"You know, the trouble with real life is there's no danger music" - The Cable Guy
I can't say with any definitive certainty, but if I had to guess, I would say that the current temperature in my apartment is somewhere around 346 degrees Fahrenheit (but inside a Winter Fresh mouth, it's much, much cooler!). It's unbearably hot, which is probably why I couldn't fall asleep and walked into the living room around 2:30am to find my roommate sprawled out on the couch watching the Truman Show.
I saw this movie when I was in 6th grade, and I guess somewhere during the past 10 years, the fact that this movie is unbelievable got sequestered into the deepest, darkest depths of my brain (the metaphorical ocean floor, if you will). After all, I had tons of other important things to try and remember during that time like my high school career wiffle-ball batting average and the Contra code (up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, B, A, select, start).
But after sitting down and watching this movie as an adult—or so my parents claim when they threaten to cut me off—it really hit me how wild the premise of this movie is. Truman Burbank's (Jim Carey) entire life is lived on the world's largest television set. Everything he has ever known is a lie; utterly and completely constructed for the sole purpose of entertaining millions of fans, in the world's longest running reality tv show. For those of you who have never seen Truman Show, it's basically Big Brother meets Big Brother After Dark meets steroids (HGH! Protein!).
My roommate and I started talking about the possibility of a show like this ever coming to fruition, a show where a person's every move from birth was documented for the world to see. At first it sounded ridiculous but then I thought about all the people who watch Big Brother After Dark just to see footage of the contestants sleeping, eating Cheerios, or running on a treadmill etc. and it seemed highly likely that a show like this could probably be in the works even as I'm typing this. From there, it didn't take much for my warped imagination to ask itself "Oh man, what if it's already happening...and I'm Truman?!" How would I ever know? It was all I could do to not climb on a chair and open up the smoke detector looking for a camera. Plus, you know, it's 346 degrees and moving off the couch isn't very high on my To Do list.
Think about it, though. If put in that situation, how would you know? If everything you have ever experienced and known to be true was, in actuality, fake: your family, your boy/girlfriend, your first grade teacher, the traffic on I-495 you got stuck in, all of it, would you ever be able to tell it wasn't real? My guess is no. But here's the kicker: assuming everything was fake but it was the only thing you have ever known, wouldn't that inherently make it real (Mr. Gorgias, meet Mr. Descartes!)? And if that was the case, would you really want to know things weren't what they seemed or would you rather live in blissful ignorance? So what's it gonna be Mr. Anderson? Red pill or blue pill?
-Adam
PS: This post wasn't the usual, but hey, its 5am and I'm sitting on my couch sweating like Larry David eating spicy Mexican food and I'm not feeling very witty. All I know is, if this is a reality show I'm stuck in, can someone turn up the A.C.?
I've graduated college. I've graduated college and I'm turning 22 in less than a month. I guess that means I'm a man (I'm a man who discovered the wheel and built the Eiffel Tower out of metal and brawn. That's what kind of man I am)...which means I, unfortunately, have to be man enough to admit when I'm wrong. Doesn't it? Well, here goes...Justin Timberlake is the man.
For years I was a big "Timberlake sucks" kinda guy; I was totally on the bandwagon. But then again, can you really blame me? The guy did have frosted tips at one point, probably during the No Strings Attached era (See previous post: True Life: I am a Frat Boy). Somewhere along the way though, somewhere between N*Sync and Jessica Biel's breasts, JustinTimberlake became the coolest white-boy in America. And before you jump the gun (you Mother Superior, you) and lump me in there with those guys who use the middle urinal when faced with "Odd Number of Urinals Scenario," I mean all of this in the most no homo way possible (it's an expression mom--just embrace it).
Think I'm wrong? Here are some of the things Justin Timberlake currently holds or has previously held: 6 Grammy Awards, 1 Emmy Award, and Britney Spear's V-Card. These are some of the people he has played with: Timbaland, Madonna, Jay-Z, Snoop, Duran Duran, Reba McEntire, and Cameron Diaz (he even played with her naked). If that isn't enough to convince you that he's the coolest white-boy here's some proof via alliteration: JT has moon-walked with Mike, teed off with Tiger (at least in the video games--although he probably actually has which is ridiculous), kicked it with Kanye, and sat courtside with Cameron (yes, if alliteration was a major, I'd have a god damn 4.0 GPA).
