Nevin Barich Blog Experience

Flying First Class: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2012-01-28T13:40:00.000-08:00

Nevdogg Note: This is the first of a two-part series about my wife Ramona's amazing Christmas for me, in which myself and a friend flew first class from Los Angeles to Chicago and then saw the Green Bay Packers play at Lambeau Field on New Year's Day. Part 1 is about flying first class.

So it's 6:30 a.m. on Dec. 31, 2011. A little early to be up on New Year's Eve. Normally, yes. However, when you're on your way to Los Angeles International Airport to fly FIRST CLASS to Chicago and then catch the Green Bay Packers play at iconic LAMBEAU FIELD the next day, you don't mind getting up when the sun does. :-)

Here's how it went down:

For Christmas, my wife Ramona and her friend Jessica surprised myself and Jess' husband Adam with first-class airfare to Chicago on New Year's Eve, along with tickets to the Packers game the following day. For me, this was the gift to end all gifts. For one thing, while a diehard Raiders fan, I've always liked the Packers and if there's one place I've always wanted to go to watch a sporting event, it was the Packers' home stadium -- Lambeau Field -- which is essentially the sporting mecca of America. But more on the game next blog. :-)

As an amazing bonus, our airplane ride was going to take place in first-class comfort. For me, this was a dream come true. I've flown first class exactly once in my life, when I was 6 years old and going with my parents and sister to see relatives in New York. And all I remembers is that we flew through a hurricane and they served me hot dogs.

So needless to say, I've always wanted to have a first-class airplane experience that I'd actually remember so my amazing wife made it happen!

How was the experience? Let me tell you, as we play a game called:

Except If You're In First Class

When we arrived at the airport and when to check in our bags, there was a huge line to wait in...

...except if you're in first class. :-)

In first class, you have your own special line, complete with red carpet, with no one in front of you and people quickly and easily checking in your bags free of charge.

When we went to board the plane, it took a while to get on because it was an extremely full flight...

...except if you're in first class.

Priority boarding. Hell's to the yes.

Once on the plane, every nook and cranny was filled up, from the seats to the overhead compartment...

...except if you're in first class.

Including myself and Adam, there were exactly three people in first class, with plenty of overhead compartment space and our very own rows.

Like any flight, no drinks are served before takeoff...

...except if you're in first class.

"Sir, would you like anything to drink before we take off?" the stewardess asked me.

I had a Diet Pepsi and a Bailey's Irish Cream. Free, of course. :-)

As you know, these days airlines charge anything from $5 to $10 for packaged food boxes...

...except if you're in first class.

I got food that was actually cooked. Cooked, people! I had a potato-and-leek omelet (I had to ask what a leek was) with mozzarella sausage and vegetable hash. Plus, they gave you real silverware!

"What do you think so far?" Adam asked me.

"Dude!" I replied. They put this Diet Pepsi in a glass!"

It's the little things. :-)

Airlines always charge for movies, when you have a choice of a couple of films...

...except if you're in first class.

I had my choice of 25 on-demand movies. Twenty-five! I was officially happier than a hog in slop.

"Excuse me?" I asked the stewardess. "One more Bailey's please."

I like a fresh beverage during movie time. :-)

Other first-class highlights:

Leg room. OMG.

Easy bathroom access.

Foot rests.

Unlimited snacks.

Mouthwash (all you have to do is ask).

Blankets and pillows that don't itch.

And, most importantly:

A screen to separate you from the rest of the plane.

Peons.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

A man was recently arrested for disorderly conduct while covered in white powder.

Here's his mugshot.

Yep.

Some SOTAs just write themselves.

Adopting A 23-Pound Cat: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2012-01-14T13:07:00.000-08:00

OK, so I know I promised that this week I would begin my two-part series about my amazing Christmas gift from my wife Ramona, which involved both first-class travel to Chicago and TICKETS TO SEE THE GREEN BAY PACKERS AT LAMBEAU FIELD!!!! And I promise that such blogs will be coming very, very soon.

However, this week has found Ramona and I to make a big decision regarding our household. It's something we've talked about for a while now, having been married for nearly 2 1/2 years. Having a household all to ourselves has been nice, but we both agreed that at times the house seems a bit empty and that maybe the time is right to add a new member to our family.

So this week, we took the leap...

...and adopted a cat.

:-)

But not just any cat. As I write this blog, the newest member of the Barich household, Beans, is currently hiding in the back of my closet, a little timid of her new parents and surroundings. We expected this, and we expect her to leave the closet at some point.

But when she does, it may take her a while...

...because Beans weighs 23 pounds.

Twenty-three pounds. Yep, our new cat is fat. A fat cat. She don't move very fast, and in truth she hasn't moved much since we met her this morning. And if I'm being totally honest, hearing about how big she was initially raised my eyebrows. But then I found out more about Beans: About how her previous owner has passed away. About she's been at the shelter for six months, longer than any other cat. About how other potential owners -- maybe of them elderly -- decided not to adopt her because...well, they just couldn't lift her!

All of this made me and Ramona sad. So while there were other cats out there -- younger, thinner felines -- we decide to adopt the 5-year-old fat one.

I've been a cat owner for approximately 87 minutes. But so far, so good. I have all of her essentials set up -- food, water, litter box, toys -- I didn't drop her while she was in the carrying case, and I even didn't freak out when she got cat hair all over my pants!

Yep, I think this is gonna work out OK. :-)

Ramona, meanwhile, is ecstatic. She's the cat lover in the relationship. She's wanted a cat for a while now and for some reason fell in love with the idea of adopting a big old fatty (not sure why, but to each their own). So for me, it's win-win. I have a happy wife and a cat that I rescued from the glue factory (do they send cats to the glue factory?).

Now technically, we're not Beans' official parents yet. We're just "foster parents" until we decide officially that we want to keep her. But in our minds, there's no debate. Beans is a keeper. And once she ventures out of the closet, I think she's going to like her new home.

Besides...

...Beans' colors are silver and black.

Raiders colors.

That's a good omen.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Snooki is becoming a boxing promoter.

Perhaps the Mayans were right about 2012...

Playing Basketball With Teenagers...And Feeling Like An Old Man: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2012-01-07T10:47:00.000-08:00

I am not a good basketball player. In fact, I absolutely suck. I can't jump, I can't run, I can't shoot, I can't rebound, I can't dribble and move forward at the same time (never did get that down) and I'm not even a very good passer. Hoops just ain't my game.

Nonetheless, I'll hit the courts from time to time and feature my lack of skills. So when my neighbor John texted me last night and told me that him, his son, his nephew and another teenage boy were playing basketball across the street, I didn't hesitate.

"Honey," I said to my wife Ramona, "I'm gonna go outside and play."

I haven't said that since I was 10 years old. :-)

Once outside, a friendly game of Horse quickly turned into a Streetball game of 2-on-3, featuring the old guys (me and John) versus three teenage boys.

And although we held our own (we played two games to 11 and managed to win the first one despite the numbers disadvantage), I realized yesterday that the other team had a fourth player that I didn't expect:

Father Time.

Simply put, I felt like an old man out there. For the first time in my life, I found myself unable to hang with the younger boys athletically. I'm 32 years old, and last night was the first time that I really felt it.

Now, in my defense: I was not in game shape. I work out all the time, but it takes even professional basketball players time to get their wind. If I played more regularly, I surely would feel better out there than I did yesterday. So that was part of it.

But it was more than that. Usually when I play basketball, my body catches its wind after the first game. Not yesterday. Usually when I play basketball, I can will my legs to continue when they're burning. Not yesterday. Usually when I play basketball, I can guard even the fastest teenager (the unskilled-to-semi-skilled ones, anyway) with my lockdown defense when I feel the need to slow the game up. Not yesterday. John's damn nephew flew by me every time, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I even found myself wondering:

Was I ever that young?

And so for the first time in my life, I -- along with my teammate -- resorted to a long-standing tradition of what men do in these situations when we reach a certain age:

We cheated. :-)

It wasn't blatant cheating. Just a lot of little things. The pulling of the shirt when one of the kids when it for a layup. The "incidental" elbow on his back when going for a rebound. If we were down 8-5, the score somehow became 7-5. If the ball ever went out of bounds, the old guys never touched it. One time, one of the kids accidentally gave me the ball after I checked it to him, and I promptly turned around and shot it in. Any semblance of complaint from the young kids was instantly met with a look of incredulous disgust by one of the old guys, as if to say:

A real man doesn't bitch and moan. Only a boy would call that a foul.

