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Metariffic
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While I was driving home tonight, I wrote three columns in my head. That was stupid. What a waste of time! My head does not have an internet connection. Those are a few years off, anyway. So anyway, parked car, patch of ice, yadda yadda yadda, three columns on the pavement. Hmm.

I did my laundry and took out the trash today. For me, this is newsworthy. I am somewhat slovenly. Not that it’s any of your business. Have you ever noticed that if you put your laundry in the trash, it becomes trash, but if you put your trash in the laundry, it does not become laundry?

Valuable life lessons, here at the Lucubus.

I updated the “Bitch” section of my Shannen Doherty pseudo-fan site. It will probably be the last update. I do not care one whit about Shannen Doherty – no offense if you’re reading, darling – any more than I do any celebrity on whom I formerly had a crush due to her strong resemblance to an ex-girlfriend and/or tendency to be naked. I want to ditch the page. I want to erase it. I want to eliminate it. It is a thorn in my side, a black mark on an otherwise sparkling career, and it really turns the chicks away in droves. It gets my site hits, I suppose, but do I really want hits from various Europeans too strung out on legalized marijuana and federal health coverage to notice that Shannen Doherty (hi, sweetheart) is not affiliated with the site? I don’t think so. Unless I can wring some money out of them.

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There is currently a feature on me in the Northwestern library publication The Lantern, which you can read if you have Acrobat Reader. The issue is (mostly) devoted to new employees. I’ve been at the library for almost a year at this point, but I’m still relatively wide-eyed and fresh. In addition to reading the article, see if you can spot the photo of my complexion and I posing together on the front cover.

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I have whored myself: December 29’s Hey is now also available for view at hurmas.com.

Also, I have whored myself by sleeping with women for money. Boo-yah!

I just ate an entire column of saltines in one sitting. Mm-hmm.

My white blood cells have been so busy repairing my canker sores that they left the rest of me unguarded. Thus, I have been invaded by a cold of some sort. The white blood cell that represents my body’s Secretary of Defense has been sacked. At least I no longer have cankers.

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I appear to have taken another vacation. This time, it is because I have been busy spending every waking hour playing Baldur’s Gate II. My character is a female bard named Alouette. Her primary weapon is a Long Bow +3, but I also have her equipped with a Long Sword +3 and several wands. Her armor class is a little on the high side, so I keep her towards the back of the party, but I have her cast Armor and that brings her AC down to 1 or 2. (She can’t wear regular armor or she’ll lose her mage abilities.)

However, RPGers are geeks.

I am so very, very tired. Also, I am very hungry. And dirty. I am tired, hungry, and dirty. And I have to go to the bathroom. And also I have a headache. If only mankind in all its technical wizardry could invent one miracle panacea that would cure all these conditions at once! Add canker sores to that as well. No nausea, but I have my fingers crossed.

Is anyone actually reading this?

General
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Hello to you, my bonnie wee moppets. I have been on vacation all week. Not really. I have been throwing up. Not really. I threw up twice: once in the men’s room in the staff lounge at work, and again while I was cleaning up the aforementioned mess. There is nothing like violently vomiting twice in rapid succession to get the blood pumping and the sick time used up. I should not have drunk the Hawaiian Punch for breakfast that morning. That was a mistake. It is really a dinner drink.

To those of you who have been asking: yes, the Belly Twins are available for parties, weddings, bar mitzvahs, and the like. However, they are accompanied at all times by a very surly, very hairy bodyguard who is not afraid to use – nay, eager to use – his brass knuckles. So, think twice before getting grabby.

Media Studies, Movies, Screwy (fixit)

Lucas and Ted’s Excellent Trip to See Dude, Where’s My Car?

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BEAVERCREEK, Oh. (AP)

On the evening of December 28, 2000, two Chicago residents got a little more than they bargained for when they caught the new film Dude, Where’s My Car? at the local cineplex: they got laughs.

The local mega-cineplex: the newly built Regal Hollywood 20.
Hackett poses in front of the movie poster in eager anticipation. [Photo by Ted Whalen]
Hackett plunks down eight bucks and change for the honor of seeing this cinematic masterpiece. [Photo by Ted Whalen]
The movie begins!

“I couldn’t believe it,” said Ted Whalen, 26, who works as a freelance internet millionaire in the Windy City. “It was actually funny at times.”

Lucas Hackett, a 29-year-old professional dancer and motorcycle enthusiast, agreed. “Some of the bits were hilarious. At one point I laughed my head off.”

Added Hackett, “Not literally.”

