Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Guilty Pleasures: Justin Timberlake
A new series for the C.I.B. F. column coming at ya': Guilty Pleasures. I am swallowing my pride, ridding myself of any ego, abandoning any tiny bit of machismo I may possess and laying it out there in the name of (hopeful) comedy.
Let’s begin with a clear definition of a ‘Guilty Pleasure’ so we are all on the same page.
Our good friends at Wikipedia provide us with the following:
“A guilty pleasure is something one enjoys and considers pleasurable despite feeling guilt for enjoying it. The "guilt" involved is sometimes simply fear of others discovering one's lowbrow or otherwise embarrassing tastes. Fashion, video games, music, movies, and junk food can be examples of guilty pleasures"
So with that understood, I am opening up my personal Pandora’s Box of Guilty Pleasures.
Chapter 1: Justin Timberlake
Justin Timberlake (or JT as I like to “call” him), for you recluses that do not own a television or computer, is an international entertainment sensation. Ten years ago he was a squeaky-dyed-blond-curly-haired-teen-idol that was part of boy band N’Sync. Today, he is an A-list singer, actor, dancer, golfer, comedian, and perhaps the most sought-after man this side of George Clooney.
If you asked me what I thought of Justin Timberlake in 2000, I would have probably responded with a roll of the eyes and some subtle homophobic remark. If you ask me today what I think of him I would likely snap my neck around and giddily respond “Why, is he here???”
Is that wrong? Wait, don’t answer yet.
Let me clarify. Similar to the column I wrote about Tom Brady a couple of years ago, these “man crushes” are in NO WAY sexual in nature. More accurate is that he, like Brady, is like the real life version of Austin Powers; Women want to be with him - Men want to be him.
Just stating an honest fact about myself and, as I outlined in the very beginning, I am completely “guilt” ridden by this feeling.
So, wherein lies the “pleasure”?
In the simplest terms; JT is just a cool dude. Sure his music is good, but it is the more recent accolades he has added to his rockin’ resume which make him “must see TV” in my book.
Just a few examples…
•He hosted sports’ version of the Academy Awards - The ESPY’s - a few years back and was hilarious.
•He has been the most anticipated Saturday Night Live host since Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin. (Google: ‘Dick in a Box’ and you will quickly know why.)
•He captured the most memorable moment (as well as Janet Jackson’s right breast) in SuperBowl Halftime History
•Jimmy Fallon & The History of Rap: Parts I, II and III – all You Tube Classics.
•He is a scratch handicap golfer (for your non-golf enthusiasts, that means he is REALLY good and what many of us hackers aspire to be)
•His (rumored) ladies? Britney, Beyoncé, Fergie, Janet (Miss Jackson if your Nasty?), Scarlett, Cameron and The Future Mrs. Sexy Love Sounds, Jennifer Biel. Case closed.
So, while I am admittedly guilty and even slightly weirded out by my fascination, er, I mean interest, in Timberlake, I think I build a fairly compelling case as to why a 37 year old heterosexual, married man with children would be so intrigued?
Sure, I DVR his frequent appearances on Ellen. So what?
Fine, I have seen The Social Network like 8….teen…times.
Regretfully, (and by ‘regretfully’ I mean ‘justifiably’) I yelled at my 5 year old when she accidentally changed the channel during the final ten minutes of Friends with Benefits.
I suppose it is technically possible that I may have taken down a picture from our wedding and replaced it with an 18 x 36” version of his Teen People cover photo. Maybe.
For crying out loud, the man single handedly brought SEXY back to the world!
Go ahead; pass your judgment on me. But, don’t be so quick to…walk away because we all know What Goes Around Comes Around. I just think the guy is someone I may want to hang out with and I am a brave and forthright soul for admitting this to the world.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just purchased the entire Timberlake Collection of his time on The Micky Mouse Club House.
More guilty pleasures to follow…
P.S. Can I Be Frank?: The Book is hopefully on it's way!
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Fish Tales
For all you animal lovers, I respectfully warn you of the story you are about to read.
Pets. A cherished addendum to any household. Many pet owners emphatically claim that their pet is truly a member of their family. Pets get their own beds, their own toys and even their own Christmas stockings. Frankly, I think some of you take this a little too far (READ: COO COO), but that is not the point today, folks. Today, I share the reason why my family will likely lead a pet-free existence given what has happened in the past week.
