Words on a Blog

The internet is flying with rumors that New Line Cinema is gearing up for some emergency reshoots for their August-planned blockbuster thriller simply called “Snakes on a Plane.” Featuring Samuel L. Jackson as the hero, this movie had signed up the minute he heard the movie’s title. I like that about Jackson. It’s a ridiculous premise, and will do little to improve his track record after Freedomland and the Eugene Levy flick “The Man,” but you gotta love that moxie. He’s entering Christopher Walken territory, methinks.

Reportedly, the movie was being touted as a PG-13 flick, but the internet’s vested interest has allowed New Line to green light cash to throw in some R scenes. Now IMDB’s News team can’t hold a candle to YABNews, but we had to laugh with this line closing this morning’s report: The film-makers have reportedly added more gore, more deaths, more nudity and more snakes to the finished product.

Who’s doing the news over there? Dennis Miller?

Anyway, despite one of the best movie names in years, YAB is incredibly cautious about this flick. Branding, in the marketing world, is the easiest way to grab your customer’s attention, no doubt. But you’ll need a product to back up the name if you want them coming back for more. Case in point: Monster.Com. This sounded like an excellent website. Turns out job searching is not as cool as a website devoted to monsters. Buzzkill.

From the people attached, I’m worried for Snakes on a Plane.

Let’s start with the star. Samuel L. Jackson is one of those actors who can do action and comedy simultaneously, as Bruce Willis perfected during Die Hard. I have no doubt in his abilities. But will he be able to keep it together? How can you say some of the lines needed to make this a believable plot without thinking this is just one long SNL sketch. In FACT, this WAS an SNL sketch in the early Will Ferrell years, and it WAS hilarious.

Let’s move off of SLJ and turn to our faithful director David R. Ellis. No? That’s because this is only his fourth movie, and his priors include Final Destination II and even better, Homeward Bound II: Lost in San Francisco. (His proposed titles, of course, were “Death on the Way” and “Pets on a Trolley.”) But that’s not what signing a guy like David R. Ellis truly brings to your picture. While he may have only directed three other movies, he an industry veteran. According to IMDB, Mr. Ellis has 65 credits as a STUNTMAN. Granted he has not done stunts for ten years, but he went out on top in the world of defying death. His final stunt project? Harriet the Spy.

I can’t make this stuff up.

Let’s finally move on to who I believe will play the villain and keeper of all things slithering: Byron Lawson. Never heard of ‘em? That’s not a problem. Movie villains are often best when you’ve never seen them before. Alan Rickman’s first movie was Die Hard. Enough said. But Byron Lawson, he’s an industry veteran as well. He’s done mostly TV work, but his most recent movie appearance should quell all fears of a subpar choice. After all, Lawson was in the Jet Li flick “Romeo Must Die.” That’s awesome! That had some great fights in it! What did he play, you ask? Oh.

Head Guard, Hsing Kang Prison

Like I said, things aren’t looking so good for New Line Cinema here. And I highly doubt this one makes the in-flight rotation for United Air, either. That could get dicey.

Pofficegeist

I think my cubicle is haunted.

Most desks I’ve seen can be compared to a peaceful river. The grains of the wood desk flowing from one side to the other, clean and smooth. You can even see your reflection in this variety. My desk, on the other hand, is more like the Arctic Sea. Cold to the touch and floes of mountainous paperwork floating on its surface. Maybe all of it will melt away come summer. But until then, I’m allowing it to contribute to my haunted theory.

Earlier this week, the iceberg of paper invoices got out of control to the point of chaos. While searching for my ID card (buried under the slew of budget white sheets), the entire mass shifted ever-so-slightly to the left. This wouldn’t have been a big deal at all, had only a few pages fallen gracefully to the floor. Instead, it sent my coffee mug spiraling to the floor.

No, it wasn’t filled with coffee. I said haunted, not apocalypse.

No, my coffee mug is filled with hole punches. The small paper discs that are the result of binderfication? Yeah, we collect them. Rather than just throwing them out, they are collected for a special day – normally a co-worker’s birthday – when a snowstorm takes place. This is incredibly frustrating, since no one wants to spend their morning picking up individual hole punches all morning long.

Hey, that’s office culture for ya.

But you know when I said that the coffee mug is filled with hole punches. I need to make an edit on that. I should say it WAS filled with hole punches.

Sure enough, I had caused a snowstorm in my OWN office by moving that icy stack of desk paper. The best part is when everyone walks by and gives you that look that says, “Hey, did you know there are hole punches everywhere?” And you have to respond with a counter-look that veers away from sarcasm. That’s a hard look to pull in this situation.