That look works on teenagers every time. :-)

We trash-talked. That was a skill we still had. Every time one of the kids did a fancy dribble, we called him a showoff. We rolled our eyes at every one of their no-look passes. The kids heard about every shot they missed. Whenever one of them complained to the other, we called them a bad teammate. The young kids, according to the old guys, had no heart, no continuity, no concept of team. They were too young to know what it took to win, we said. We did and said anything and everything, because by the middle of game two, we had nothing else to fall back on.

Every time the old guys made a shot without the fancy moves -- which was every time -- we praised our lack of wasted motion, saying that only kids do all that useless running around. But the truth was: We didn't have the energy for wasted motion. All we had was gamesmanship.

When I came back into the house, my wife took one look at me and knew the story. For the first time in my life, I was an old man. She even said to me, "Would you rather not go out tonight? You can stay home and rest."

Stay home and rest. My God, where did the years go?

Luckily, within 20 minutes -- and after a hot shower -- this old man felt good enough to take his wife to dinner and a movie. And during The Adventures of Tin Tin, I took some time to reflect on what happened during the course of that evening. Every athlete has that first-ever moment when he's an old man out there. Some manage to make adjustments and last a few more years. Others refuse to change their ways and fall to a combination of bitterness and forgotten memories. I hope I'm the former, not the latter.

Next game, I think these young guys may trip over my feet.

Accidentally, of course.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

They launched a Project Runway All-Stars?

Really?

I mean...

Really?

Also:

Next week begins my two-part blog series about my AWESOME Christmas gift from Ramona: First-class travel to Chicago and TICKETS TO SEE THE GREEN BAY PACKERS AT LAMBEAU FIELD!!!!

So much blog-worthy material.

:-)

The Jews Who Love Christmas: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-12-23T11:31:00.000-08:00

I think this is going to become a yearly rant.

You know what really annoys me during the holidays? A fellow Jew who tells me some variation of the following:

Why are you talking about Christmas? You're Jewish!

And to these fellow Jews, I say the following:

F*** YOU!!!

Let me explain Christmas from a Jewish perspective. All Jews love Christmas. Every single one. Even the real orthodox "why are you talking about Christmas blah blah blah" Jews love Christmas. What's not to love? Christmas is about family, friends, presents, snow, trees, vacation and pretty lights. It's a universal holiday and everyone believes in Santa to one degree or another.

Christmas can be a little weird for Jews, however. See, technically it's a holiday for everyone but us. Christmas is technically off limits for Jews. It focuses on a religion that isn't ours, on a tradition that isn't ours, and everyone always throws the "but you have Chanukah" argument in our face.

By the way, let me address the Chanukah argument. Chanukah is nice and all, but it ain't Christmas. We don't get a tree, we don't get lights and you know that whole eight-days-of-presents thing? All the presents are crap.

So it's easy for us to feel a little left out during the Christmas season. So many of us over the years, like myself, have said "to hell with it" and have decided to celebrate Christmas like everyone else. I, for example, have a tree in my house and lights outside.

And here's the funny thing: People who have celebrated Christmas their whole lives have welcomed us Jews with open arms into their traditions. They're cool with us. They get it. They understand that Christmas is, and should be, for everyone. They give us no flack whatsoever.

It's other Jews, however, that make us feel bad about it. It's other Jews who make the snide comments about Jews who celebrate Christmas. It's other Jews who make us feel bad about having a Christmas tree. It's other Jews who act like we're turning our back on them.

And to those Jews, I say this: It's Christmas. And in the spirit of Christmas, embrace the spirit the Christmas and stop making your anti-Christmas comments during Christmas.

Christmas.

Christmas. Christmas. Christmas.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

A personal SOTA this week (no pictures or links unfortunately). Recently, some friends of mine have been dressing up their cats and dogs in bows and dresses for the holiday season.

One friend of mine even said: "I'm dressing up my kitty so he'll be ready to meet his grandparents!!!"

Which are her parents, in case you were wondering.

These people are freaks.

Freaks. Freaks. Freaks.

:-)

Video Game Store Workers: They Never Change: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-12-12T18:21:00.000-08:00

I love video games. Starting in the mid-1980s, where me and my cousin Jeff would play Dragon's Lair, Football and Jungle Hunt on his Atari 5200, video games have been an integral part of my existence all the way through childhood.

Over the past year or so, however, I haven't been playing video games as often. The reason, quite honestly, is time. I don't have as much free time as I used to -- when you're married, you tend to spend more of your free time with your wife and less with your Nintendo Wii, particularly if your wife isn't much of a video game -- and so my video game playing has faded a bit into the background.

But last weekend while doing some holiday shopping, I ventured into one of local Gamestop video stores and realized something. I realized that no matter how much time I spend away from video games, when I venture back into the world, one thing stays the same:

Guys who work at video game shops are absolutely dorks.

Here are the things about video game shop workers that haven't changed over the years:

1) They're all guys. I swear, I don't think I've seen a person with a Y chromosome sell a video game in my 32-plus years on this Earth. The video game worker club remains a men's-only club. Gay guys should take heed: For you folks, this can be a real meat-market.

I'm always trying to help out my homosexual readers. :-)

2) They're all nerds. I hate stereotyping -- I really do. I mean, hell, I'm a nerd in a lot of respects. And there's nothing wrong with nerds. Nerds have a place in this world. But there are people who have nerdish tendencies and then there's people who are nerds. People who laugh in a nasally voice, wear shirts all the way buttoned, are always carrying pens, smile weird, snort.

I'll never forget the time when I walked into a video game store and one of the workers busted out the Don Flamenco dance.

Nerd or just nerdish? Need I even ask?

2) They have their own language. Someone from The Rosetta Stone company seriously needs to come up with a new version for video-game worker speak. I mean, it's literally gibberish to me. Do you have to know the language being hired? Or does the cult teach you as part of your initiation?

Here's a snip-it of a conversation over the weekend:

Worker 1: Are you serial?

Worker 2: Freakin' A!

Worker 1: No slaughter?

Worker 2: Slaughter is so SMB3?

Worker 1: Well, probably like DD2.

(pause)

Worker 2: Are...you...SERIAL????

Um...yeah.

In the end, though, it's nice to see this segment of the workforce remain unchanged as the years go on.

So here's to you, Mr. Video Game Worker.

Dance the Don Flamenco to your heart's content.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

One of this year's Major League Baseball MVPs, Ryan Braun, has tested positive for performance-enhancing drugs.

And get this: Apparently, he was notified prior to being awarded the MVP award.

Major League Baseball reportedly will not be stripped of the MVP award, although he should If you take PEDs, you've cheated, pure and simple. Braun should be stripped of his award in addition to his 50-game suspension.

The Right Kind Of Organic Foods: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-12-04T16:37:00.000-08:00

Recently, I've been eating more organic products. I know, I know. I'm Mr. Processed Food. But recently while on a trip to the supermarket with my wife Ramona, I was in the frozen food section reaching for my Lean Pockets when Ramona stopped me and -- with pleading eyes -- implored me to at least take a look at the organic frozen products nearby.

So I agreed to at least take a look...

...and 10 minutes later, we were at the cash register with $65 worth of frozen organic food products.

To soften the blow, Ramona handed me $5.

Marriage. :-)

But needless to say, in recent weeks I've been consuming more organic products. Frozen organic pizza. Frozen organic burritos. Frozen organic enchiladas. I haven't had a lean pocket in four months. I'm waiting for one of those "120 day" chips.

So imagine my surprise when I recently came home for the supermarket, showed my wife my recent purchase of organic stuff, and saw a look of disappointment on my face.

"What's wrong?" I asked. "It's all organic."

"Yeah," she replied, but it's not the best kind of organic."

Best kind of organic?

Hold the phone. Since when are there different levels of organic? It's bad enough that I'm spending three times as much to eat more organically, but now I'm being lectured for not buying the right kind of expensive organic products? When I come home with a bagful of organic products -- when I, Nevin Scott Barich, lover of any and all preservatives, buy organic stuff -- I expect heaping amounts of praise! I don't expect...

...not the best kind of organic.

Here's my take: I haven't eaten a lean pocket since the middle of baseball season. Every day for lunch at work, I make myself organic burritos and my coworkers give me their "how long will this last? glances. I can no longer take advantage of 33-cent frozen food sales. With all of that, don't I deserve unlimited, "Nev, you're so amazing for eating more organically" praise? Do I really need to be given a "right kind of organic" lecture?

It makes a man want to fall off the lean pocket bandwagon.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Kourtney Kardashian is pregnant again.

And the timing couldn't be better! For Kourtney recently launched a mommy blog,

Oh dear God...