Rewind to Friday, December 23; the day before Christmas Eve. My wife suggested that maybe it is time to get the kids a pet. Due to some serious allergies to dogs and cats, the options were limited and so she suggested we try a fish.
OK, sounds easy enough. A contained, non-hair shedding animal that does not bark, bite or cost a lot of money. I can get on board with one.
“Sounds good, hon. I’ll run out today and take care of it so the kids will have it for Christmas morning.”
And off I go to one of the 5,000 pet stores, not sure which (PetCo? PetSmart?, PetEdge?, Pet & Wild?, Pet Offensive?, Benny & the Pets, Ready, Pet, GO? Pet It Be?, Place Your Pets!?, Heavy Petting?, Don’t Pet Me Down? Live and Pet Be?, Pet Him to the Greek?, ....ok…you get it).
Walk into the store with a very clear mission in mind: quickly identify the simplest, user-friendly fish available. I track down one of the store workers and ask for her help.
“Hi, I am looking for the super basic, easy to take care of fish. It is our first fish and 3 small kids will be trying to take care of it. What do ya got?”
Inside of ten minutes I had a fish – a “Beta” – a tank, food, chemicals and was at the register. Perfect. Mission accomplished. Maybe this will be as easy as it seems?
Safely arrive home. Kids at school. Wife at work. My initial thought was to assemble the tank and get our new friend acclimated to his new home. Open up the box with the tank and all its parts. Pull out the instructions. Oh boy. Little more confusing than I thought. No problem, we will tackle this project later.
So I did what, I thought, any new responsible pet owner would do; I locked him in the dark, cold basement and threw some food in his tank. A few “shakes” (a critical detail of this story) of fish food and I was off to my next errand that day.
Fast forward to dinner time. Everyone home. I whisper to my wife, “I got the fish! Should be all set. We have to set up the tank and then we’re good to go. He is down in the basement so the kids don’t find him before Christmas.”
She applauded my efforts and we carefully snuck down to the cellar so I could make the proper introduction to “Fish” (yeah, no name yet – that’s the kids’ job).
Yep, he’s dead.
After nearly 7 full ours of ownership, our first family pet was gone forever.
While I can not be sure, I am fairly confident that our new addition was murdered.
Well, more like suicide.
A frantic Amy panics and asked me EXACTLY what I did?
“Nothing! I brought him home. Fed him and….”
“How much did you feed him?” she interrupted.
“I don’t know. A few shakes. Not much. Why?”
Apparently these fish only require 3 to 4 PELLETS of food per day. So, my “shake” might have caused our new buddy to take his own life like the ‘Gluttony’ guy from that movie Seven.
Oops. My bad.
OK, time for Plan B.
My idea…we assemble the tank and give it to the kids empty of any fish.
My logic…let them pick out their own pet!
Perfect, right? After about 15 minutes of being berated for my lack of direction-reading, my wife conceded to my idea and agreed this would play well to the kiddos.
Christmas arrives. Kids are very excited about their gifts, especially the new tank where their first pet would reside.
Bravo, Daddy. A well laid plan.
Day after Christmas, I pack up the little ones to head off to the neighborhood pet store (key word being ‘neighborhood’, as you will learn).
Arrive at store and I know EXACTLY what to buy. I lead them to Beta fish section, they make their selection and we are headed home. Once again, an easy purchasing process.
The ‘new’ first pet, safely captive inside a small plastic container, is placed inside my cup holder and we head back home….less than one mile away.
And then…
As we worked our way back to Fish Headquarters I made a call to relay the news to Mom that we had a NEW, NEW pet on route. I glance down to peak at my pal…..Sweet Mother of God…there was a CRACK in the container. Water rapidly leaking into my car and our friend of 11 whole minutes gasping his last breaths
Have I actually murdered two innocent animals inside of 48 hours?
Images of PETA, MSPCA, PAWS and every other animal rights group chasing me like an angry mob flood (no pun intended) my brain.
No time to panic. I hit the gas as the race against time begins.
STAY AWAY FROM THE LIGHT, MAN! WE ARE ALMOST HOME!
Driving like a Columbian drug lord headed for the border I endanger everyone in my path, especially my own children. Pull in the driveway. The fish is now squirming around in the equivalent amount of water as a tear.
Car still running, kids still buckled, I run my little guy in the house. Throw him in that tank and pray for the best.
