Thursday, May 05, 2005

Guest Blogger: Evil Stacy (Why I Hate Rock Radio Too)

(Stacy Without an E is weeping on the floor of his broadcast studio after a long day of putting up with mediocre radio personalities from across the hall. Suddenly, and without warning, his distant cousin Evil Stacy Without an E surfaces from oblivion. Hating to see his cousin in such pain and despair, Evil Stacy has prepared a little speech for the mindless twits across the hall. This...is his rant...)

I despise egotistical, talentless morons.

I especially hate egotistical, talentless morons who tell themselves how talented they are every five minutes.

Goddamnit.

The extremely talented, cordial and witty afternoon host on the rock station in our cluster was "released" from the company a number of weeks ago.

Translation: he wanted to be paid what he's worth.

Since the first day since he was expelled, the new Program Director of the rock station across the hall has been blasting his station so he makes sure that every single creature within earshot realizes how funny he just was.

He bolts from the station like a monkey with a new diaper, prowling the hallways asking everyone, "Did you hear that? Wasn't that funny?"

Most people are clueless as to why he's so excited.

He nearly pushes me to the wall as he prances about.

"Did you hear how funny that call was?"

"God no. Your mindless drivel that passes as acceptable broadcast radio polluting the airwaves should be mentally disposed of in a landfill far, far from my existence."

That's what I should have said. Of course, if I had, he would have tilted his head to one side and quizically asked what my problem was.

The other day I had front row concert tickets to one of the biggest shows of the year. I took the winning call, the caller was fantastic and I started to edit within the three minutes until I had to go on.

I pause. There's some sort of noise in the background. I crank up the volume to discover...it's the rock station across the hall! You have to be kidding me. There's a thick wooden door, ten feet of space, another thick wooden door, and then my studio.

That's fuckinggodawful loud.

I get so frustrated I calmly walk across the hall and ask them to TURN IT THE FUCK DOWN!!!

No, I don't yell. Only in my mind. And it hurts.

They oblige. I walk away and I can hear them whispering. As soon as my studio door closes shut, it's cranked in volume again.

Since he is the new boss of the station, my only recourse now is to go to the General Manager. But if I go that far, I'll become the bad guy.

All of the above happened AFTER I received a long list of things my Program Director wants me to do. Before I even step into the door here, I've already worked four to five hours AT ANOTHER JOB. Never a thank you. Not ever a pat on the back. Just get this done in a tone of "or else".

What follows is the complete list of things I want to do on my final day:

--- Bring a giant mallet to work, you know, the overly heavy kind and calmly walk into the rock station's studio (while they're live on the air) and destroy the equipment. When finished, I smile, salute them and then walk straight out of the building. I change my name to Juevo and move to Greece and make just enough money each day to survive. I spend the remainder of my time courting raven haired greek women and sipping pure juices.

--- I tell the listeners all week that I'm resigning on Friday, without discussing it with management. I repeatedly tell them that the show will be replaced by repeats of "Full House", "Two and Half Men" and that god awful "According to Jim". I refer all complaint calls to my boss' home number. I then receive the photos from the private investigator showing how he's been cheating on his wife and post them on the internet on our station's website. I then make my way to Greece as Mr. Juevo (see above).

--- I come into work late for my show, clothes tattered, skin bloodied and walk straight into management's office. I tell them the repeated loud music from the rock station has made me suicidal and I just failed in my attempt to end my life...again. If the rock station is not switched to easy listening immediately and the entire staff fired, I will file a class action lawsuit against the station's owners, insisting that the continual rudeness of the staff hurt me psychologically to the point where my lawyer thinks we "should talk".

--- Lock myself in the rock station studio and play nothing but music from our format on their station. I tell all listeners every break that "...since the staff despises you immensely, we've stopped playing music to cater to assholes...please refer all your complaints in person to the general manager's office NOW." The address will be merrily repeated over and over until a riotous mob of meth users and toothless heroin junkies fill the cubicle walls to the hilt. I promise to then play each of them a request if they piss where they stand. Crapping is also optional. I then Greek it and become Mr. Juevo accordingly (see above).