After my summer roommates (R.I.P. The Real 217) recently found Justin Timberlake: Future/Sex Love Show in my dvd collection, they shit on me for a good 15 minutes about how it was an embarassment to own such a film. But I say that's bullshit, readers. Yes, there was a time when I would have done the same thing and ridiculed a buddy for owning a Justin Timberlake dvd, but I was wrong. To be honest, when this concert first came out on HBO, [won't] the Real 217 please stand up and put one of those fingers on each hand up, we had this shit on loop for our pre-drinks. Girls would come and love it simply because it was Justin Timberlake and all the guys would love it because of the beats, rapping, hot back up dancers and because it was Justin Timberlake. Obviously.
Justin can dance, sing, and produce. Hell, he can even de-flower pop princesses. I don't know, readers... maybe it's because he can jam out on the guitar and the piano, or maybe it's because he's living old adage, carpe diem--or at the very least, carpe Diaz, but Justin Timberlake has taken back the concept of cool--recently seen at the number 14 spot of 2007 on the Billboard Top 100 courtesy of Lupe Fiasco--for whitey. At the very least, he's brought Sexy Back.
-Adam
PS: Scroll back 2 more posts to see the latest.
For many, it's hard to concieve of the word Gonzo as anything more than that little blue muppet baby with a serious jones for Miss Piggy (by the way, what the hell was Gonzo anyways? You had a bear, a frog, a pig...and a Gonzo). But truth be told, there is another definition to the word.
For all you denotatively (yeah I know its not a word, but its my blog damn it), minded people out there, the textbook definition of Gonzo reads as:
a style of journalism which is written subjectively, often including the reporter as part of the story via a first person narrative. The style tends to blend factual and fictional elements to emphasize an underlying message and engage the reader.
For those of you who, like myself, are more apt to hearing about connotative meanings of words: Gonzo Journalism is Raoul Duke is Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is this man to my right readers (The Sky is Falling--the home of postmodern blogging).
I'm about 3/4 of the way through Fear and Loathing, the novel, and I gotta say that Johnny Depp for all his frazzled, loner, Jack Sparrow-ness--excuse me, Captain Jack Sparrow-ness--doesn't quite do the book justice. Aside from being out of his mind, in more ways than one, Hunter S. Thompson can turn a phrase; the man can write. And I like how he puts himself in the story, jumping in there himself. I bet he would've asked the Burger King Manager why he couldn't have it his way.
At the very least he would've posted one hell of a comment on my post about getting tailgated by the police...
Few people understand the psychology of dealing with a highway traffic cop. Your normal speeder will panic and immediately pull over to the side when he sees the big red light behind him...and then we will start apologizing, begging for mercy.
This is wrong. It arouses contempt in the cop-heart. The thing to do--when you're running along about a hundred or so and you suddenly find a red-flashing CHP-tracker on your trail--what you want to do then is accelerate. Never pull over with the first siren-howl. Mash it down and make the bastard chase you at speeds up to 120 all the way to the next exit. He will follow. But he won't know what to make of your blinker-signal that says you're about to turn right.
This is to let him know you're looking for a proper place to pull off and talk...keep signaling and hope for an off-ramp, one of those uphill side-loops with a sign saying "Max Speed 25"...and the trick, at this point, is to suddenly leave the freeway and take him into the chute at no less than a hundred miles an hour.
He will lock his brakes about the same time you lock yours, but it will take him a moment to realize that he's about to make a 180-degree turn at this speed...but you will be ready for it, braced for the Gs and the fast heel-toe work, and with any luck at all you will have come to a complete stop off the road at the top of the turn and be standing beside your automobile by the time he catches up.
He wil not be reasonable at first...but no matter. Let him calm down. He will want the first word. Let him have it. His brain will be in turmoil: he may begin jabbering, or even pull his gun. Let him unwind; keep him smiling. The idea is to show him that you were always in total control of yourself and your vehicle--while he lost control of everything.
It helps to have a police/press badge in your wallet when he calms down enough to ask for your license. I had one of these--but I also had a can of Budweiser in my hand. Until that moment, I was unaware that I was holding it. I had feld totally on top of the situation...but when I looked down and saw that little red/silver evidence-bomb in my hand, I knew I was fucked...
Go out and buy Fear and Loathing. Or get it from the library if people even do that anymore (I hear rumors but I have no first hand knowledge either way). If you've liked anything I've written here, you will like this book.
What? No. We can't stop here. This is bat country.
-Adam
When you walk into The Gap you should always mess stuff up, even stuff you're not trying on. This way they need to hire more people to fold and keep the place clean. You're helping the economy and helping yourself as well.