I am pleased to report that ‘Gil’ is alive and well (Day 9 and counting) today.
That said, I highly suggest that none of you ever ask me to pet sit anytime soon.
Pets. A cherished addendum to any household. Many pet owners emphatically claim that their pet is truly a member of their family. Pets get their own beds, their own toys and even their own Christmas stockings. Frankly, I think some of you take this a little too far (READ: COO COO), but that is not the point today, folks. Today, I share the reason why my family will likely lead a pet-free existence given what has happened in the past week.
Rewind to Friday, December 23; the day before Christmas Eve. My wife suggested that maybe it is time to get the kids a pet. Due to some serious allergies to dogs and cats, the options were limited and so she suggested we try a fish.
OK, sounds easy enough. A contained, non-hair shedding animal that does not bark, bite or cost a lot of money. I can get on board with one.
“Sounds good, hon. I’ll run out today and take care of it so the kids will have it for Christmas morning.”
And off I go to one of the 5,000 pet stores, not sure which (PetCo? PetSmart?, PetEdge?, Pet & Wild?, Pet Offensive?, Benny & the Pets, Ready, Pet, GO? Pet It Be?, Place Your Pets!?, Heavy Petting?, Don’t Pet Me Down? Live and Pet Be?, Pet Him to the Greek?, ....ok…you get it).
Walk into the store with a very clear mission in mind: quickly identify the simplest, user-friendly fish available. I track down one of the store workers and ask for her help.
“Hi, I am looking for the super basic, easy to take care of fish. It is our first fish and 3 small kids will be trying to take care of it. What do ya got?”
Inside of ten minutes I had a fish – a “Beta” – a tank, food, chemicals and was at the register. Perfect. Mission accomplished. Maybe this will be as easy as it seems?
Safely arrive home. Kids at school. Wife at work. My initial thought was to assemble the tank and get our new friend acclimated to his new home. Open up the box with the tank and all its parts. Pull out the instructions. Oh boy. Little more confusing than I thought. No problem, we will tackle this project later.
So I did what, I thought, any new responsible pet owner would do; I locked him in the dark, cold basement and threw some food in his tank. A few “shakes” (a critical detail of this story) of fish food and I was off to my next errand that day.
Fast forward to dinner time. Everyone home. I whisper to my wife, “I got the fish! Should be all set. We have to set up the tank and then we’re good to go. He is down in the basement so the kids don’t find him before Christmas.”
She applauded my efforts and we carefully snuck down to the cellar so I could make the proper introduction to “Fish” (yeah, no name yet – that’s the kids’ job).
Yep, he’s dead.
After nearly 7 full ours of ownership, our first family pet was gone forever.
While I can not be sure, I am fairly confident that our new addition was murdered.
Well, more like suicide.
A frantic Amy panics and asked me EXACTLY what I did?
“Nothing! I brought him home. Fed him and….”
“How much did you feed him?” she interrupted.
“I don’t know. A few shakes. Not much. Why?”
Apparently these fish only require 3 to 4 PELLETS of food per day. So, my “shake” might have caused our new buddy to take his own life like the ‘Gluttony’ guy from that movie Seven.
Oops. My bad.
OK, time for Plan B.
My idea…we assemble the tank and give it to the kids empty of any fish.
My logic…let them pick out their own pet!
Perfect, right? After about 15 minutes of being berated for my lack of direction-reading, my wife conceded to my idea and agreed this would play well to the kiddos.
Christmas arrives. Kids are very excited about their gifts, especially the new tank where their first pet would reside.
Bravo, Daddy. A well laid plan.
Day after Christmas, I pack up the little ones to head off to the neighborhood pet store (key word being ‘neighborhood’, as you will learn).
Arrive at store and I know EXACTLY what to buy. I lead them to Beta fish section, they make their selection and we are headed home. Once again, an easy purchasing process.
The ‘new’ first pet, safely captive inside a small plastic container, is placed inside my cup holder and we head back home….less than one mile away.
And then…
As we worked our way back to Fish Headquarters I made a call to relay the news to Mom that we had a NEW, NEW pet on route. I glance down to peak at my pal…..Sweet Mother of God…there was a CRACK in the container. Water rapidly leaking into my car and our friend of 11 whole minutes gasping his last breaths
Have I actually murdered two innocent animals inside of 48 hours?
Images of PETA, MSPCA, PAWS and every other animal rights group chasing me like an angry mob flood (no pun intended) my brain.