--- Bring in a five gallon canister of gasoline and a box of matches. I saunter around the building, making sure to leave a huge puddle in the rock studio's carpet, soiling it to no end. I make a path around the building, ending at the exit door. I light a match. Mr. Juevo saunters into history.

That stench you smell is the fumes from rock radio mindlessly melting into history.

Thank you and good night.

(The manager of the "Stacy Without an E" blog wishes to apologize for two or three sentences above. The rest was right on target. Evil Stacy is now constructing a fire retardant suit, just in case. Raven-haired women rule. Down with all the mulakas.)

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

Star Wars: Episode IV.5: The Bandit Incident

Every time Kirk tricks Khan's ship into lowering it's shields, I feel my pulse begin to quicken.

When Darth Vader tries to explain to Luke that he is his true father, my blood pressure rises with exhileration.

Whenever I stroll by an arcade and see a Ms. Pac Man machine, I must feed my addiction immediately.

I used to program my Texas Instruments home computer in BASIC to make a little drawing program, so whenever you moved the cursor, it would leave pixalated 0's and 1's behind.

I spent most of my early teens playing Asteroids and Space Duel on my Atari 2600.

"Speed Racer" fed my imagination. "Knight Rider" was the coolest show on television.

You would think that over the years I would mature, spend less time with fantasy and attempt to create a more pleasing reality for myself.

Alas, that is not so.

And only a true geek would type "alas".

I was suffering through dialysis for the 152nd time (yes, I counted) and my posture suddenly straighened, my pupils became wide and the pain of the needles disappeared momentarily.

A "Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith" commercial came on.

After the disappointment of the first two films, and the overwhelming positive response on the internet for the lucky few who've seen the new film, I'm overwhelmed with anticipation over taking in this latest creation.

The funny thing is, the first time I saw "Star Wars", it was the silent version.

You mean to tell me Stacy, there's an old black and white, SILENT version of "Star Wars".

Read on brave blog reader...

I was about seven and we had just purchased a used 28' motorhome from our neighbors. We used it for camping from time to time, but my parents also used it to take us to drive-in movies.

More appropriately, they used it to take us to movies where they would make us stay in the back while they enjoyed the cinematic goodness up front. There was this divider in the middle of the Tioga that obstructed the cabin from the rest of the vehicle. My parents decided that they needed to see "Smokey and the Bandit".

I know. It was the late 70's and Burt Reynolds was one of the biggest movie stars running. When you ask my Dad today, he admits that it's one of the worst films ever made. And Burt only became a star because everyone was still trying to recover from the smoke-filled haze of the 60's.

But back then, it was good, old-fashioned redneck humor. And it got my parents out of the house without hiring a babysitter who would run up their phone bill.

We had some board games, like Monopoly and Chutes & Ladders to keep us busy, but they never were even touched. My poor sister cuddled up to her stuffed animals pouting.

I didn't really pay her much attention because out of the back window of the motorhome were two androids scurrying down a narrow, bright hallway.

That's right fellow geeks...the opening scenes of the original "Star Wars". On a movie screen just opposite from Burt and the Gang.

I watched every minute and thorougly had a great time. I had no idea what was happenning, but damn if it wasn't cool to watch.

I often wondered after the evening was over...if Burt and his Trans Am took on Darth and his Tie Fighter, who would come out ahead??

Hmm...lessee here. Burt would have the power of tight 70's pants and a six pack of Budweiser brewing in his bloodstream. Darth Vader would only have the Force.

Burt would use his fists to fight. Vader would use his light saber.

Burt would have the ultra adorable Sally Field fighting at his side. Vader would receive no help from the equally alluring Carrie Fisher.

Burt would cock his fists and punch Vader straight in his mask. Vader would retaliate with a Force choke hold. Suddenly, Burt would fire up the Trans Am stereo and blast Jerry Reed's "East Bound and Down". Vader would strike back with a chilling melody of John Williams score.

"Smokey and the Sith"? "Attack of the Rednecks"? "The Phantom Beer Can"? "The Empire Strikes a Line Dance"? "Return of the Inbred"?