Prices For 3D Movies: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-11-27T11:30:00.000-08:00

Movie ticket prices are high. That's nothing new. I go to the movies all the time, so for the most part I'm desensitized to the exorbitant fees charged at today's theatrical cinemas.

But last Saturday while going to see the new Harold and Kumar movie with my buddies Kevin and Jeremy, I was in for a rude awakening when I went to purchase my ticket.

"That will be $16," said the woman behind the movie counter.

That will be $16.

And my jaw hit the floor.

At first, I thought that the failing U.S. economy that's been around me for the past four years had finally hit home. Or that the California town of Burbank -- where we were seeing the movie -- had suddenly come up with some sort of movie tax to pay for new local parks. Or, as I asked Jeremy when I heard the price for the ticket:

$16? What, does it come with a blow job afterwards?

Needless to say, I was stunned. Floored. And a bit scared. Until it was explained to me that the reason for the extra fee was because the movie we were seeing was in 3D.

Here's my thing with 3D movies: I like them. They're cute. The 3D glasses can get a little annoying at times, but the technology in general has come a long way since the red-and-blue spectacles of the 1980s. 3D movies can be a lot of fun with the right film and a nice twist in general.

But every movie today, it seems, is becoming 3D. I mean, not every movie is Avatar. Most of the time, 3D is pointless. Toy Story 3? Pointless. Clash Of The Titans? Pointless. The latest Harry Potter? The first six were in 2D and they were fine. Why mess with success?

Harold and Kumar? Look, the 3D in this movie was cool. At times, I really did feel like the Wall Street protesters were pelting me with eggs, or Neil Patrick Harris was covering me with confetti. But I didn't need the extra effects. I would've been perfectly happy seeing it in 2D and paying $11.75.

All I'm saying is this:

The movie industry is bad enough. High prices for movies. Crazy prices for junior mints. The slow -- sloowwwwwww -- implementation of self-serve soft drink dispensers (to date, I only know of one theater near me that has this). Do you really need to take the next step and charge crazy fees for a 3D experience?

For $4 less, I'll see Harold and Kumar in 2D and pelt myself with my own eggs.

:-)

And now for this week's:

Someone built a home on top of a volcano.

It's yours for $750,000.

The Annoyance Of Movie Reviews: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-11-20T14:24:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. It's been a long time since my last blog. I'm sorry for that. Two main reasons for the hiatus: 1) I had been working a ton of hours at my job. Days, nights, weekends. My head was spinning. However, I've recently changed roles, going back to writing and editing to earn my living, so now I'm actually back to a normal work schedule. Life is good. :-) And 2) Truthfully, I needed a break. I had been doing my blog week in, week out for more than four years now -- I can't tell you how many friends of mine started their own blogs during that time, only for them to fall by the wayside -- and needed to recharge my batteries.

But I'm back now. I hope you missed me terribly. :-)

As I write this blog, I'm sitting in my living room listening to my wife Ramona and my father-in-law Jim go back and forth about which movie we should see this afternoon. They both have their respective Internet devices -- Jim with his iPad2, Ramona with her Mac laptop -- looking up movies, times, descriptions, and most importantly:

Movie reviews.

Now I'm sure I've written about my annoyance with movie reviews in the past (I just don't feel like looking for it right now). I just don't find them useful at all. If I want to see a movie, I see it. I could care less what someone else says. They don't know what I like. They don't know my tastes. Why the hell should I care whether they liked it or not?

The problem today, however, has evolved. For not only do you have critics reviews, but you now have the reviews of regular moviegoers as well. As I type, Jim and Ramona are going on and on, saying that while "Twilight: Breaking Dawn" scored 82% with regular moviegoers, it rated only 37% with the critics. Or that "In Time" rated badly across the board. Or that both "Ides of March" and "J. Edgar" scored great across the board, but seeing either of those films would mean that Jim would have to go against his inclination to not see political films.

The problem with the world today is this: Choices. We have way too many of them. Back in the day, movie theaters showed four movies and the only critics anyone cared about had a TV show. But today with the Internet and various smart devices, everyone's a wannabe critic. And as a result, we're pushing to the back what we really want. We feel that if we want to see a movie that's not well received, something's wrong with us.

It's like getting a milkshake. Before, you only had vanilla, chocolate and strawberry. Now you have 181,000 different milkshake options. But if you want vanilla, you feel like there's something wrong with you. Because why would anyone want plain vanilla when he or she could have vanilla-caramel-strawberry-tree nut--mocha--peanut brittle--passion mountain-swirl?

Me? I like what I like. The only opinion I care about is mine. It makes for less stress and both an enjoyable movie and milkshake experience. So next time you're thinking about movies and milkshakes, the only thing that matters is what you want. Your needs. Your desires. Your happiness.

Then start a website and write about how only your opinion matters and everyone should listen to what you have to say.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Justin Bieber is not the father.

Big shock, I know. Personally, you have to figure that Usher would've had multiple conversations with the young lad about this kind of thing.

Hungover For The First Time In My Life: My Annual Birthday Blog

2011-08-06T07:59:00.000-07:00

I just sent the following text to my cousin Jesse, who last night had the enviable task of being the designated driver:

I am hungover for the first time in my life. My head is pounding. My throat is parched. I can't find my glasses. I'm sensitive to sun. I'm wearing sweatpants and have no idea when I put them on. Your wife is sleeping on my futon, which confuses me since you drove. And did we play pool last night? Did we win?

And I'm writing this blog lying stomach-first on my fake-hardwood floor. Because truthfully: Right now, it's a little hard to stand.

Let me backtrack:

Today, I am 32 years old. My lucky number, for what that's worth. And honestly, I wasn't even planning to go out last night. Today, I am sharing my birthday with my brother-in-law Marshall, who is getting married later this afternoon (and I hope to hell is in a better state than I am right now. For the record, Courtney -- that's Marshall's soon-to-be blushing bride -- Marshall was not with me last night visiting my good friends at the Cowboy Palace Saloon). So obviously, focus has been on his upcoming wedding. Not that it matters, since I'm not one for wild parties on my birthday anyway.

But last night, my wife Ramona and I were hanging out with her cousins Jesse and Bethany (in town from Oregon for the wedding). The plan was for all of us to get a quick drink at Cowboyland before going to see the movie Bridesmaids.

Here's what I believe happened:

Prior to leaving the house, we all had a shot of tequila.

If I remember correctly, I had more than one.

At this point, I probably started laughing hysterically. Because multiple shots of tequila is enough to get me drunk, and when I'm drunk I laugh at just about anything.

We get into the car and head over to the bar.

On the way there, Ramona mentions something about Mexican food. Which makes me think about quesadillas. Which makes me laugh more.

We get to the bar.

Quick shot of Patron.

I believe I danced.

And for some reason, I kept stealing Jesse and Bethany's beer and taking swigs, which is weird since I honestly hate beer and last night was no different.

Now this is where things get hazy:

I honestly don't remember everything about last night. For the first time ever in my life, I have some blank spots. I checked my phone this morning and saw that I sent a few drunk text messages. I tried to spell "head spinning" and spelled it "headvspinbing."

But this is what I do remember:

Losing count of how many tequila shots I had. I thought 5. I think I was told 7.

Saying I would dance on the bar for $5. I don't think this occurred.

Stumbling upon some Bachelor Party attendees and bestowing upon them the virtues of marriage.

Talking to some white guy named Trinidad and his mother-in-law, and saying something like "Kids are a blessing that I'm just not ready for."

Telling the bartender who gave me a shot of tequila on the house that "I'd give you a tip but I can't find my keys."

I think I did play pool. And I think some random woman stole my pool cue.

Coming home and soon after having to throw up. My bathroom was occupied so I told Ramona: "It's OK, honey. I'll throw up in yours."

And I believe Jesse and I had the following exchange:

Me: Dude, there's a guy over there talking to Bethany.

Jesse: Yes, he is.

Me: Now, if you need to kick his ass, I'll back you up.

Jesse: Thank you, Nev. I don't know if that's necessary, but...

Me (interrupting): Because that's what we need to do. As men. We need to defend our women. Even if the guys are bigger than us.

Jesse: Right. Well...

Me (interrupting again): Because I'll be honest: That guy would kick my ass. He would. He's too big. And I'm too small. It's all science.

Jesse: Science.

Me: Right, science. But it doesn't matter. Because it's the effort, Jesse. The effort! I may get my ass kicked. I will get my ass kicked! But I defended my wife. And for that, I can look at myself in the mirror. It's all psychics.

(pause)

Jesse: You mean psychological?

(pause)

Me: Did you get a haircut?

Yeah.