No time to panic. I hit the gas as the race against time begins.
STAY AWAY FROM THE LIGHT, MAN! WE ARE ALMOST HOME!
Driving like a Columbian drug lord headed for the border I endanger everyone in my path, especially my own children. Pull in the driveway. The fish is now squirming around in the equivalent amount of water as a tear.
Car still running, kids still buckled, I run my little guy in the house. Throw him in that tank and pray for the best.
I am pleased to report that ‘Gil’ is alive and well (Day 9 and counting) today.
That said, I highly suggest that none of you ever ask me to pet sit anytime soon.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Furniture Follies, Part Dos
C.I.B.F. does not usually like sequels (did I just refer to myself in the 3rd person…uhg…bad start) but I feel this one is worth revisiting.
As some of you recall from my post a few weeks back (http://northandover.patch.com/blog_posts/can-i-be-frank-furniture-follies ) I have been supplementing income via a warehouse job at an office furniture company. The gist of that blog was that I am totally out of my element and that things were not exactly going swimmingly in this temporary line of work. When I wrote that piece I did not believe things could get more interesting or, frankly, more entertaining.
Then I met Ramon.
Until this past week, I have primarily worked with three other people in the warehouse; my supervisors, Rick and Wally, and my fellow furniture-lugging friend, Alejandro (come on Lady Gaga fans, sing with me…Alejandro….Ale, Ale…jandro!)
As I walked into the workplace on a very rainy and dreary Wednesday, I was introduced to another member of the team; Ramon.
Ramon is an approximately 40 year old, average sized Hispanic man.
Ramon is a very nice guy.
Ramon is a very hard worker.
And Ramon is completely CAAAA…RAZY!
LOCO!
Loud, funny, unpredictable, Ramon brought a new excitement to the desk jockeying world I have become accustomed to in recent weeks. When I asked my peers about Ramon, I was told he had been working there for years but had been out for the last month.
Wow, a month! Did he take a nice long vacation? Did he have a new baby at home? Perhaps a sabbatical from hustle and bustle of the ‘slave trade’ that is office furniture warehousing? I thought.
No?
What?
Come again?
Yeah, Ramon was out for the past month because he lost ½ of his index finger hauling furniture!
Are you kidding me?
No, they were not kidding. What really blew my mind? Ramon was back for more.
Allow me to backtrack for one second. Prior to meeting Ramon, Rick informed me that I would be working with him for the day as the rest of the group needed to tend to another project elsewhere.
Sure, no problem, Rick. Makes no difference to me.
Yeah, that’s how I felt before Rick blurted out the following phrase…
“So, as far as Ramon…he is a little nuts and sometimes careless…so just watch out.”
Come again, Ricky? How nuts and how careless???
Before I could get a straight answer out of him, they were all gone. It was just me, the 9-fingered bandit and a heaping pile of heavy furniture to unload from a very wet and dark tractor trailer.
Sweet.
Inside of 10 minutes with my new buddy, I understood exactly why he was sans one finger.
He was throwing around 200 lb desks like they were rag dolls.
Hoisting table tops like they were throw pillows.
Curling cubicles like they were cans of corn.
It was awe inspiring.
It was impressive.
And it was a total {cue the Kenny Loggins music} DANGER ZONE.
My kneejerk reaction was “This guy is lucky to have ANY fingers at all!”
After digesting his reckless abandon for his own well being….I realized the only person Ramon cared less about injuring than himself was…gulp… ME!
Not only was he launching unwieldy, awkward furniture to and fro, he was throwing it in my general direction. Can you imagine if I lost my index finger? Forget about the girlish screams that would be heard throughout the six New England states, how would I ever type again?
To add insult to potentially life threatening injury, let’s pile on one more layer of complexity and danger; Ramon speaks very broken and extremely-hard-to-understand English! To say English was Ramon’s second language would be like saying that…well…I don’t know…insert your own parable people!
Not only could I barely understand a word he uttered, Ramon spoke at the pace of a cocaine-fueled South American soccer broadcaster. I was just waiting to hear the scream of....
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL!” as he decapitated me with a desk chair.
The ironic (and extremely curious) addendum to this bizarre day at “the office”; while Ramon lacked the ability to clearly communicate with me in English, he could sing EVERY word to EVERY song on the radio we play in the building. From The Beatles to Bob Dylan to Boston. Unreal. So, I just decided to sign my new digitally deficient friend up for Singing Bee! Too much talent to waste in a warehouse!