Every night, the janitorial staff comes in and vacuums the halls and common space. My cubicle is neither hallway nor common space. Looks like I’m screwed until I move offices.

That would be okay, considering there’s ghosts in our mists.

I went to a 10 AM staff meeting shortly thereafter. It was your usual “too many people are talking for this to be over in the time it was supposed to” variety. An hour an 15 minutes later, I returned to my desk, so that I could make more snow angels on the ground.The hole punches were GONE.

Now I don’t see a vacuum cleaner in sight, nor a janitor to operate one. And ruling out logical, normal resolutions on a whim, I’ve settled that my cubicle is haunted. By a neatnik ghost.

Nordghost.

Utensils of Fine China

YABNews: Dateline – Beijing

As read by our faithful field reporters (read: desk jockeys) on CNN.com, there’s some startling news coming out of the House 2 doors down from the House of the Rising Sun. The Chinese Ministry of Finance, feeling the harrowing effects of rapid industrialization, have begun to implement measures that can keep China looking like beautiful China while spending like the United States. Worried for their trees, they have levied a 5 percent consumption tax on several wood and timber products. Only the construction industry is in shock that wooden floorboards are included. But the world at large is choking over the other taxable item. Chopsticks.

The staple utensil for millions, you will have to dig a little deeper in your wallet if you want to eat Chinese Food these days. (As Chandler once pointed out, over there they just call it “Food.”) While China plans tax introductions with other products (Golf balls? Really?), this seems to be the one that is catching the attention of more than the sleepy eyes of the YABNews desk. This could be the source of riots. Mayhem in the streets. Cats and dogs, living together. Mass hysteria! But for Condon? I highly doubt it with all that ice water in his veins. Oh and one other thing. When it comes to chopsticks –

Can’t work ‘em.

It’s not that I’m ignorant – I just can’t figure out how to make long pointy stick #1 communicate long enough with long pointy stick #2 to collaborate and bring that piece of sweet and sour pork from the plate to my palette. It just doesn’t work. It appears my dexterity is limited to Playstation controllers and the number pad on a computer keyboard. Unless a fork is in my future, I would have to fast every time Chicken Fried Rice is on the menu.

Regardless, I have some solutions. Why? Because I’m hoping YAB will be huge in China someday.

First off, I think it would ultimately cool if people starting carrying their own designer chopsticks. It would allow you to bring to your restaurant dinner table a sense of style and cool that would be respected by the company you are in, not to mention the waiter. You know how professional pool sharks fold up their lucky cue stick and carry it around in a black case lined with crushed velvet? Same damn thing. Except you wouldn’t have to disassemble your ‘sticks to stow them away.

Secondly, restaurants could come up with new ways to help pay for the use of all that wood by allowing patrons to forgo the tax in exchange for providing the venue with entertainment. Any eatery, café, or bistro could install one of those FAO Schwartz-style giant keyboards on the floor. Anyone would could successfully play “Chopsticks” a la Hanks and Loggia will not have to pay the Chopstax, and the restaurant would foot the bill. The restaurant has the extra cash to pay it because they no longer need to hire entertainment. Everybody wins.

(Especially me, who is running to the copyright office to get a trademark on the phrase “Chopstax.”)

From Friars to Fowl

Part of the college experience, no doubt, is the tireless attempts one makes to etch their name into the university’s lore by committing “the ultimate prank.” On another day, or perhaps in another song, I’ll finally transcribe here on YAB the events that took place on the night of young Mattias’ birthday, where for one night his hall mates became his furniture moving company. As a group, we’re proud of the Great Bed Heist due to its originality and complexity. But had we wanted something simpler, we could have gone with the bread and butter of the collegiate prank:

The Street Sign Swipe.

There probably isn’t a frat house in the country that doesn’t have those long, green, reflective rectangular trophies on their basement wall for all partygoers to behold. Lehigh had it good (from what I’m told.) However, if I were ever to grab a street sign for my mantle, I have to admit, I’ve had a prime selection to choose from over the years. I’ve lived on some weird, weird streets. Don’t believe me?

I grew up in Sherwood Forest. Seriously. It was a housing development in Medford that for reasons unbeknownst, all had streets named after the legend of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. I remember speeding down Little John Drive, making a hard left onto Nottingham, and spinning around to get back home for dinner – on FRIAR TUCK DRIVE. Yes, my road was named after the fat, frothy friar who befriends good Sir Robin with his wine and ale. He was a thief, just like everyone else. What kind of role model is this to look out your window and see? A drunk bandit? Who laughs heartily in the face of authority? I was 7!

