're not that bad.

I've Seen It All In A Small Town 2: Electric Boogaloo