Geez! Lucas has been wasting his time! "Freddy vs. Jason"..."Alien vs. Predator"...now, get ready for...

"Vader and the Bandit"! It can pick up immediately following "Star Wars" where we see Vader cruise off from the exploding Death Star in his personal Tie Fighter. This sequel picks up hours later when Darth crash lands in the Bandit's backyard. Burt stumbles out of his hammock and sees Darth emerge from his busted Tie Fighter.

Vader tries to contact the Empire. The Bandit CB's the Snowman. The epic battle for a truckload of bootleg beer begins!!!

I'm really wasting my time doing this radio thing. I could be a dopey movie executive combining famous icons into brand new properties.

Coming soon: "Dialysis Man". It's the uplifting story starring Stacy Without an E as a lonely dialysis patient struggling to stay alive on a daily basis. He's nearly at the end of his rope, about to end it all, when he meets luscious dialysis tech Winona Ryder, who gives him a new reason to live.

Rated R for delicious Winona Ryder full frontal nudity, bloody dialysis violence, naughty language and, hopefully, sexual situations.

Stop laughing, it's my fantasy.

Speaking of which, I'm dressed in the sexy Darth costume while Winona Ryder has her hair in cinammon buns with the gold biking from Jedi and...

Never mind.

Sunday, May 01, 2005

Laundry Speak

I was feeling rather zombie-like as I decided to wash my clothes.

So it came as sort of a shock when my boxers decided to start a conversation.

I had placed my laundry basket directly on top of the washer and opened two doors. As I was racially dividing my clothes between colors and whites, I was about to throw a pair of slightly used boxers into the wash.

"You really have no ass, you know that?"

I quickly looked around to see where the voice was coming from, but there wasn't anyone else joining me in the laundry room. I was kinda thankful since my ass is not a topic I really enjoy talking about.

"Flat ass. Flatass. Flass!" My boxers were as gleeful as a two year old child discovering a new word.

Since I had no one else talk to, and I was feeling rather lonely, I spoke back.

"Listen, I know I suffer from the anglo disease of no ass. Just leave me alone."

My boxers were rather chatty considering they smelled rather nauseating.

"Flass boy. Boxers really appreciate a good, strong masculine ass. No wonder I'm never on the floor looking up at you and a well-assed women."

"My personal life is really none of your damn business." I flung my now least pair of favorite boxers into the washer and quickly tried to muffle them with my college sweatshirt.

"Give me an ass with some meat on it and mfjlkejaiodfiadf."

I thought that would be the end of it until his brothers started piping up.

"Hey, that was pretty fucked up. He was just speaking the truth. I'm the one who should really be complaining. I've got shit stains..."

I smothered him with two bath towels and a good sprinkling of detergent. But apparently their volume had awoken the rest of my laundry.

"Hey guys, I'm the one who should complain. I have to wipe the water from his flass when he gets out of the shower."

Sigh. My other bath towel was now getting chatty.

"And I'm really sick and tired of you just leaving me on the floor when you're done showering. How about putting me back on the towel rack so I have a better view? Huh? Couldya? Huh?"

I slammed the door and held it shut, quickly looking around to see if anybody had witnessed me arguing with my laundry.

"Excuse me! Hey! Hey!!"

My attention span was starting to bow in the middle, but I finally discovered where the voice was coming from.

"Excuse me mister. My twin brother is all alone in the washer and he gets really upset if we're not together."

My dress sock seemed about ready to cry.

"Please, don't separate us. Once you dropped one of us behind the laundry basket and we were split up for weeks. I miss my brother already."

I could feel a tear coming to my eye, so I decided to open the washer door and reunite the sock family.

I deposited the required amount of change in the dispenser and pushed start.

It was the most frightening sound I had ever heard.

Imagine a symphony of whee's and yippee's blended with momentary high notes of sobbing.

I wondered how I would deal with a weekly drowning in city water and cheap detergent.

Which reminded me that I know exactly what they're going through. I wash my blood three times a week, three hours at a time, and I react much the same depending on the day of the week.

I made a promise to myself to treat my laundry with compassion and care from now on.

And if my boxers ever complain again, I'm switching to Old Navy.