Dude, starring “Kelso” from That 70’s Show and “Stifler” from American Pie, has received wide critical praise for its broad but cutting social satire. Also appearing, in a career defining role, is Hal Sparks, recently of E!’s Talk Soup. Fans of Showtime’s new series Queer as Folk know that Sparks can act, but there has already been Oscar talk for his poignant supporting role as one of the many eccentric characters standing between Kelso and his car. Other stars include the annoying young girl from ABC’s The Practice, Kristy “Buffy Before Sarah Michelle Gellar” Swanson, and a bevy of assorted sexy ladies and their breasts.

Despite their enjoyment of the movie, Whalen and Hackett voiced some reservations about the plot.

“It was convoluted,” Whalen said. “It was unrelenting in its complexity. They really made you work hard to fit all the pieces together.”

“It certainly deserves to be viewed more than once,” stated Hackett. “The filmmakers put so much into this movie that it’s really impossible to get it all the first time out.”

This is the first movie for both.

ASSOCIATED PRESS

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I hope everyone out there had a merry Christmas, except for those of you who are not of the Christian faith and celebrate a different holiday (in which case I hope you had a merry version of your own holiday; substitute “happy” or “nice” or “somber” or “enlightening” or “painless” or “painful” for “merry” where appropriate), and those of you who pretend to be of the Christian faith but are really just in it for the presents (in which case I hope you made out like bandits). After all, it is no secret that “Merry Christmas” is Greek for “Jesus Christ”, which is Latin for “Holy Fish”. Or something like that.

What did I get under my tree this year? Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Not enough of either, if you get my drift. Also I got a coat. It’s one of those coats that those Antarctic explorers use during the cold season. It will keep me warm and toasty through a temperature of minus five hundred degrees Farenheit. Below that temperature, I will shatter like glass and die painfully. This is all printed on the label. I have photocopied this label and filed it in my records in case any litigation is necessary.

Also this year I got a hat. It is green and I can wear it on my head.

Media Studies, Movies
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Bored here in Beavercreek, Ohio – home of the Battling Beavers – I went to go see a movie tonight at the new cineplex over by the not-quite-as-new-but-still-somewhat-new-in-the-grand-scheme-of-things mall. As I approached the door to the theater, it was fully my intention to see “Dude, Where’s My Car?” However, I chickened out, because I didn’t think I would be able to deadpan “Yes, one for ‘Dude, Where’s My Car?’ please,” with the precise comic delivery that line requires. So I said “maybe later” to Kelso and Stiffler, and I bought a ticket for “Cast Away.” Everyone’s amazed at how much weight Tom Hanks lost in the making of the movie. I was amazed at what a tub of lard he was at the beginning of the film. I bet he packed on the pounds before shooting the early scenes just to make the later loss more dramatic-like. Helen Hunt was annoying. Why was she cast? There are dozens of actresses who could have done more with that role. I liked her on “Mad About You” as much as anyone, but she seems to be stuck in character from that show. Well, I suppose it won her an Oscar.

Suddenly I’m reimagining “Cast Away” as a “Mad About You” TV-movie reunion, aired during sweeps, featuring Paul Reiser getting washed up on the island, instead of Tom Hanks. Now, THAT’s a funny picture. Dramatic, not so much.

I promise I will not mention Kelso in my next entry. Unless I have a really good reason.

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Goddamn it.

I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself right now. It has a little to do with the fact that the bachelor’s life I have fallen into is unlikely to lift anytime soon. Seems I have rotten luck, as in every other respect I have more than a little going for me. If I may be so snotty. I’m a good-looking guy, after all. George W. Bush once said of me, or possibly of his nephew George P. Bush, “He’s a handsome dude, ain’t he?”

Let me tell you, my friend: they all have boyfriends. All of them. Perhaps not the ones with husbands. But the rest of them have boyfriends. If you are a girl, and you do not have a boyfriend at the moment, you are sure to have already had one for three months by the time I talk to you. Even if I talk to you next week. This law defies time in a way scientists cannot – and have no desire to – understand.

I’ve taken to watching reruns of the show “Unhappily Ever After”. It’s a weird show. It’s like “Married With Children” meets “It’s Garry Shandling’s Show” meets reefer. Lots of painfully unfunny writing and acting, but it’s just quirky enough to sustain my interest. I am honestly not considering Nikki Cox’s cleavage in my evaluation of the show. That’s but an added treat. Plus, Reese from “Malcolm in the Middle” is in it as a little kid, if you’re into that sort of thing. I’m pretty sure I also saw Jackie from “That 70’s Show” in one episode, looking ridiculously young. You see? It’s a veritable cavalcade for future stars of the Fox network! Why, maybe Kelso or one of the Masterson brothers will turn up in tomorrow’s episode!

