In theory, going as a robot is a really cool idea. In practice, though, it’s a pretty crappy Halloween costume. It would seem that the robot would be a natural in the pantheon of classic Halloween characters alongside the vampire, the ghost, the witch and the t-shirt that reads “This is my costume.” It isn’t and for good reason. Although awesome in concept, the execution of the robot costume is rife with problems:
1. You really don’t look that much like a robot. I’ve seen plenty of robots on TV and none of them are built from cardboard boxes and aluminum foil. If it isn’t either a) covered with lights and gauges that go beep boop clickita clickita, or b) sleek, smooth and nearly perfect in its representation of the human form, you look more like the stockroom at Kroger than Killbot ZX9000.
2. Limited radius of movement. Stiff cardboard wrapped around your legs, arms, torso, and head has a tendency to restrict the independence of the aforementioned body parts. Very few Olympic track and field medalists wear uniforms crafted from the box the water heater came in.
3. Real robots don’t cry when they get knocked down and kicked in the stomach by kids in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle costumes. No matter how hard you worked on it, you’re still an 11-year-old pansy whose parents didn’t buy him a costume.
The ruling: A robot costume, sadly, is not awesome.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Frozen Yogurt Nomenclature
It’s sort of a shame that everybody calls it plain ol’ frozen yogurt. Wordsmiths, admen and lexicographers throughout the ages have bestowed upon society two vastly superior names that have sadly fallen from popular usage: Fro-yo and frogurt.
Sure, you hear both terms from time to time, but it’s nearly always in jest. They’re nonsense words used to poke fun at the SoCal, granola-crunching neohippie subculture one typically associates with the stuff. Dude, I totally spaced and dropped my fro-yo on my Birkenstocks - now they're all gnarly. Or At the Phish concert, I was like – whoa, man – the puka shell necklace line is even longer than the line at the frogurt concession! And not only is this an unfair representation of frozen yogurt’s position in society as a respected healthy alternative to traditional ice cream, it also robs us of the valid use of two words that are just plain goddamn fun to say.
Fro-yo. Say it. Say it again. If you can say it without a huge dopey grin on your face, you’re a better man than I am. Not only does it rhyme, fro-yo, it practically bounces. It bubbles out of the mouth like helium balloon with a marble in it. As you say it, it tumbles into the world like a Price is Right Plinko chip – popping back and forth with a carefree attitude that turns and says, “Come on, man. Take the afternoon off. Let’s go play hacky sack in the parking lot.”
And I don’t know how the more serious-minded frogurt got indicted right along with its slightly sillier counterpart. Frogurt is fast. Frogurt is efficient. A portmanteau devised to free us from the tedium of taking the time to pronounce all four syllables of fro-zen-yo-gurt. Who has all day to order a sweet tasty frozen snack? We’ve got Frisbees to throw, for crying out loud. While Poindexter here is still on syllable number three of frozen yogurt, I’m blissfully slurping away at my frogurt.
The decision: The terms “frogurt” and “fro-yo” are awesome. Unlike “frozen yogurt,” which is not.
Sure, you hear both terms from time to time, but it’s nearly always in jest. They’re nonsense words used to poke fun at the SoCal, granola-crunching neohippie subculture one typically associates with the stuff. Dude, I totally spaced and dropped my fro-yo on my Birkenstocks - now they're all gnarly. Or At the Phish concert, I was like – whoa, man – the puka shell necklace line is even longer than the line at the frogurt concession! And not only is this an unfair representation of frozen yogurt’s position in society as a respected healthy alternative to traditional ice cream, it also robs us of the valid use of two words that are just plain goddamn fun to say.
Fro-yo. Say it. Say it again. If you can say it without a huge dopey grin on your face, you’re a better man than I am. Not only does it rhyme, fro-yo, it practically bounces. It bubbles out of the mouth like helium balloon with a marble in it. As you say it, it tumbles into the world like a Price is Right Plinko chip – popping back and forth with a carefree attitude that turns and says, “Come on, man. Take the afternoon off. Let’s go play hacky sack in the parking lot.”
And I don’t know how the more serious-minded frogurt got indicted right along with its slightly sillier counterpart. Frogurt is fast. Frogurt is efficient. A portmanteau devised to free us from the tedium of taking the time to pronounce all four syllables of fro-zen-yo-gurt. Who has all day to order a sweet tasty frozen snack? We’ve got Frisbees to throw, for crying out loud. While Poindexter here is still on syllable number three of frozen yogurt, I’m blissfully slurping away at my frogurt.
The decision: The terms “frogurt” and “fro-yo” are awesome. Unlike “frozen yogurt,” which is not.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Dinner
Dinner is the best.
You know, if you have to pick one of the three.
Of course, there are those who claim that breakfast is the best, or at least “their favorite,” which is just the coward’s noncommittal way of refusing to choose sides. And sure, breakfast has a certain kitschy charm, with all of its candy-colored, cartoon-mascotted, maze-on-the-back-of-the-box, free-toy-inside, movie/TV-tie-in-promotion, artificially-hyperflavored, dripping-with-high-fructose-corn-syrup, so-crunchy-it-tears-sheets-of-skin-from-the-roof-of-your-mouth, pulverized oat-, corn-, or wheat-cereals festooned with inexplicably crunchy marshmallows. Breakfast is cute and everything, but let’s face it, it’s sort of a joke.
