Another B.M. flushed

Unfortunately, I'm talking about Billy Mays, who joined Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson in the ranks of this month's iconic deaths (or as some have theorized, time-space extractions). I'm not surprised my pal Kevin (see link, and then read through his archives) beat me to the punch in blogumenting the tragedy of Mays' death, a) because Kevin types faster than me, and b) because he shares my reverence for ole bearded Billy. And while the bathroom themed pun-of-a-post-title may feel like a flippant remark, it is my hope that B.M. will smile when he reads it (or at least hears about it from M.J.).

The story of how I came to know and adore Billy Mays starts back in 6th grade, right around the age when I started agonizing over girls. The then popular boys seemed to have no problem talking to females, specifically the females I wanted to talk to. A mouth full of braces and a pronounced (these days, distinguished) widow's peak didn't help my chances of landing that special classmate, but I was determined. I began spending weekend nights on the couch, in front of the television, learning the tricks of the trade from Blind Date and The Fifth Wheel. For those of you who don't know, these shows epitomize what it means to promote bad dating practices, but I only know this now, like you, as a feature of dramatic irony. I would have watched programs of a higher caliber, but to this day my parents have never thrown down for cable. So, I worked with what I had, learning what I could. Staying up into the night, my eleven year old self watched hours of local dating shows, always striving to get the girl. Until one day, I realized These losers never get the girl; what am I thinking? And that's when I flipped the channel.

Unbeknownst to him, Billy taught me everything I know about confidence, articulation, and how to grow a bad ass beard. I spent Saturday night after Saturday night watching infomercials for Oxi clean, Orange glo, Kaboom!, and countless other products. Mays made me want to buy every single one, and if I weren't eleven years old, I probably would have. More than that, seventh grade came around and I had my first kiss. If that's not living proof of Billy Mays' pitching prowess, I don't know what is.

Billy Mays was a great man and a great celebrity. Figures in the public eye often slip up (holding babies outside of windows, eating hamburgers off bathroom floors), but not Mays. His reputation remains as pristine as his kitchen, bathroom, and laundry. So thanks Billy; you will always occupy a special place in my heart.

*Photos by Nevada Tumbleweed & azrainman

O-bento! (お弁当)

I realize seeing a foreign language in the title of a post can be off-putting, but bear with me and I promise translations will be provided, and transliteration employed for the duration of this installment. Japanese stuff, in general, is awesome. I could devote many an entry to the mystique of Japanese culture, both popular and traditional, and who knows, I might, but not tonight. I have to go to sleep in fifteen minutes and this is just as precious as the next gem our friends to the east (but actually west) have to offer.

Obento literally translates to boxed lunch. Throw a little Japanese flair into the mix and this what you get:

As cute as can be, these bad boys are commonly known just as Bento (no plural in Japanese) and have been a central part of Japanese lifestyles the country over for centuries. I can't confirm that the Edo period had schools of fish made out of rice, but then again, if I were emperor, I'd definitely have my servants whip up some Star Wars themed lunches.

If you've read the only other post on this blog (besides the intro, which doesn't offer much beyond getting you to read the second post), then you know I've been packing my lunch for work. And since yogurt and melba toast gets boring, I think I'll spice things up a bit this coming week with a Bento creation of my own. Flikr has a Bento challenge group that had weekly prompts for homemade Bento, which has since died out, but is where I shamelessly pulled the photos for this post from (credit given below).

Also, Michael Jackson died. May he continue to thrill us through generations to come.

*Fish Bento by snappiness, Star Wars Bento by vingt_deux.

Modest employment in an immodest neighborhood

These days I spend the hours 9 to 5 at a swanky law firm in New York City's financial district. I help the paralegals by compiling witness binders, fact checking, and on occasion, but only if I'm lucky, composing spreadsheets. While I'm mostly able to maintain concentration like a 6th grader watching porn, there comes a time of day when I find myself staring blankly at my monitor, willing myself not to close my eyes...*lifts sinking head, blinks slowly* Fearing the possibility that a colleague caught a glimpse of me shutting down (I sit at an open desk), I try to appear hard at work and grateful for it. The little men in my brain race frantically, unable to disable the flashing red lights indicating my low blood sugar, and I realize that it's 1: lunch time.

I grab my umbrella (ella, ella...) and head toward the elevators, making a clever comment about rain in June to a secretary along the way. Thirty stories later, I emerge out the revolving glass doors and into the stainless steel world of bustling businessmen, hustling brokers, tie-clad lawyers, and unemployed bankers (zing) that is the financial district. I pass people with six figure salaries, some making $500 an hour (think five iphones) and ponder to myself I'm better off.

A bit parched from the stale office building air, I stroll through the drizzle to the closest convenience store and grab a bottle of grape soda. I approach the counter, nod to the heavyset man sitting behind it, and plop my soda down as a shockwave of bubbles rises to the top. My taste buds beg for the purple drink (not to be confused with Purple Drink, which has no bubbles) as I pull my wallet out the back pocket of my trousers. "Two-fifty." "Pardon?" Either he didn't speak loud enough, or my eardrums muted the outrageousness of his request. "$2.50" He rings up the register and it's only when I see the numbers that I understand what he had said.

"Really?" I ask, my instinctive haggle kicking in. He responds with a telling look, then glances at the developing line behind me. Decision making time. Do I put it back, or pay for it and live with regret? What's the point of a summer job if you break even before leaving work? He already rang me up, though. The line adds another two to its ranks. Will a different store have better prices, or is this the best I'm going to find? The guy behind me, looking out of place with his sleeveless t-shirt, raises his hand and asks for a lotto ticket. Back up buddy, this is my sale; you'll have your turn. Reading my mind, he steps up to the counter next to me, daring me to challenge him again. The loser inside me takes over: he reaches into my wallet, puts three dollars on the counter, grabs the soda, now wet with condensation, and, flustered, forgets my fifty cents on the counter.

I spend the rest of the week doing neighborhood reconnaissance.

• Sandwich $6.50

• Pizza slice $3.00

• Can of soda $1.50-$2.00

The final blow is cast when I find out that the local McDonald's is without a dollar menu. I fold, bruised and beaten by the exorbitant prices of downtown. Solemnly inspecting my empty wallet, I resolve to pack my lunch for the rest of the summer.

You made it.

Glad you could come. Please take out your number 2 pencils, bubble in your answers completely, and avoid making stray marks on your test paper. Have you been wandering through a desert of banality? Hungry for amusement? Famished for infotainment? Looking to wash it down with a cold glass of recreation? Hope I can help.

A word of caution: this is the internet, and it's got better writers, better thinkers, and better html'ers than I. But if you take a walk with me (holding hands, of course) we can ponder the important questions. And although I can't guarantee we'll get there, let's wander aimlessly along the dangerous road to diversion.

*Title photo courtesy of iDanSimpson