- J. Marx
Foreword: As you may or may not have noticed, astute readers, there have been quite a few changes/updates/additions to The Sky is Falling of late. In large part it's due to the free time I have now that classes are over for the summer, but it's also due to some late night shooting of the shit with some friends of mine, in particular the Doc, J. Marx (of Zen Marxism fame), about some stuff I could add to the site to draw in a larger audience.
I originally thought about hiring someone to give free ZJ's to every reader (if you don't know what a ZJ is, you probably can't afford one--any takers on the movie?). One of the things suggested by a friend was a post on the Most Underrated Badasses of All Time. After undertaking the task, I realized that it would take a lot more than just one post, or one afternoon, to accomplish so I decided to roll out a new section, much like the "Answers from a Guy" section people seemed to be fond of, entitled the Underrated Badass Awards or (UBAs for short) This isn't an actual award, but if it was, I envision the little golden statue depicting Chuck Norris, mid round-house kick, biting the head off of a cobra.
So as this is the first UBA ever, I figured I should make sure that the person it was awarded to really set the tone for future awards. I mean, I'm not going to give out a nonexistent golden Chuck Norris statue to just anyone after all. So I did a little research, peeping headlines on CNN, Reuters, NYTimes etc. looking for someone who really stood out from the crowd in terms of mantastic awesomeness and sheer badasstitude (both of these terms are actually real, and can be found on pages 347 and 96 of Oxford's New English Dictionary respectively) but it was to no avail. It wasn't until I gave up actively looking for my UBA winner, that I found Steve Wilder after clicking on a headline entitled, Man Uses Steak Knife to Perform Tracheotomy--On Himself.
As a future med-school hopeful, I was originally intrigued by the headline title. I mean, for those of you who don't know what a tracheotomy is, it's a surgical procedure involving cutting a hole directly into a person's trachea (windpipe) via their throat. Performing said surgery, on oneself, with no anesthesia? That's literally fucking insane and pretty fucking badass as well. Here's how it went down according to the story:
Steve Wilder a 55 year old Omaha man and throat cancer survivor, awoke in the middle of the night unable to breathe. Fearing that emergency services would not arrive in time, he ran down to his kitchen, picked up a steak knife, and cute a hole directly into his windpipe to allow airflow. This saved his life until EMS arrived. Doctors say that once the hole in his throat heals, they expect a full recovery.
Um...yeah. I'd say that is just about the most badass thing I've ever heard of in my entire life. Using a steak knife to a cut a hole in your own trachea? I cringed when the guys from Jackass gave themselves papercuts, and this guy is taking some CutCo to his throat.
So congratulations to Steve Wilder, the first ever winner of the Sky is Falling's Underrated Badass Award! (Expect to not recieve your golden Norris in the mail sometimes soon).
-Adam
(Comcast is officially the worst. Officially. They knocked out internet for my whole apartment complex for the week. This is the post from 6/6).
It's not often that I would go on the record saying that women have it easy. I feel like that's just asking for the proverbial shit to hit the fan. Every woman I know would go on and on about getting paid lower wages for comparable job performance, being objectified by the media, having to fight for their right to vote—not to mention party—and the fact that no matter how painful something may be, it will never equate to giving birth. And they're probably right, but luckily for me, I am great at compartmentalizing issues so as to win my arguments. So ladies, as far as I'm concerned you lot have it made. Why? When they go into public restrooms they don't have to face the "Odd Number of Urinals Scenario."
Don't get me wrong, urinals are great in fact, as far I'm concerned they are one of the top ten inventions of all time. If they made a urinal that could handle 'ole #2, you bet your sweet ass I would have a urinal in my house tomorrow. In fact, on more than one occasion in high school (high school for crying out loud), I walked into the bathroom to find that someone had seemingly tested the urinal's ability to handle the aformentioned #2, which it inevitably couldn't. While some might say this is gross or childish, I personally thought (and think to this day) that it is hysterical and would love to have seen the look on that brave student's face as someone walked in and caught him taking a dump in the urinal. But as usual, I've digressed.
So like I said, urinals are pretty great, but they can also be pretty problematic. Here's what I mean: twice in the last two days I have walked into a public restroom to find a man using the middle urinal in a set of three urinals. This is wholly unacceptable. What's worse is that in these two particular instances there was no "urinal wall" or "schlong viewing preventer" as it were. That left me with three very real options: saddle up to a urinal next to the guy using the middle one, wait and potentially piss in my pants—because at the age of 21, I still haven't mastered not holding it until the last minute—or roll the dice and throw caution to the wind and kick open a stall door (this is always dangerous and can be equated to Russian Roulette. Sure, the door might click open and all is fine, but more frequently, you open that door and it's like opening Pandora's box. I'd rather stare down a Basilisk than come face to face with some of the stuff I've seen in men's bathroom stalls). Where was I? Oh yeah, three options.