So anyways, 8 hours later I am feeling the aftereffects of a night out for the first time in my life. I'm 32 years old and am coming to find out -- once and for all -- that I can't hold my liquor worth a damn.

But if someone else is paying for the liquor...

...then why the hell not? :-)

Happy birthday Nev!

32. God damn...

Dealings With Drive Thru Orders: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-06-11T07:19:00.000-07:00

A real quick note: Sorry for my week-and-a-half long hiatus. Life, unfortunately, gets in the way sometimes of blogging, and the past couple of weeks have been especially crazy. But the good thing is, during my brief time away I found that I really missed posting on my beloved blog, so it shows the passion is still there.

Hence, I have no plans to retire. :-)

I'm writing this blog in the friendly confines of the business center of Hamer Toyota, in California's lovely Mission Hills (located in the San Fernando Valley, a suburb of Los Angeles). I visit here every few months to make sure my car gets the love and attention and maintenance it needs. And luckily, because the place has free Wi-Fi, I can make a morning out of it, banging out blogs on my laptop with a breakfast burrito by my side.

And that brings me to today's blog: My breakfast burrito. Well, actually: Drive thru orders.

On the way to Toyota, I stopped over to visit my good friends at Del Taco to order breakfast. And when I pulled to the drive thru box to place my order, two things happened -- one that happens from time to time and one that never happened before:

1) I was initially met with dead silence.

I'm always confused when I go to the drive thru box and am met with nothing. No words. Dead air. It throws me off. It always ends up making me think the following:

Is the place closed?

Do they know I'm here?

Is the place being robbed? Should I call the police?

And I always end up feeling stupid when I end up saying things like:

Hello?

Anyone there?

Hello hello?

Are you open?

Anyone?

Anyone?

Hello?

I feel like a God damn moron.

Now luckily these things usually end the same way: "Hi, sorry to keep you waiting. Welcome to (insert name of fast food place here). May I take your order?"

But that didn't happen this morning. What happened instead was something that has never happened to me before:

2) I didn't get the traditional fast food worker greeting.

When the girl's voice finally came through on the other end this morning, she didn't give me the normal standard pleasantry. Instead, she just said the following:

Hi.

Nothing else. Not "how are you today?" Not "would you like to try our new shrimp fajita taco?" Not "what can I get you?" Just...

Hi.

Now I was lost here. I mean, what's the proper response here? Do I carry on the conversation with a "fine, how are you?" Do I just go place my order? It shouldn't be up to me to navigate this conversation. She -- the fast food worker -- should be guiding me.

So I opted to just go and place my order. I got about 6 words in when she cut me off.

"Whoa whoa whoa, wait a minute," she replied.

OK, now look: That's just bad fast food drive thru box lady etiquette. If you're not ready to take my order, don't speak to me. Or at least say, "Hi, we'll be with you in a moment." Don't just say "Hi" if you're not ready to take my macho bacon-and-egg-burrito order.

So everything more or less ended in a cluster%$#%. I repeated my order 7 times, the girl kept thinking I was asking for extra eggs instead of cheese, she got annoyed, I got annoyed, and we parted ways angry with one another and the world.

I'm now going to go ahead and eat my breakfast burrito.

I believe I've earned it.

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Paris Hilton made fun of Lindsay Lohan.

Pot. Kettle. Black.

Male Cosmetics: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-05-30T20:07:00.000-07:00

You gotta be kidding me.

A new report has stated that the market in India for male cosmetics…

(OK, let that thought marinate for a second. Male cosmetics.)

….is expected to grow around 20% during the 2010-2014 period.

According to the report, men are becoming more beauty-conscious as they believe that career success is linked with how a person presents himself to others. Thus, men don’t want to run the risk of being seen as irresponsible and negligent due to their looks.

And that’s all well and good. You want to look more presentable? Wear a tie. Comb your hair. Shave. Make sure you don’t smell.

But don’t bust out the mascara and foundation and ask yourself what the best way is to bring our your natural beauty.

Now look: There is a time and place for male makeup. You’re on television? OK, it makes sense for the makeup artist to work on you. Some humongous zit in a prominent place has come up on your face and you’re about to go out in public? Ask your wife or girlfriend if she could use that “concealer thing” on you.

But at the risk of sounding sexist: Men should not use makeup on a regular basis. I don’t want them taking out a compact in the middle of hanging out with the boys on NFL Sunday. I don’t want to hear them uttering the word “bronzer.”

After all: Are we really so vain?

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

The end of the world will now be in October.

FYI

Seeing A "Guy Movie": A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-05-22T18:20:00.000-07:00

This past Friday, my friend Carlos and I went to see "Fast Five", the latest in the "Fast And The Furious" movie franchise. It's what men everywhere affectionately refer to as a:

"Guy Movie."

Guy movies are traditionally simplistic in nature. They comprise of the following things:

Action star guys.

Beautiful women.

Drugs.

Money.

Lots of bad guys.

One main bad guy who always wears a suit.

And a lot of implausible fight scenes and crashes that should kill the good guys in a manner of seconds, but in actuality just give the good guys a few minor dings and leave them no worse for wear.

Fast Five featured all of these.

Examples:

(Note: Minor spoilers ahead. Nothing to really give the plot away, but a few details nonetheless):

---When Vin Diesel gets busted out of the jailhouse bus by Paul Walker and Jordana Brewster, the truck flips over about 14 times -- with Vin in it -- but he is apparently able to leave unscathed.

---The main bad guy wears great suits.

---I counted about 8 times where Vin had his head bashed into a steel wall. He was OK.

---And Vin and Paul drop about 200 feet off a bridge into a river.

(They live.)

This movie has made untold millions of dollars -- both domestic and internationally -- since its release in late April. And as such, my theory on movies has been further strengthened:

Today's movies have gotten too complex. Complex characters. Complex plot. Complex dynamic. Complex chemistry. Complex sets. Complex costumes. I miss the simple days. Stallone. Van Damme. Ahnold. Willis. Good guy with some rough edges going up against some bad guys with a lot of guns, headed up by some sort of well-dressed drug lord.

I miss those kind of movies. Because with those kind of movies, you don't have to think. You just have to sit back and enjoy. In other aspects of life, you need to think. Work. Relationships. Household. When I go to the movies, I want to escape. I don't want to think.

That's why I never go see those Al Gore environmental documentaries.

I prefer ignorance.

And explosions.

And well-dressed drug lords.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

A man in Wisconsin has just eaten his 25,000th McDonald's Big Mac, at one point eating nine per day.

Only in America.

Wearing Mismatched Socks: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-05-15T13:33:00.001-07:00

Recently, I was hanging out with a bunch of friends, just talking and eating pizza and such, when my friend Michelle made the following comment to me:

Nevin! Your socks don't match.

I looked down. Sure enough, my socks did not match.

Now, here's what Michelle doesn't know. My socks pretty much never match. I mean, ever. I've never been one to make matching socks a high priority. It's not that I'm against matching socks. It's not that I'm a rebel who wants to wear mismatched socks to feel different. I'm not making a statement by not matching my socks.

I just don't wear matching socks.

And really, I don't see the big deal. For one thing...

...they're socks.

Secondly, most of the time your socks are hidden within your shoes. So it's not like anyone can see my mismatched socks 99.9 percent of the time. And usually, when I take off my shoes, I take off my socks as well. So if I'm shoeless, I'm generally sockless.

And third, matching socks can be a pain in the ass. When I do my laundry, I throw everything in at once and wash with cold water (like all men). I'm not gonna wash my clothes, dry, and then do through my laundry matching my socks with its appropriate twin. I mean, that's a lot of work to match your socks. Plus, you have to roll your socks. And I'm not a roller. I don't roll. No rolling goes on in my laundry.

Now what doesn't surprise is the negative response I get from women on this. Most women are into matching their socks, wearing high heels, and doing a million other things to their bodies that men can't even process.

Example:

Why does a woman wear a thong if no guy (or girl, if that's the way she floats. And if so, there's nothing wrong with that. This is an open-minded blog) will see it later on? I know girls who wear thongs, go to work, go home to an empty house, take their clothes off (including thong), and change into comfy clothes (including comfy, unflattering underwear). So in that scenario, what is the point of wearing a thong?

I never understood that.

I'm not complaining, mind you. I just never understood it.

But what I really don't get are men who have issues with my matching socks. To those men, I say: What the $#@%$# is wrong with you?!? I mean, dude, they're socks! And we're men! Isn't it enough that we put on pants before we walk out the door? Don't be one of those guys obsessed with their under-footwear. C'mon now, get back to your roots.

