Every year (for the past 4-5 years) I've done a rundown of the Super Bowl ads. This year was no exception. Co-writer The Hawk and I break down the goodness or awfulness of each and every ad, along with posting the YouTube videos in each review. Check out our ad blog I Rate Ads Dot Com.

And in case you hadn't noticed, I no longer post a blog here. This is my actual non-MySpace worthless writing spot.

That's all. see ya.

This sign, on the back of a stall in the Portland airport, shows one of the only official known uses of the term "number two," long known to be slang for "shit" or "poop." Not only does the instructional sign use the terms "1" and "2," but clearly defines them for those unfamiliar. Liquid waste. Solid waste. Thanks sign.



The second photo is of the not so great sushi restaurant where we ate on the way to the airport (possibly part of the reason I ended up in a position to take the previous picture). Why was this not a great sushi restaurant? Perhaps because it's sandwiched between a Supercuts and the Companion Pet Clinic. Not exactly the kind of place you want sharing space with your raw fish restaurant. If you can guess what kind of hair is in your california roll, your meal is free. Cat? Dog? Human?

Not pictured: To the left of the Supercuts was a Cash'n'Go check cashing place (do you call that a store? a shop? a business?). The Supercuts was probably psyched to end up in the storefront right next door. Because everyone knows after hippy meth addicts cash their checks, they'll probably want a cheap, generic haircut before going on a two day bender. Gotta look sharp.

Also not pictured: On two separate occasions Portland Embassy Suite hotel employees trying to talk us into going to a sweet drum and bass show. I don't even know what that is.

Detroit has again been ranked the nation's most dangerous city. Ambitious Flint, MI came in third, just behind St. Louis. I grew up 20 minutes outside of Detroit and in my life have spent probably ten days in the actual city. Why? Because there's nothing there; there's no public transportation--the People Mover doesn't count--and once you get outside of the main downtown area, you can tell things aren't so hot. Liquor store next to titty bar next to Church's chicken next to burned down house, on a street lined with torched cars sprouting trees through the front windshields. Not a pretty picture.

The rise back to the 1 most dangerous city in the nation probably starts with our corrupt mayor. Couple that with the complete abandonment of the city by business and commerce (except for GM, which seems trapped in those towers) and you're looking at a city on the verge of collapse. The Ford Field, Comerica Park, the casinos and a revamped waterfront were supposed to be the start of a renaissance; but when the economy sucks, none of that really matters. Money equals safety. It's a simple equation.

Home sweet home.

Of course, some people might tell a different tale. I'm "from Detroit," but really I'm an outsider there. Born and raised in the suburbs, nice and safe. Which is why I'm a coward with zero "street cred."

My hands sweat a lot. As a consequence, my laptop is often covered in an unpleasant, sticky dirt-sweat skin. So before I started working this morning, I decided to do something about it. I'm in Portland, staying at the Embassy Suites, so I don't have my normal electronic cleaning spray. Instead, in some sort of early morning fog, I took some napkins, wet them down and then added some of the nearest cleaning solution I could find. Shampoo.

Now, at the time, my brain was telling me that shampoo is the same as soap, which is the same as whatever that blue stuff is that I usually use to clean my computer. So I scrub off the laptop, then go at it again with a wet napkin--sans shampoo-- before drying it with yet another napkin. Not the most sophisticated of cleaning techniques, but I thought it would be sufficient for clearing my computer of my dirty hand-slime.

What it actually did was break my touch pad. I'm not sure if the shampoo washed something off the touch pad, formed a protective film over the touch pad or if I simply used too much water, thus drowning the touch pad. But one thing was certain, touching the touch pad no longer caused the arrow to move on the screen.

While this was terrible and kept me from doing the work I needed to do, there was something worse: the prospect of having to go to IT and tell them that I broke my computer. How? By washing it off. With what? With shampoo. Yes, ladies and gentleman, my brain told me that my hair and my computer were of a similar enough build that I could use the same substance to wash them both.

A few hours later, I guess after the shampoo dried off, the touch pad began working again. Thank lord.

BAD IDEA: This stupid campaign for a Good Day New York.


Do "The Good Day."

The instructions, in case you can't read them are as follows:

1. push to the left, push to the right
2. roll forward, roll back
3. clap your hands

Not only is that a terrible dance, but there's no way you can believe their claim that "everybody's doing it." I would venture to say that no one is doing it. And no one will ever do it.


GOOD IDEA: Taking a nap in a box.


I'm pretty sure this could become a viable business. Rent out your box to sleepy executives. If there's one place no one will look for you taking a nap, it's in a box down the block from your office. Plus, there's something about the smell of cardboard that makes me sleepy.