So what did I do? Every guys reading this right now knows what I did, because they've probably done the same exact thing on numerous occasions. I fucking waited. Obviously. But what I don't understand is, if there are three urinals to begin with, how in the name of American Standard did this guy come to use the middle onel. Logic would dictate that if I went into a public restroom with three urinals, I would take one of the end options, so that I would not put another male in the awkward, semi-homosexual, situation of urinating next to me. Then, the next person in the bathroom would undoubtedly use the other end option, leaving a comfortable spacing of one urinal between our exposed johnsons. A third person, upon entering the bathroom, would no doubt wait until one of these end spaces freed up for them. See? No middle urinal.
The only way for the middle urinal in a 3 urinal system to be put into use is if someone comes in and opts to a.) start off using the middle urinal, an option which is both sexually suspect and selfish; b.) come in and use the middle urinal next to someone who is using an end urinal, an option even more sexually suspect than the first and just weird; or c.) come into the restroom and use the middle option, peeing between two other guys, an option which blows through the realm of sexually suspect into the land of sexually defining (a.k.a. playing for the away team).
The fact that this happened not once, but twice to me in two days, is very alarming indeed, and I am wondering if fathers out there are teaching their sons about public restroom etiquette and war-gaming with them on how to handle the "Odd Number Of Urinals Scenario."
-Adam
The Greatest Generation. That's how history will forever remember those who came of age during World War II. For the rest of their lives millions of Americans get to say they were a part of the greatest. They were the Muhammed Ali of generations. The Michael Jordan of generations. Shit, they were the Jenna Jameson of generations. That's pretty bad ass if you ask me, getting to go down as the greatest of all time, and it's kind of interesting to think about. However, thinking about it also makes me sad knowing that my generation probably won't ever be seen that way. Not even close. The greatest generation? We're more like the C+ student of generations. And there's one reason why: Facebook.
Facebook is eating the souls of everyone born between 1981 and 1991. Literally. Facebook is single handedly ruining the arts of social interaction, talking, and drunk dialing and replacing them with poking and drunken wall posting. There used to be a time, not long ago, when you knew you were dating someone because you asked each other out and actually went on dates (mindblowing). Not anymore though. Nowadays you can be seeing someone for a year, sleep over at their apartment 7 days a week, and be godfather to their little brother, but you ain't shit until it says so on Facebook. Seriously. I saw a news piece on ABC or CNN about high school and college students who honestly believed that a relationship was not real until it was posted as a status update on Facebook.
Now, Facebook hasn't always been bad, and sure, it can be semi-useful for sending out party invites and such. In fact, remember when I first heard about Facebook the summer before undergrad I thought it was awesome. I mean, a whole site dedicated to meeting new friends at your school and keeping in touch with old ones from high school (not to mention the fact that it was full of pictures which allowed my friends and I to scope out which girls in our dorm were hot)? I was sold. So much so that I Facebook friended something like 50 people in my dorm on the spot. Well, the first day of college rolled around and I was walking out of my dorm with my freshman year roommate as one of my new "Facebook friends" was walking in. I mentioned to my roommate "I know her! We're facebook friends!" Apparently I said this just a bit too loud, as this girl heard me, turned to face me, and said "Fucking dork." Long story short we're good friends now, but you know what? She was 100% right. Who in their right mind meets friends/dates/acquaintances/lab partners and cell mates on a website?! It's utterly ridiculous!
Gone are the days of actualy having to be personable to meet people, all you need is a mouse and a keyboard. Point in case: I have a buddy, I'll call him Sloppy, who used to Facebook incoming freshmen girls to see who was hot and then friend them. It sounds pathetic on his part, probably because it is, but what's even more pathetic is that the girls actually thought it was cool that an older kid "Facebooked" them and would talk to him. Um....what?
Half of the people I know could probably benefit from a Facebook Anonymous session or two. It seems every 5 minutes, someone I know is running off to check their Facebook Profile. After all, it's been five whole minutes and someone might have friended them, or sent them a digital bumper sticker, or poked them, or wrote on their wall yada yada yada. I have actually seen a person put a face to face conversation on hold, because their phone buzzed letting them know they had a new digital conversation waiting to be read.