My parents soon realized this, and moved around the corner in 1987 to, yes, ROBIN HOOD Drive. Personally, even then, I saw this as a residential promotion. Yes, the house was bigger, and sure, it was closer to the fishing lake, but just listen to the name. Sir Robin was WAY more important that Tuck. He was the leader, the numero uno. That’s a road with some glory attached to its name. God forbid my parents found a better place on Lazy Squire Lane. It may have affected my self-esteem for years.

Fast forwarding to post-college, my first place on my own was on a CELTIC Drive. What was cool about this was not its homage to ancient tribes of ancient Europeans, but rather all three roads in the complex were named after pro basketball teams. Knickerbocker and Laker were the other choices. Being on Celtic was nice, but if I had to pick three teams to name roads after, going from the hardwood to the pavement, it would have been Rocket Road, Magic Street, and my choice favorite, Trail Blazer Trail. Redundancy is our friend.

Granted RANDOM RUN Lane was the best street name to date, and my current address takes me about 2 and half minutes to write out in full, I’m fast forwarding to some avenues we encountered while driving through a housing development coming home from church Sunday. The entire neighborhood was named after BIRDS. Not nice birds like Skylark or Cardinal or Blue Jay. No, no.
Weird Birds.

There’s Canada Goose Court. And look, it’s Gosling Road (McAdams? What?) But then we reached a fork in the road.

To our Left? The beautiful sounding “White Dove Lane.” What grace, what charming elegance. Sounds lovely.

To our Right? Ruddy Duck Road. I kid you not. Elegance need not apply.

Rhapsody in Blue

I’m nice to help desk operators…most of the time.

For the past two years, Oscar Party has been made possible by unknowing sponsors. I’ve signed up for a free Netflix trial to see some nominees without paying, and then canceling thereafter. I’ve been able to brush up on the big races by getting 8 free issues of Entertainment Weekly by buying something (small) at Best Buy. At best of all, the expansive song library that is used for the famous Oscar Party does not come from my mp3 or CD collection, but from Real Networks’ own Rhapsody music service.

(And you thought I had all that Celine Dion on my iPod? Please…)

But the key part of the free sponsor equation is canceling said services before the trial ends, and therefore hitting you up for charges on a product you really had no intention to use, but rather simply exploit. The San Diego excursion last week, unfortunately, caused me to lapse on said deadlines. Thanks, West Coast.

Now while the prospects of rocking out to the best of KidzBop and the Rocky soundtracks at work has its appeal, at this point I’m frustrated to the point that no matter what I have just paid for, I just want Rhapsody to go away. Disappear, vanish, cease to exist. All of it.

I could just make Rhapsody play George Mason in basketball. That would work, right Chapel Hill?

(Snap.)

Unfortunately, those lads at Rhapsody are clever. Unlike Netflix, you have to actually call and talk to an actual person to convince them that you no longer require their services; a simple email or website does not exist. Maybe they think you will reconsider. Maybe you will get frustrated with being on hold for 20 minutes and give up. Maybe you won’t be able to understand who you are speaking to and somehow sign up for three other services you don’t need in error. Regardless, all I wanted to do on Saturday was call Rhapsody and give them the boot.

Figuratively, not literally. I like to keep my footwear in pairs.

Now the guy who picked up the other end, he has different goals in mind. His job, while it may be partially to process cancellation requests, is to find ways to keep me as a paying customer, without breaking the Rhapsody bank. I, on the other hand, am looking to lay the free trial smackdown, with no real regard. What happens if I, one customer, is completely honest about why I don’t want the service. Will I hurt his feelings? Will I destroy their business model? Will this guy put me back on hold and give me Celine’s Live from Vegas crap to lull me into a screeching stupor?

(Oh God, no.)

It’s quite the game really. The operator went on to offer me the rest of the month I had just paid for, plus an additional month of service for free if I chose to not cancel today. That was his best offer. What would happen if I had accepted those terms? Easy. I’d be writing this blog in about 46 days from now how I just got charged for the second time for a service I was using for its free trial properties. And while this guy was good, I thought of every excuse in the book why I wanted no part. (the best of which would have been taking a vow to become Amish, but I’m sure he would questioned my use of a telephone at that very moment.)

My response? “I liked it because it was free. It’s not free anymore. Cancel my account.”

Not witty, but damn effective.