In the end, socks are socks. I'm happy when I can find two clean ones, let alone matching ones. And if someone ever happens to see my socks and see that they're not a matching set, just so that this is how God made me:

Mismatched.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

NFL wide receiver Chad Ochocinco is filling his hours during the NFL lockout by doing -- among other things -- professional bullriding.

It's nice to see that he's keeping busy.

End the lockout, NFL.

And please hurry.

Trying To Decide On Pizza Toppings: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-05-08T01:39:00.000-07:00

Not long ago, I had some folks over for the Super Bowl and poker. As per tradition when you have folks over for sporting events and cards, I called upon the one food staple that has always been featured prominently in such events:

Pizza.

Now here's the thing when it comes to ordering pizza for a group of people: It's always difficult for me to decide which toppings to get on each pizza. Deciding how many pizzas to get is pretty simple. Just take the number of people you're having over, count up how many slices are in each pizza, do some basic division, and you're good to go (Note: Always order thick or pan crust. It generally works best for parties).

But pizza toppings have admittedly always thrown me off when ordering for large groups. Back in the old days, it used to be simple. Cheese. Pepperoni. The occasional sausage. But today, everybody has weird preferences. Veggie only. Certain kinds of cheese. Canadian bacon. Onions are OK but not bell peppers. Pineapple.

Freakin' pineapple. I mean...really?

So prior to ordering the pizzas, me and my friend Josh -- who came over prior to the pizza order -- spent 30 minutes going over the pros and cons of which pizza toppings to get on which pizza. And our conversation went something like this:

Me: OK, so we're getting four pizzas. Let's go over toppings.

Josh: OK.

Me: We should definitely have one pepperoni.

Josh: Definitely. Pepperoni's a must.

Me: And one Meat Lover's should work.

Josh: Good call. People like meat.

Me: And what do we do about veggies?

(pause)

Josh: Cheese?

Me: See, I was thinking that too. But these days, people want veggies on their pizza.

Josh: Yeah, that's true.

(pause)

Josh: Veggie Lover's pizza?

Me: Let me see what's on that.

(pause)

Me: Onions, bell peppers, onions, tomatoes and olives.

Josh: Man. That's a lot of veggies.

Me: I know!

(pause)

Me: I'm worried about the tomatoes.

Josh: Yeah. I mean, you already have tomato sauce. Doesn't that make tomatoes kind of redundant.

Me: Yeah, it does. I mean, it just throws the whole thing off.

(pause)

Josh: What if you got one cheese and one with a couple of veggie toppings?

Me: Hmm. That could work. But which veggie toppings?

(pause)

Me: People seem to like mushrooms.

Josh: Yeah, mushrooms would work.

(pause)

Josh: Mushrooms and onions?

Nev: I don't know. I mean, I like onions. But are onions really popular across the board?

Josh: Yeah, good point. I'm not sure.

(pause)

Josh: Bell peppers and onions?

Nev: Huh. (thinks) Let's put that in the maybe pile.

Josh: OK.

(pause)

Josh: I got it!

Nev: You do? What?

Josh: Jalapenos and onions!

(pause)

Nev: Kind of spicy, no?

Josh: Yeah, that's true.

(pause)

Josh: You know, Nev. It is pizza. If you just buy it and put it in front of people, they'll just eat it.

Nev: You know what, Josh? You have a point.

And Josh did.

In the end, we got a Meat Lover's, a Pepperoni Lover's, a Cheese Lover's and one pizza with mushrooms and olives.

And everyone swallowed up every pizza pie.

What we learned:

1) Veggies are always the monkey wrench when it comes to pizza toppings. Know why? Because veggie toppings should be a compliment, a sidekick. They shouldn't be the primary topping(s). So you vegetarians are ruining it for the rest of us.

And 2) When it comes to pizza, don't over-analyze. Just buy the pizza and people will eat it, regardless of what's on it.

Like dogs.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Pippa Middleton, the sister of England's new Princess Katherine, has been offered $5 million to appear in a porn film...for just one scene.

Here's my question:

What does "one scene" mean in the porn world? Does it mean just walking in and out of the room, as you watch other people do it? Or does she just have sex with one guy, and that counts as a scene? How does this work? What does Pippa have to do -- and how many -- for this $5 million?

You need to read the fine print, I always say.

Challenging A Robot Sportswriter: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-05-01T20:45:00.000-07:00

Attention, robot sportswriter: You may have beaten the college kid. Now do you want to go 1-on-1 with a pro?

According to NPR.org, a robot journalist – yes, a robot journalist – recently wrote what was considered to be a much better story on a recent college baseball game between The University of Virginia and George Washington. The human journalist – a writer for GWSports.com – neglected to mention until late in the story that the Virginia pitcher threw a perfect game in the victory, admittedly a major no-no in the sportswriting world (Note: the story should’ve led with that fact, in case you didn’t know).

Meanwhile, the creators of Narrative Science, a news-writing software program, fed all the facts and figures of the game into their writing system, and their robot sports journalist wrote a story that led with the fact that the Virginia pitcher threw the perfect game.

Now that’s all well and good. A robot brain beating someone writing for a college website who likely has little-to-no experience in the world of sports journalism. But I bring a little more to the table. I started sportswriting at 17 years old. I worked as a sportswriter and editor for 6 ½ years at the Daily News of Los Angeles. I’ve covered high school, college and pro events. I know that when a guy throws a perfect game, I lead with it.

I’m not knocking the concept of machines taking over certain human jobs. That’s inevitable as technology improves. But writing? But sportswriting? No way!

So Narrative Science, creators of your little Terminator machine: The challenge is at your feet. Think your little robot boy can handle the step-up in competition?

The ball’s in your robot court.

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER'S GONNA PLAY THE TERMINATOR AGAIN!!!!!

(yay)

:-)

I Get A iPhone: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-04-24T08:59:00.000-07:00

I know what you're thinking.

And the answer is no.

Your eyes are not playing tricks on you.

You, dear readers, are reading the headline correctly.

After months, years in fact, of ripping on it, badmouthing it, and steadfastly refusing to even consider the possibility of owning it:

I, Nevin Scott Barich...

...have an iPhone.

Truly an "And the world will never be the same" moment.

On two separate occasions have I blogged against the iPhone. The first time, back in 2008, when the iPhone was in its infancy, I blogged about how trying to make a call on an iPhone seemed as complex as nuclear physics. The second blog, back in 2010, focused on those who would wait in line at 5 a.m. to buy one of these things.

So when I finally decided that I needed an iPhone for work purposes, I made sure to do the following two things:

1) Have the guy show me right away how to make a phone call.

And 2) Not get the iPhone on a day when a new version was coming out, or they were having a crazy sale, or there was some new-colored case that would force me to be in line for 12 hours just to be told when I got to the front that they were sold out of such colored case.

I would tackle my fears head on.

So I went to my good friends at the Verizon Wireless store in Porter Ranch, Calif., on a recent Monday afternoon, got an iPhone, asked the guy how to make a call, made a call, walked out of the store, and soon discovered mind-blowing:

I loved this thing!

I mean, the iPhone is awesome! Freakin' awesome! The world is literally at my fingertips. I can do everything. I can make calls, answer both personal and work e-mails, play Scrabble with my cousin in New York, watch the Dodger game, get into an argument with my wife via text, scramble to apologize, fail to get it accepted, order her flowers, get forgiveness...

...all without ever having to stand up.

The iPhone and I are one now. I feel like Bill Hendrickson on Big Love on the day he decided to become a polygamist.

Ever watch "The Godfather"? Remember when Michael Corleone was hiding out in Sicily, and he sees that Italian peasant girl and he's hit with what the natives call "The Thunderbolt?" When every fiber in his being just pulsates with obsession and he just has to have that girl as his own?

That's how I feel about my iPhone. I have to possess it, and I'll kill any man that comes near it.

I love my iPhone, and it loves me. I'm now of you: The iPhone people. I download apps. Apps!

As I wrote this blog, I stopped for a few seconds to play seven different games of "Words with Friends".

That's iPhone talk.

If you have an iPhone, like me, you'll understand.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

A preview of next week's blog:

There are now robot sportswriters.

Grrrrrr.

Doing Some "Scientific Research" On Smoking: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-04-15T05:47:00.000-07:00

(Nevdogg Note: A version of this blog was originally posted for my company's Web site, Industry Intelligence Inc. Check out the site here.)

I did some “scientific research” recently and came up with the following conclusion:

Cigarette smokers will continue to smoke cigarettes no matter how ugly the cigarette pack, and no matter how big the pack’s warning messages are.