Just one more day of work before my vacation… must muddle through…

Didn’t I say I wasn’t going to make this into a diary?

The only rule is that there are no rules except for this one.

Fictishy
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Hey, gang. How’s it going? Good, good. At this moment, it is approximately 1000 degrees below Farenheit here in Chicago, unless I am using hyperbole.

I was out tonight and as I was walking I could feel icicles begin to form inside my nostrils. Suddenly I could not sniffle for fear that chunks of ice would become lodged into my brain. I was forced to perform the reverse sniffle, or as I call it, “the splatter”. No need to reel in disgust, however – it came out like beautiful snowflakes dancing across my philtrum. It was so pleasurable, I did it again and again, and soon, passersby were gaping in delight and applauding with each exhalation. Suddenly self-conscious, I ran red-faced for the train station.

When the train arrived, I boarded immediately, not noticing the differently colored sign indicating the train’s destination. This was not a “Red Line” train, oh no – this could only be described as a “White Line” train. The car was filled with twenty identical homeless black men dressed in identical homeless clothing. In unison, they asked me for a quarter. Afraid, I tossed my wallet at them and ran to the next car.

The next car was filled with thirty identical elderly Hispanic women in identical clothes. The train arrived at a stop. The doors opened. One of the elderly Hispanic women stepped out into the blistering cold. The doors slid shut. Curious, I waited for the next stop. The doors opened. Once again, an elderly Hispanic woman stepped out onto the platform. It appeared as though the train were distributing its identical passengers, one to each stop!

In the next car I found fifty identical Korean babies. I only could guess at their number – but they filled the car and cried ceaselessly and in perfect synchronization with one another. These babies were surely no older than two – yet when the doors opened at the next stop, the babies stopped crying, parted the crowd, and allowed a baby to step out. The doors closed, and the babies resumed typical baby behavior.

Eager to get away from them, I hurried to the next car. I felt butterflies in my stomach as I saw that this car was filled with twenty-three identical college-aged white girls, all of whom I was attracted to. I could contain my curiosity no longer.

“Excuse me,” I asked one of them, hesitating slightly when I noticed their heads all turning towards me at once. “What sort of train is this? Each car is filled with identical persons of varying ages and ethnicities.”

“You’re not supposed to be on this train,” all of her said. The doors opened, and one got off.

“But I am,” I said. “Are you clones?”

“I am not a clone,” they all said together. “I am a highly sophisticated android, created with the purpose of populating the city. This train serves the purpose of distributing freshly created citizens across the city.”

“Why do you all look alike?” I asked. Another stepped off.

“There are only forty-three citizen templates. There are over one million people in the city. You do the math, bucko.”

“Wait a minute,” I stammered in disbelief. “Do you mean I’m an android too? That there are others out there like me?”

“You are if you have a serial number here.” In unison, they turned their backs to me and tugged down the waist of their pants slightly, revealing a thirteen-digit number printed across their right rump. The numbers were all unique.

I turned around, lifted my coat up, and showed my rump. “Do I have a number?” I asked.

They did not answer. They simply laughed, and laughed, and laughed, in unison.

“What’s so funny?” I asked. The doors opened at the next stop.

“Whoops, this is my stop,” she all said, and one of them walked out. The rest stood perfectly still and straight-faced, as if their breakdown into laughter had not happened. The doors closed, and the train resumed motion. The next stop was my stop. I felt I should make some sort of amends.

“I should say,” I said, “that all of you are quite attractive. Would one of you like to have dinner with me?”

“Awww, how sweet!” twenty voices replied. “But I have a boyfriend.”

“All of you?” I asked “Every single one of you is unavailable?” How could this be?

“My boyfriend’s name is Dennis,” they said. “I’m going to his house right now.”

“But you are all getting off at different stops!” Then, I realized: there must be a Dennis living near every stop.

The train pulled into my station. The doors opened. One of the females stepped out. Shaking my head, I followed her. On the platform, I saw a homeless man, an elderly Hispanic woman, and a Korean baby also disembark. But there was one more car behind the one I stepped from, and no one was coming out of it. As the train pulled away, I peered inside and caught a glimpse of the cargo:

Forty 25-year-old white males, all identical to me.

I trudged back to my apartment, no longer delighted by “the splatter”. I locked the door behind me, threw off my coat, and collapsed onto my bed. Then, I got up and drank a bottle of vodka.