What's even worse than using Facebook, is using Facebook to be "friends" with people you aren't even friends with in real life!. Now that I've graduated I have had an influx of Facebook activity from people I didn't even consider friends to begin with. It seems everyone and their mother wants to be facebook friends (what up moms of the world ::wink wink::). Former teachers, T.A.'s, lab partners, classmates, floormates, people I bumped into on the Circuit, someone I once peed next to at the bar, etc. have Facebooked me! What the fuck?! Leave me alone people! It's one thing if we were friends in real life and you wanted to add me as a Facebook friend so we could stalk each other's pictures and the like, but if we weren't there is no need to friend me simply because we graduated in the same year. If we didn't make a lasting enough impression on each other in gee I don't know, FOUR years, at least enough so that we'd have exchanged phone numbers or email addresses or something, what makes you think I want to be bullshit, fake friends now?
So, despite being sometimes useful, I'd say that when it comes to Facebook, the bad outweighs the good. It is eating through a generation like its one of the Langoliers. To all my twenty something year old readers out there, please, stop the madness! Otherwise the next time I see that I've been poked by some random Chatch Malone from the University of Nebraska that I've never met before, I am going to track him down and poke him back...right in the fucking eye.
-Adam
Well, it's official ladies and gentlemen—and hermaphrodites, because hey, statisitically speaking, there's at least one of you reading this blog—Barack Obama is officially the Democratic nominee for President of the United States. Word on the street (I always keep an ear to the streets...holla) is that Hilary Clinton is running for White House Chef because that's where women belong...in the kitchen! I'm kidding. I'm kidding. Hilary isn't even a woman! (I can already hear my phone ringing off the hook from my angry mother and girlfriend for that one).
Personally, I think it would be great if Hilary gets the nod for V.P., as it will severely reduce the chances of Obama being assassinated if he wins the election. Don't believe me? Just ask Dave Chappelle! I believe he said something along the lines of: I'd be the first black president, but I'd need a little insurance. That's why my Vice President would be Mexican. You can shoot me, but you're gonna open up the border. So why don't you leave me and Vice President Santiago to our own devices. (see 2000's Killing Them Softly). And for all intents and purposes, in the eyes of someone who would assassinate a man just because he's black, a woman and a Mexican are probably on par.
And I mean let's be realistic here folks, the guy is pretty much a shoe (read: Air Force One) in, his competition is fucking falling apart, literally—McCain is like a cross between Mr. Potato Head and Frankenstein's monster these days. Either way though, I honestly think it would be sweet if an African American won the election. Things would be different sure, but I think they'd be changed for the better.
For instance, instead of spending billions upon billions of dollars and sending teenagers young enough that even I would call them "kids" on three and four tours in Iraq, we could solve all of our military issues on the basketball court. One on One games between political leaders could solve all the world's problems. Sure, they would probably have to be best out of three, just to make it fair, but Obama has a wicked jump shot and I kinda like the USA's chances. "$4.10 for a gallon of gas you say? C'mon Mr. Ahmadinejad, first to 21 says we cut that down to $2.50."
And I'm no Alan Greenspan—hell, I'm not even a Richard Gill—but I think Obama can make a "change" and put some change back in the pockets of those affected by this recession. He might even be able to put a chicken in every pot—even if it is fried. So, in closing, I've said it before and I'll say it again, I love being a turtle! Wait, no, that wasn't me, let me do that over. Ahem.... I've said it before and I'll say it agian, I can't wait to see Obama get to stompin' in his Air Force Ones on Air Force One. Isn't that right Vice President Santiago? Si!
-Adam
We're sorry to interrupt you're regularly scheduled "That son of a bitch didn't post anything new!" rant.
I was gonna write a post, but then I went on hiatus. I probably should have told you all, in fact, I even meant to write at the end of last Monday's post but it completely slipped my mind. So, I'd like to take this opportunity to say I'm sorry there was no forewarning. Or should I say lo siento? Pardonnez-moi? Gommensai? Mi dispiace? סליחה ? You gotta love Google.
That being said, I have to say that you're all awesome-- even with all the complaint emails, text messages saying "write already or I'm gonna kill your dog," and death threats. After a week off from The Sky is Falling, it was cool as shit (not that I know anything about the temperature of shit first hand) to come back and see that despite my lack of posting, people were still checking the site for new content and reading up on older posts they may have missed. I even broke 10,000 views. Ten thousand. That is utterly ri-fucking-diculous. So thanks everyone.
But now I'm back. And this time...I'm wearing my P.F. Flyers. They're guaranteed to make a kid run faster and jump higher, sure. But maybe, just maybe, they'll help me write better. Plus now that it's summer, summer, summertime, i'll have more free time to make sure there's a post everyday (not to mention sit back and unwind). So stay tuned readers.
-Adam