Breakfast will never be a full-fledged meal because it’s too narrow in focus. It lacks options. Besides cereal, you’ve got eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, waffles, and toast. And oatmeal, I guess. But that’s the entire list. Of course you can eat whatever you want in the morning, but I think we all know that if you stray from any of the classics, you’re sort of stretching things by calling it “breakfast.” Now don’t get me wrong, I love eggs. I think bacon is one of the crowning achievements of porcine evolution. But why limit yourself to breakfast when there’s a delicious spectrum of culinary pleasures to be had?
Lunch is the fulfillment of an obligation. It’s ten minutes in the middle of the day microwaving a fiesta-beef-n-cheez bun from a gas station vending machine so you can cram it joylessly into your slobbering, drooping mouth. Lunch is eaten while driving, or while hunched over the kitchen sink, or in your cubicle while feverishly maintaining the illusion of being far too busy to step away. You eat lunch with your bare hands. You eat it from Styrofoam, with plastic utensils and paper towels. It’s take-out. It’s drive-through. It’s hurry up and get back to what you were doing. It’s just lunch. Just get it over with.
But then there’s dinner. Man oh man, is there ever dinner. The amazing thing about dinner is that it could be anything. It could be a bowl of chili and a hot dog. Or eggplant. It could be chateaubriand with Doritos, or a bologna chimichanga. It could be Cool Whip straight from the container washed down with Mountain Dew. It could even be breakfast (and I suppose it could conceivably be lunch, although it probably wouldn’t be). At dinnertime, you can sit at the table, sit in front of the television, or sit in a restaurant. Hell, you can stand up for all I care. You can do anything at dinner. You can talk to your kids. You can ignore your parents. You can eat meat as an entrée and still have side dishes that contain meat. You can eat dinner with your hands, with a fork and a knife, or with a special utensil your Uncle Dan invented that grinds the food into a pulpy paste. You can eat only red foods, or only foods that start with the letter M. You can speak with a comical ethnic accent that has the same geographical origin as your food – Atsa espicy meata-ball! or Ziz zoup, she is merde! You don’t have to clean your plate. You don’t have to go to work afterwards. You don’t even have to put your shirt on, but you really should. At dinner, anything is possible.
The verdict: Dinner is awesome.
You know, if you have to pick one of the three.
Of course, there are those who claim that breakfast is the best, or at least “their favorite,” which is just the coward’s noncommittal way of refusing to choose sides. And sure, breakfast has a certain kitschy charm, with all of its candy-colored, cartoon-mascotted, maze-on-the-back-of-the-box, free-toy-inside, movie/TV-tie-in-promotion, artificially-hyperflavored, dripping-with-high-fructose-corn-syrup, so-crunchy-it-tears-sheets-of-skin-from-the-roof-of-your-mouth, pulverized oat-, corn-, or wheat-cereals festooned with inexplicably crunchy marshmallows. Breakfast is cute and everything, but let’s face it, it’s sort of a joke.
Breakfast will never be a full-fledged meal because it’s too narrow in focus. It lacks options. Besides cereal, you’ve got eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, waffles, and toast. And oatmeal, I guess. But that’s the entire list. Of course you can eat whatever you want in the morning, but I think we all know that if you stray from any of the classics, you’re sort of stretching things by calling it “breakfast.” Now don’t get me wrong, I love eggs. I think bacon is one of the crowning achievements of porcine evolution. But why limit yourself to breakfast when there’s a delicious spectrum of culinary pleasures to be had?
Lunch is the fulfillment of an obligation. It’s ten minutes in the middle of the day microwaving a fiesta-beef-n-cheez bun from a gas station vending machine so you can cram it joylessly into your slobbering, drooping mouth. Lunch is eaten while driving, or while hunched over the kitchen sink, or in your cubicle while feverishly maintaining the illusion of being far too busy to step away. You eat lunch with your bare hands. You eat it from Styrofoam, with plastic utensils and paper towels. It’s take-out. It’s drive-through. It’s hurry up and get back to what you were doing. It’s just lunch. Just get it over with.
But then there’s dinner. Man oh man, is there ever dinner. The amazing thing about dinner is that it could be anything. It could be a bowl of chili and a hot dog. Or eggplant. It could be chateaubriand with Doritos, or a bologna chimichanga. It could be Cool Whip straight from the container washed down with Mountain Dew. It could even be breakfast (and I suppose it could conceivably be lunch, although it probably wouldn’t be). At dinnertime, you can sit at the table, sit in front of the television, or sit in a restaurant. Hell, you can stand up for all I care. You can do anything at dinner. You can talk to your kids. You can ignore your parents. You can eat meat as an entrée and still have side dishes that contain meat. You can eat dinner with your hands, with a fork and a knife, or with a special utensil your Uncle Dan invented that grinds the food into a pulpy paste. You can eat only red foods, or only foods that start with the letter M. You can speak with a comical ethnic accent that has the same geographical origin as your food – Atsa espicy meata-ball! or Ziz zoup, she is merde! You don’t have to clean your plate. You don’t have to go to work afterwards. You don’t even have to put your shirt on, but you really should. At dinner, anything is possible.
The verdict: Dinner is awesome.
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