The Australian government is set to require “ugly packaging” where companies are prevented from putting their logos on cigarettes and must use the least attractive color found in government research for smokers: dark green.

Health Minister Nicola Roxon said she wants all cigarette packaging to be olive green. In addition, health warnings and graphic pictures depicting the dangers of smoking would take up 90% of the front of packs, and 75% of the back.”

Now frankly, I don’t smoke. So it's hard for me to have a take on this without enlisting some help. So I consulted one of the experts:

My father.

A faithful contributor of the tobacco industry for 47 years.

The following is our Q&A:

Me: Hey Dad, if the U.S. government made cigarette packs an ugly color, would that prevent you from buying them?

Dad: (looks at me like I’m an idiot. I interpret this as a “no”.)

Me: Well, what if the cigarette pack said something like “smoking kills” in big, large letters? What would you do then?

Dad: I’d take the cigarettes out of the pack and throw the pack away.

And then he lit up a cigarette.

Now how can you argue that logic?

In the end, the Australian government should be commended for such attempts, but let’s face it: The only ways to curb smoking abuse is a) hike up the prices tenfold and/or b) make it illegal entirely.

Any other efforts are a waste of time. For as my dad said:

Actually, I like dark green.

And he took another puff.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

The subject of next week's blog:

I get an iPhone.

And life as we know it ends...

The Economic Crisis’ Latest Potential Victim: Buffalo Wings: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-04-10T19:55:00.000-07:00

(Nevdogg Note: A version of this blog was originally posted for my company's Web site, Industry Intelligence Inc. Check out the site here.

Now this is an economic crisis.

The threat of a lockout of the National Football League could affect the economy in one vital segment: The buffalo wing industry.

Various media outlets are reporting that an NFL lockout could cripple the makers of the tasty chicken treat, as chicken farmers routinely bank on the seasonal boom that football brings their business.

I’m a lifelong Raiders fan and can personally attest to the vital combination of football and buffalo wings:

I love watching football.

I love eating buffalo wings.

Doing both at the same time is utter bliss.

Without football, I can still eat wings.

But it’s just not the same.

Football fans understand what I’m saying.

So as the NFL owners and players continue their standoff, they should bear in mind that it’s not just the fans that are chewing their fingernails.

The buffalo wing world, too, awaits with bated breath.

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

A sneak preview about the topic of next week's blog:

In an attempt to curb smoking, the Australian government is requiring packs of cigarettes to have "ugly packaging" in dark green and put messages like "SMOKING KILLS" in large letters.

I'm gonna go out on a limb and say smoking will continue Down Under.

Watching My March Madness Dreams End On A Cool April Night: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-04-03T18:21:00.000-07:00

My Final Four run ended yesterday. :-(

For those who have no clue what I'm talking about, I'm making a reference to the NCAA Men's College Basketball tournament.

No, I'm not a player.

I'm 31 years old. I'm terrible at hoops. I'm short. And I'm white.

And I'm not in college.

(Not that that matters, since most players on these teams don't really go to class all that much, so they're not really in college either).

But like most of America, I do play in NCAA tournament pools, as has been well documented in this blog (click here to read my most recent blog on the subject). This year, I had 15 entries, my most ever. Unlike many years, however, I lasted until the Final Four.

Now, for those of you who aren't sports fans and have no idea what the hell I just said, it's real simple:

I had a real chance to make a lot of money. :-)

My brackets -- well, 2 of them anyway -- had a chance to get the big money, the big score, the one that can pay for March Madness entries for years to come. I had gotten to the final weekend; no mean feat, for anyone who plays on a regular basis. I clawed, I battled, I outlasted many others and withstood many a test, to get to this point.

You see, it doesn't always happen this way. Many years, your brackets get bounced out early. An upset here, a random shot there, and all of a sudden the hard work you did in figuring out what your brackets should look like go up in a puff of smoke and all you can think to yourself is:

"We'll get 'em next year."

Other years, you last a while longer. You get beyond the first couple of rounds and dreams of winning it all begin to creep in your head. But then reality sets in, as you are reminded that getting past Rounds 1 and 2 is a lot easier than Rounds 3 and 4. And by the end of the second weekend, you're gone.

It's those that get to the final weekend that really feel like they've made it to the Promised Land. There's nothing like turning on your TV at the start of Final Four action, look at the two teams on the court and the 65,000-plus watching the game live, and knowing that all your hard work over the past several weeks has brought you here to this moment. It was luck. It was skill. It was a combination of both. But you're here, you're there, and all that's left to do is live the moment.

That's where I found myself yesterday, when Kentucky -- my team, the one I banked all of my hopes on -- took on Connecticut. The setup was simple: Kentucky wins, I win money, with the chance to win more. UConn wins, I'm done.

I had changed my strategy this year. Unlike my younger days, I didn't live and die on every game, every shot, in the tournament from the get go. When I do that, I have nothing left for the later rounds. This year, I paced myself. I didn't go nuts over the first few rounds. I didn't panic when Butler upset Pittsburgh. I didn't get myself in a tizzy over trying to get Duke to rally past Arizona. I didn't scream and shout and beat my chest when Kentucky survived surprising tough games against Princeton and West Virginia.

Because I paced myself, I was able to channel my energy toward Kentucky upsetting Ohio State. To them withstanding a furious rally against North Carolina. And now, the question before me was whether this year, I had enough to go all the way.

And I almost did. I almost did.

Kentucky looked horrible early. I mean, God awful. They couldn't buy a shot. Couldn't make a free throw. They went into halftime down by 10, and my wife Ramona shot me a worried look.

But I didn't come this far to panic now. I saved some in the tank for just this moment.

Willed by me -- and me alone -- Kentucky opened the second half with back-to-back 3s. Suddenly, the tides had turned, as it was UConn on the ropes and Kentucky -- my team -- with the momentum. Minutes later, we had the lead as I announced to the world that this year, I wasn't about to go down on the biggest stage without a fight.

The lead changed back and forth. UConn reclaimed the lead. Then Kentucky. UConn went cold. Then Kentucky went cold. With seconds to play, Kentucky miraculously stole the ball, down two with 16 seconds to play.

It was time to see whether I had one more miracle left in me.

Alas, I did not. Kentucky did not. With seconds to go, we missed a 3-pointer that would've put us ahead. UConn got the rebound and iced the game with free throws.

And my March Madness had ended on a cool April night.

Afterwards, Ramona gave me a consolation hug and kiss. Elsewhere around the country, other March Madness bracket players eliminated earlier bowed their heads respectfully, as one of their few remaining peers had joined their ranks. I had gotten one step closer to the Promised Land...but I still wasn't able to put my foot on it.

Next year, we'll do the same thing all over again.

March Madness.

We'll get 'em next year.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Evander Holyfield met Justin Bieber.

And Holyfield was quoted as saying how great it was.

You may not think this is much of an SOTA.

But for a boxing fanatic like me, this news just makes you want to cry.

Going Into A Bank: Like Walking Into A Car Dealership And A Casino All In One: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-03-26T22:35:00.000-07:00

(Nevdogg Note: A version of this blog was originally posted for my company's Web site, Industry Intelligence Inc. Check out the site here.)

I’m a traditionalist: When I have a check to deposit, I walk into the bank and have one of the tellers do it. It just seems weird to me to put an envelope into the ATM machine. Or to have my check deposited via an iPhone app. That’s just odd.

But here’s the problem:

These days when I walk into my local Chase bank, I’m immediately bombarded by one or more of the bank’s investor or portfolio experts, asking me if I’ve started planning yet for my retirement or pushing the latest CD plan on me.

And then when I actually get to the teller, they’re asking me if I want to sign up for a credit card and why wouldn’t I want an extra credit card and “We’re essentially not going to let you step one foot out of this place unless you sign up for our credit card with a crazy interest rate that you’ll be hit with the second you don’t pay your entire bill on time.”

Look, I understand that banks – like any other business establishment – need to adjust during these troubled times. But these days, I feel like I’m walking into both a car dealership and a casino all rolled into one. They’ll do and say anything to part me with my money.

And don’t even get me started about overdraft fees.

Nothing like accidentally going 8 cents over your balance and being charged $75 by the bank to cover it.

But always with a smile on their face, I’m sure.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Lindsay Lohan wants to just be known as "Lindsay."

Thus becoming the first white woman since Cher and Wynonna to just go by her first name.

Watching A Friend Pop His March Madness Cherry: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-03-17T17:58:00.000-07:00

Fair warning: If you don't like sports, you won't like this week's blog. You'll be bored, roll your eyes, sigh a lot, and that's before you get to paragraph 3. Just stop reading and come back next week.