For reasons I'll discuss later, I haven't been a huge fan of Halloween for years now. Yet on Friday night I found myself in a hot dog costume, accompanying my roommates on a one-block bar crawl. This consisted of six bars that are within one block of my apartment.


Things were going well until we entered Julep, stop 2 on our tour, to find all of the patrons standing about three feet from the bar. There was a woman in a devil costume on the bar, presumably bartending. Pleased that there was no crowd, I ignored the warning signs and made my way to the bar to order.


What I said was, "one PBR, please." But what the devil-woman must have heard was "please pull my head toward the bar, straddle my shoulders, and begin to wildly buck up and down in an attempt to snap my neck."



The shock of almost having my face bashed into the bar and the focus I had on keeping my teeth in my mouth distracted me, enabling her to spin me around, rip up my hot dog costume and like a hell-tiger wearing clothes too tight for its body, scratch at my tender belly. Notice my glasses have been smashed down so they are now on my upper lip and I'm holding out my wallet, which originally had been removed to purchase one lonesome can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.



Then, perhaps to cleanse the wound, the wannabe-sexy satan poured an ample amount of vodka down my stomach and into my pants. Exactly what I don't like. I had now decided that this was no longer fun. The devil proceeded to pour a large quantity of vodka into her own dirty mouth, grab my cheeks and spit the vodka into my mouth. I didn't want the vodka; in fact, I immediately felt my stomach turn and my mouth began to water in a pre-vomitous manner. At this point, I was actively trying to escape.



But the devil was not finished. I was still stunned and ready to throw up, but the crowd was cheering and about 5% of me thought, hmmmm, I bet she thinks I'm having fun, I should go with it. She spun me around, bent me over the bar and began to whip me with her belt. The first one or two strikes hit my ass, which hurt a little, but were nothing compared to the final lash, during which she somehow extended her reach, allowing the belt to wrap between and under my asscheeks, snapping violently at the back of my balls. If you've never been whipped in the back of your balls with a belt, pray you never will be.


In pain, shock and shame I broke free of the devil. In passing I informed my friends I was going to throw up and made for the bathroom, where I retched so violently I broke blood vessels under my eyes.


It was the most memorable, most horrible thing that has ever happened to me involving a repulsive she-devil, a belt and a hot dog costume. It's possible that I threw up my soul into the Julep bathroom and that the devil now owns it. I can only hope the alcohol in the vodka killed whatever form of hepatitis and herpes were spit into my innocent little mouth.

The Disappointment.

Yesterday, after a day of sleeping off an eventful Friday night, I was lying on the couch talking to my roommate, who had moved her bedding from her actual bed to the living room floor. We were trying to decide what we should have for dinner. Seeing as we were still both a little hung over, the obvious choice seemed to be McDonalds. There's something about a Big Mac--once I start thinking about it, I can't stop until I'm eating it.

After that decision was made, we also decided that in the interest of supreme laziness and avoidance of doing anything remotely healthy we would not only get McDonalds, but we would also have it delivered. Yes, in New York you can have the unhealthiest food on the planet delivered direct to your door.

I phoned the nearest McDonalds, only to be informed that you have to order from their "call center," or some sort of delivery headquarters. They take your order and then send out the troops, bearing slabs of sawdust meat pressed between sleek caramelized buns. But as soon as I had I told them my phone number, the dream was over. 248. Not a New York number. Not one person (out of four in my apartment) had a New York phone number, which McDonalds apparently requires in order to process your delivery order. The result was six blocks of walking and much sadness.

Thanks a lot McDonalds. Thanks for nothing. Actually, thanks for the Big Mac, the Chicken McNuggets and the bbq sauce.


The Confusion.

Daylight savings time normally takes place on the last Sunday of October. Not this year. No, this year it takes place on the first Sunday in November, according to the internet. Could someone please tell my phone that? This morning my phone independently decided to fall back, bringing me joy in the form of an extra hour to lounge around. Much to my surprise, when I returned home from beating the hell out of diabetes through a five-mile walk, I discovered that it was not 12:30, but 1:30. Meaning I had missed a half-hour of the Lions game and squandered precious sitting still time.

Thanks a lot phone.

Speaking of the Lions, 5-2 bitches! Halfway to the promised 10. Perhaps Kitna truly has been touched by the hand of God.

In my haste to criticize Isiah, I failed to mention anything about the role James Dolan has played in all this. Thanks to The Hawk, who forwarded on this article:
Lord Jim: For the NBA's most confounding franchise, the spotlight is on a tempestuous owner and a much-maligned coach.