Ay de mi.
P.S. If you need high quality furniture at a great price, head over to Ideal Office Solutions! 360 Merrimack Street in Lawrence! I’m Frank McCabe, Jr.! (anyone else catch the Junior joke? Nevermind.) Come on down! www.idealofficeonline.com
As some of you recall from my post a few weeks back (http://northandover.patch.com/blog_posts/can-i-be-frank-furniture-follies ) I have been supplementing income via a warehouse job at an office furniture company. The gist of that blog was that I am totally out of my element and that things were not exactly going swimmingly in this temporary line of work. When I wrote that piece I did not believe things could get more interesting or, frankly, more entertaining.
Then I met Ramon.
Until this past week, I have primarily worked with three other people in the warehouse; my supervisors, Rick and Wally, and my fellow furniture-lugging friend, Alejandro (come on Lady Gaga fans, sing with me…Alejandro….Ale, Ale…jandro!)
As I walked into the workplace on a very rainy and dreary Wednesday, I was introduced to another member of the team; Ramon.
Ramon is an approximately 40 year old, average sized Hispanic man.
Ramon is a very nice guy.
Ramon is a very hard worker.
And Ramon is completely CAAAA…RAZY!
LOCO!
Loud, funny, unpredictable, Ramon brought a new excitement to the desk jockeying world I have become accustomed to in recent weeks. When I asked my peers about Ramon, I was told he had been working there for years but had been out for the last month.
Wow, a month! Did he take a nice long vacation? Did he have a new baby at home? Perhaps a sabbatical from hustle and bustle of the ‘slave trade’ that is office furniture warehousing? I thought.
No?
What?
Come again?
Yeah, Ramon was out for the past month because he lost ½ of his index finger hauling furniture!
Are you kidding me?
No, they were not kidding. What really blew my mind? Ramon was back for more.
Allow me to backtrack for one second. Prior to meeting Ramon, Rick informed me that I would be working with him for the day as the rest of the group needed to tend to another project elsewhere.
Sure, no problem, Rick. Makes no difference to me.
Yeah, that’s how I felt before Rick blurted out the following phrase…
“So, as far as Ramon…he is a little nuts and sometimes careless…so just watch out.”
Come again, Ricky? How nuts and how careless???
Before I could get a straight answer out of him, they were all gone. It was just me, the 9-fingered bandit and a heaping pile of heavy furniture to unload from a very wet and dark tractor trailer.
Sweet.
Inside of 10 minutes with my new buddy, I understood exactly why he was sans one finger.
He was throwing around 200 lb desks like they were rag dolls.
Hoisting table tops like they were throw pillows.
Curling cubicles like they were cans of corn.
It was awe inspiring.
It was impressive.
And it was a total {cue the Kenny Loggins music} DANGER ZONE.
My kneejerk reaction was “This guy is lucky to have ANY fingers at all!”
After digesting his reckless abandon for his own well being….I realized the only person Ramon cared less about injuring than himself was…gulp… ME!
Not only was he launching unwieldy, awkward furniture to and fro, he was throwing it in my general direction. Can you imagine if I lost my index finger? Forget about the girlish screams that would be heard throughout the six New England states, how would I ever type again?
To add insult to potentially life threatening injury, let’s pile on one more layer of complexity and danger; Ramon speaks very broken and extremely-hard-to-understand English! To say English was Ramon’s second language would be like saying that…well…I don’t know…insert your own parable people!
Not only could I barely understand a word he uttered, Ramon spoke at the pace of a cocaine-fueled South American soccer broadcaster. I was just waiting to hear the scream of....
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL!” as he decapitated me with a desk chair.
The ironic (and extremely curious) addendum to this bizarre day at “the office”; while Ramon lacked the ability to clearly communicate with me in English, he could sing EVERY word to EVERY song on the radio we play in the building. From The Beatles to Bob Dylan to Boston. Unreal. So, I just decided to sign my new digitally deficient friend up for Singing Bee! Too much talent to waste in a warehouse!
Ay de mi.
P.S. If you need high quality furniture at a great price, head over to Ideal Office Solutions! 360 Merrimack Street in Lawrence! I’m Frank McCabe, Jr.! (anyone else catch the Junior joke? Nevermind.) Come on down! www.idealofficeonline.com
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