Still with me? Cool. :-)

For those of you who were born yesterday, this week was the beginning of the NCAA men's basketball tournament, where 68 of the top college basketball teams in the nation compete in a single-elimination tournament and people like me fill out brackets trying to figure out who is going to win each game, following the games online at work, watching nothing but basketball at home, ignoring our friends, loved ones and co-workers for three weeks, etc.

Three years ago, I took my readers through the craziness of following the first two days of March Madness. Two years ago, I wrote about how my alma mater, Cal State Northridge, made the tournament, almost pulled off a gigantic upset, and how I almost had three massive coronaries from the excitement. Last year, I focused on how I was doing so many brackets that one pool I was in considered implementing "The Barich Rule" and limiting the number of brackets a person could do.

(By the way: "The Barich Rule" was not implemented this year. Thank you, Josh Kleinbaum.)

This year, I want to talk about my friend Fawzi.

Fawzi is like many people in this world: Not much of a college basketball fan. To be honest, few people no longer in college -- even if they're big sports nuts (like Fawzi is) -- really are. Once you get out of college, you stop following college basketball as closely, but the experience of college and the element of college basketball go hand in hand. Once one is gone, the other can't sustain.

But that's what makes March Madness so brilliant. You see, you don't need to be a huge college basketball fan to enjoy it. That's what a lot of folks don't understand. Many people who enter tourney pools are not college basketball fans. It's not about the love of college hoops. It's about playing with your friends, trying to pick some winners, and seeing if you can actually perform well without knowing what the hell it is you're doing.

And that's the beauty of it: That's possible! It can be so difficult to predict who wins each game that even "experts" don't know what they're doing half the time. You can get lucky, pick something random, and win money!

And when you factor all of that in, here's what happens:

You become obsessed.

Within minutes, you are following box scores on ESPN. You're watching the games on CBS. You are literally living and dying on every basket, screaming obscenities you never knew you knew, yelling at players that you don't even know the names of. You become the biggest fan of any team you happened to pick at that moment. And you switch allegiances like you switch socks. One minute you like Xavier because you picked them to score the first-round upset. The next minute you're screaming at their star player to tear a ligament because you don't have them going past round two. You rub it in to everyone who will listen when you pick an unlikely winner, and you feel 2 feet tall when you pick the loser.

For two years, I tried explaining this to Fawzi, with no apparent success. Last year, he just refused to play. Absolutely refused. "I'm not a fan of college basketball," he said. "I just don't care," he said. "What's the point?" he said.

But I was persistent. I pursued. I wore him down. Because I knew. I just knew...

And finally, earlier this week, Fawzi plopped down his $5 entry fee and announced:

"OK, I'll do one bracket."

And just like that, a crack addict took his first hit. :-)

Fawzi filled out a bracket, the tournament started today at 9:15 a.m., and by 9:19 a.m....

"Nev, Clemson is up 6-2! I picked them to win!"

And just like that, he was hooked.

Fawzi started following box scores, getting scoring updates every 18 seconds. He hopped around the office smiling like a 7 year old on Halloween when Clemson was winning. He moped around, scowling and kicking chairs when Clemson blew a double-digit lead and lost. He was happy. He was sad. He was ecstatic. He was miserable. And this only took us to 9:27 a.m. He was glued to any and all information about the games. Anytime I gave him an update, he already knew about it.

It was like watching a caterpillar bloom into a beautiful butterfly.

Fawzi was hooked now. Hooked into the March Madness craze. He screamed when Louisville was upset by Morehead State. Bitched and moan to a co-worker that everyone in our tourney pool was tied for first place while he was stuck in 15th. Kicked himself for not picking Richmond over Vanderbilt. And patted himself on the shoulder when he realized that, "Hey, turns out I did pick Richmond to win after all!" (It's OK. He's a rookie.)

And that's what Fawzi discovered today in his first foray into March Madness. It really is maddening. You're up and down 647 times throughout the course of the morning. And in the afternoon, you bust out the booze just to handle the roller coaster. There's truly nothing like it. And anybody and everybody can participate and experience the thrill, regardless of sports knowledge.

Fawzi became a March Madness man today.

The butterfly...has taken flight.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

I can't stop listening to this song.

As bad as it is, watch the whole video. Two minutes in, it gets worse than you can ever imagine. :-)

The New Generation Of Guys And Their Limp-Noodle Handshakes: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-03-13T12:57:00.000-07:00

So lately, for one reason or another, I've been shaking the hands of various guys who are part of "The Next Generation." These guys are in their late teens or early 20s and have been tabbed to carry the mantle of all the triumphs and achievements that my generation accomplished.

I'm not exactly sure what those triumphs and achievements are. I am, after all, just 31. But just go with me on this. :-)

Anyways, back to the shaking of hands. When I shake the hands of these younger guys, I've noticed a disturbing trend:

Their limp-noodle handshakes.

Seriously, all of these guys 7-12 years younger than me shake my hand like a wet piece of spaghetti. If I apply any pressure whatsoever, I feel like I'm going to break bones.

In my day...

(I'm no longer part of "The New Generation." Thus, I have a "in my day.")

...when guys shook hands, we shook hands. I mean, we gave each other a manly grip. Like men do. We were taught by the generation before us that men display strength when they shake hands. It's a sign of power. Of confidence. Of manliness.

And today, for some reason, these guys shake hands like they don't want to break a fingernail.

And I wonder why.

I mean, is the fault mine? Was it my job to teach these guys the difference between right and wrong handshake? Did I fail them?

Or is technology to blame for the current state of limp-noodle hand greetings? Did the advent of e-mail, text messages and iPads somehow make it so that guys had less physical contact with one another and thus made it so they didn't know how much strength was OK to show and as a result went weak with their handshakes?

Or is it the lack of action stars?

Here's my favorite theory that just popped into my head. In my day, we had movies that featured Schwarzenegger. Segal. Stallone. Van Damme. Men of power. Men of physicality. Watch Predator. At the beginning ot the movie, Ah-nold and Carl Weathers (the dude who played Apollo Creed in the Rocky movies) share a manly handshake. When I watched that movie, I was 8 years old. An impressionable age.

You know what: That's it. The problem is a lack of action movie stars.

So the fault isn't mine.

So to the limp-noodle handshake guys who are reading this, here's your homework:

Watch Predator.

Watch Under Siege.

Watch Kickboxer...and/or Bloodsport.

And watch Demolition Man.

And afterward, you'll be shaking hands like a man.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Charlie Sheen is still alive.

I don't know about you, but I'm shocked.

A Man And His Toilet Paper: When Size Truly Matters: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-03-05T20:36:00.000-08:00

(Nevdogg Note: A version of this blog was originally posted for my company's Web site, Industry Intelligence Inc. Check out the site here.)

When it comes to a man and his toilet paper, size matters. We need some heft when it comes to our toilet paper roll. Ideally, it should resemble a white, fluffy mini bowling ball. Because a man never wants to run out of toilet paper. Ever.

So when it comes to advertising a toilet paper’s size, a man takes that to heart. Which is why investigators deserve kudos for cracking down on the latest toilet paper-size scam.

According to a recent story, Kimberly-Clark Corp. has been ordered to stop advertising the length of its Andrex toilet paper after an investigation determined that the claim “unbeatably long” was wrong.

Television commercials and ads on posters and magazines claimed that Andrex toilet paper was “soft, strong and unbeatably long.” K-C was told by the Advertising Standards Authority (ASA) not to use the advertisements in their current form.

An investigation by ASA found that three competitor products had longer roll length than Andrex,

Now men – particularly in America – love their heroes. Firefighters. Policemen. Pro athletes. Their own dads.

But the good folks at ASA may very well be the greatest heroes in American history.

Any company that claims that its toilet paper is “unbeatably long” when it isn’t is a company that needs to have a visit paid to by the Better Business Bureau. I mean, it’s just wrong! You may be thinking, “Hey K-C is a business, and a business is going to do and say things that may not be completely true because they want to make money.” But this goes much, much deeper than that.

A man has to have trust in his toilet paper. A bond inevitably forms. As such, a man has to place trust in the company that makes that toilet paper. A man has to assume that the toilet paper company is looking out for him. There must be total trust when it comes to this relationship. There can be no other way.

So when a man finds out that his toilet paper company has betrayed him with phony claims of size, it’s akin to a mother telling her son: “I never really loved you. I just had you for the tax write-off.”

And you want to know what K-C said in its defense of this indefensible crime? That even though other companies featured longer rolls, their roll had 241 sheets as opposed to the competition’s 240.