Zeke. Number 11, a legend in Detroit sporting history. Leader of the original bad boys. Cheek-kissing comrade of Magic Johnson. How your star has fallen. After an illustrious career as a Detroit Piston, Thomas went on to become part owner and EVP of the Toronto Raptors. After a four-year stint, he was run out of his post with the Raptors following allegations that he gave NCAA basketball players tickets and other merchandise and...wait for it...inappropriate conduct with team staff.

Which brings us to the present situation. Thomas has recently been found guilty of sexually harassing Anucha Browne Sanders, who was awarded $11.6 million for her troubles. Before I move on to Thomas, let's talk a little bit about Sanders. I understand being a woman in the work-place is difficult. But $11.6 million? Ms. Sanders claimed, "What I did here, I did for every working woman in America. And that includes everyone who gets up and goes to work in the morning, everyone working in a corporate environment." How noble. The best response I have seen to that was in NY Metro, where another woman asked, "So I suppose you're going to share that $11.6 million with less fortunate working women?"

No, I don't reckon she will.

What I don't understand is, how can Isiah still have a job? Seriously? He's basically taken a once-proud Knicks organization and driven it into the ground. The ridiculous contracts he's handed out to ridiculous players (see Jerome James) has handcuffed the team. He ran a proven winner in Larry Brown out of town. And as a coach hasn't really fared much better. His management of the Knicks, on a basketball level are almost laughable.


And as if this mass of failures wasn't enough, he now embarrasses the organization with this sexual harassment case. What happened to the time-honored tradition of settling out of court? I guess Isiah is too proud to spread around a little hush money. It's this arrogance, proudly displayed in smug-grin form, that will ultimately be his downfall.

In the paper this morning, he was quoted as saying, "I don't think the things that have gone on will affect the way people feel about me?" What things would you be referring to, Zeke? The near-criminal mishandling of a professional sports organization? Or the $12 million you cost MSG for your unwelcome advances? Yeah, why would anyone change they way they think about you? Just turn on the charm.

Good executive. Bad executive.

Perhaps it's time Isiah sign up for the Joe Dumars School of Management. Seriously.

Not seriously, in case you were wondering, yes, there is a site with Isiah pick-up lines.

And to be fair, I'm pretty sure I'd have been fired about ten thousand times if rigid sexual harassment policies were enforced where I work. What? You're not supposed to forward around pictures of nice tits? Come on.

The odd news section on Yahoo.com never fails to turn up a winner. For instance, yesterday I read about this:

A Half Moon Bay man was sentenced Friday to five months in the San Mateo County jail for gunning down an ostrich after the flightless bird pummeled him and a friend in front of a group of women as they trespassed on a coastal ranch.

The killing of Gaylord, one of several ostriches on the ranch that were a popular attraction in the seaside community, has traumatized the owners and left them bereft of a $5,000 pet, Superior Court Judge John Grandsaert said at sentencing in a Redwood City courtroom.

"Everybody likes to go see the ostriches," Grandsaert said. "You went and decided to kill them."

First, the judge generalizes that "everybody" likes to go see the ostriches. That may or may not be true, although I bet some people do not like that. Then he continues--in good English, I might add--to add that the defendants "went and decided to kill them." Hold on judge. They only killed one ostrich; the ostrich that had attacked them.

The main problem in this is the uneven distribution of justice on the parts of all involved. First, that ostrich should not have kicked those men in front of their girls. It's just common sense. You don't go humiliating a couple of drunk guys trying to score with some ladies. I mean, can't a couple of guys get drunk on Halloween and trespass on an ostrich farm anymore?

OSTRICH JUSTICE > HUMAN OFFENSE

Feeling wronged and humiliated, the two men then sought to dish out some justice of their own. Granted, revenge is a great and necessary part of our society, but a few kicks does not give you the right to gun down the assailant.



How can you look at that sweet face and shoot it with a shotgun? And a rifle. Seven times. The two men made an example of Gaylord and it's likely that the rest of those flightless birds will think twice before kicking drunk trespassers again. Nonetheless,

HUMAN JUSTICE > OSTRICH OFFENSE

And then in the final act of inequity, the judge dished out a seemingly light sentence for this cold-blooded revenge killing. If they had killed a dog you can bet they'd have received a heavier sentence. Isn't the life of an ostrich worth more than that of a dog? An ostrich is taller. And more rare. They can also live to be up to 75 years old. That makes them about 6-7 times as valuable as dogs.

JUDGE JUSTICE < HUMAN OFFENSE

The good news is that the ostrich farm has gotten tons of publicity and this tragedy has reminded people of how much they like to go see the ostriches.

Here's the news.