That’s just a sad, sad argument. Every reputable toiler paper company knows that a man doesn’t base toilet paper on its sheets. This isn’t an episode of “Seinfeld”. No “Sorry, I don’t have a square to spare” moment going on here. A man rips off toilet paper in strips, not sheets. I doubt half of us even realize that the toilet paper features dotted lines to tear it off.

K-C knows this. To say otherwise insults our intelligence.

So thank you, ASA, for cracking down on K-C.

If you guys ever make toiler paper, I’ll be the first to buy.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Charlie Sheen.

No more need be said.

A Diet Soda-Holic And His Phantom Chest Pains: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-02-26T23:51:00.000-08:00

(Nevdogg Note: A version of this blog was originally posted for my company's Web site, Industry Intelligence Inc. Check out the site here.)

I love diet soda. In fact, I’m a borderline diet pop addict. I drink the stuff constantly, I routinely have a two-liter bottle at my desk, and if you look at my grocery cart, you’re liable to see more diet carbonation than actual food.

You must understand: I have a certain connection to the diet fizzy beverage. As a kid, I was always heavy, to the point where I got to be around 200 pounds by age 15 (all of it goo). When I took it upon myself to diet and exercise, diet soda became one of the key staples in my weight-loss plan. Coke with my burger and fries turned into Diet Coke with my Lean Cuisine, and when I look back on those five months in which I lost 60 pounds and became a diet-and-exercise fiend, diet soda is remembered fondly for having a prominent role in my transformation.

So when a study came out recently by the American Stroke Association that drinking diet soda daily is linked to a higher risk of stroke, heart attack, and vascular-related deaths, needless to say I put my hand over my heart to see if I was having any chest pains.

I mean, in those few brief moments when my co-workers came to me and said “Hey Nev, read this! All of that diet soda you’ve been guzzling is gonna kill you! Wanna write a blog?” I was having severe, severe panic, and I raced to find the study and read more for myself.

According to this study, those who drink diet soda – not regular, mind you, but diet -- have a much higher risk of vascular events compared to those who don’t drink soda.

In findings involving 2,564 people in the large, multi-ethnic Northern Manhattan Study (NOMAS), scientists said people who drank diet soda every day had a 61 percent higher risk of vascular events than those who reported no soda drinking.

And for a brief moment, it was official: I was going to die.

But just as my random chest pains were returning, thankfully the good people at the American Beverage Association calmed my nerves (God bless special interest groups). In a statement issued by the ABA, Dr. Maureen Storey, senior vice president of science policy said there is no firm evidence of the ASA’s claim and that it wasn’t factoring in two key variables: Family history of stroke and weight gain.

In fact, Storey said, there is scientific evidence showing that diet soft drinks can be a useful weight-loss and weight-maintaining management tool.

And just like that, my world was right side up again. My phantom chest pains were gone.

Here’s the thing: When it comes to diet soda drinkers like me, ignorance is bliss. Whenever a study like the ASA’s comes out, we immediately seek out someone or some group to refute the evidence. This way, we can go back to our happy little vice without guilt or fear of death. We can continue to delude ourselves into thinking that we not only are not harming our bodies, but actually helping them because we’re consuming something with “diet” in the title.

Whether the ASA’s findings are accurate, or whether the ABA’s statement is truthful or laced with its own interest, it’s irrelevant. Others like myself will continue to drink diet soda by the gallon, and we will make no lifestyle change whatsoever no matter what kind of studies come out.

(Note: Only water was consumed in the writing of this blog.)

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Troubled Hollywood starlet Lindsay Lohan was told by a judge that she will not escape prison even if she strikes a plea deal in the case of grand theft against her, in a court hearing here today. The Mean Girls star has been given until March 10 to decide if she will accept a plea deal or go to trial, reported Los Angeles Times online.

The actress appeared in court today for a hearing on a felony charge over a $2,500 necklace which she allegedly stole from a Venice jewellery shop last month.

Am I the only one out there who's thinking:

I wish Lindsay would just OD already.

Am I? I doubt it.

Moving Furniture: The Achilles Heel of Jews Like Me: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-02-18T21:55:00.000-08:00

I'm Jewish. And because I'm Jewish, I consider myself to be a good authority on what Jews are known for.

Jews are known for three main things:

1) Saving money.

2) Cooking (OK, technically my cooking doesn't extend beyond a microwave, but I make a mean melted cheese quesadilla.)

And 3) Being diehard Dodgers and/or Mets fans.

(Seriously, have you ever met a Jewish person who cheered for a baseball team other than the Dodgers or Mets? Think about it. You'll find that you've never met one. That Jew doesn't exist).

But one thing Jews are not good at:

Moving furniture.

When it comes to moving furniture -- whether you yourself are moving for one place to another, or helping a friend move, or being given a piece of furniture by someone to take back to your place -- Jews simply don't do it themselves. It's not in our DNA.

Please don't misunderstand. It's not that we look down upon it. That's not the case at all. We feel it's a honorable skill and trade. But it's simply something that we hate to do. I mean, we're not lifters of heavy things. We prefer to pay to have somebody do that for us.

And I think that's noble. Especially given the state of today's economy. :-)

As I write this blog, I am currently looking at these beautiful bookshelves in my living room, a generous gift from family members who previously had them in their home. But to get them here, they had to be moved. And though I'm not a mover by trade, my father-in-law Jim is. And he had me help him get these bookshelves from Pacific Palisades over to my San Fernando Valley home.

Now this experience -- which actually spread across over two weekends because we realized after the first weekend that there was no way in hell we could fit all four bookcases into the car -- had plenty of blog-worthy moments, especially given the fact that the bookshelves' previous home in the Palisades had two wrap-around staircases that we had to get them down from. But in the interest of time and space, here were the three main moments:

1) The vacant glaze.

God bless Jim. He's really trying to teach me these things. But learning has been slow. I mean, the whole concept of moving things myself is just foreign to me. So every time Jim asked me something or asked my opinion about this task, I answered with a vacant glaze.

"Nev, how do you think we can get these bookshelves down the stairs?"

Vacant glaze.

"Nev, do you want to trying unscrewing these bolts from the wall?"

Vacant glaze.

"Nev, what's the best way to get these bookshelves into your house?"

Vacant glaze.

That's why Jews pay people to do these things. All these questions...

2) Lack of help among my fellow Jewish brethren.

While moving these bookshelves, my cousin-in-law (and podcast partner) Mike was also there, packing up some stuff in the kitchen. Lucky bastard; the heaviest things he had to lift was spatulas. At one point, midway through this ordeal, he and I locked eyes for a brief moment and I mouthed to him the following words:

"Help me, please."

He responded by bolting the other way.

I couldn't blame him. I'd of done the same.

Moving heavy furniture: Simply not in the Jewish DNA.

And 3) The U-Haul.

U-Hauls are just foreign to me. I mean, they're borderline creepy. They're dark and gray and drab and the seats are rock-hard. We used a U-Haul to move the remaining bookshelves to my house and I swear these vehicles haven't been replaced since the 1970s. I sit in a U-Haul and I get all clammy. Like I'm truly out my element.

Plus, every time I'm driving in one, I feel like I'm sneaking Mexicans in across the border.

That's right, I said it. Don't tell me you haven't had the same thoughts driving a U-Haul.

In the end, moving furniture is a noble skill. Kudos to all that do it. And just a friendly reminder to all my friends: If you ever need help moving, I'll gladly assist.

I'll give you the phone number of a great moving company.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Monopoly is going paperless and cardless.

That's just wrong. Nothing's cooler than Monopoly money.

Especially when you steal it when no one's looking.

We used to call that "Valley Rules." :-)

The Bane Of All Male Existence: Valentine's Day: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-02-12T01:21:00.000-08:00

Nevdogg Note: One of the first blog posts I ever wrote was about how men hated Valentine's Day. And with the "holiday" two days away, I thought I would repost my Valentine's Day blog from 2008, since my feelings haven't changed. For my new readers, enjoy. For my original readers, enjoy this trip down memory lane.

This Monday marks one of the most painful days of the year in the life of the non-single man. It's a day we dread, a day we fear, a day that makes us sag our shoulders at the mere thought.

They call this horror of horrors: Valentine's Day.

Now, all the men reading this know exactly where I'm coming from, nodding and thinking, "Amen, my brother. The truth must finally be told." So it's to you, female audience of Nevin's blogs, that I'm speaking to today.

If a man has a girlfriend, fiancee or wife, he despises Valentine's Day. Why?

1) Money. When Valentine's Day is over, the man's wallet is going to be a couple of hundred dollars less (and that's IF the woman in question is easy to please). Flowers, candy, dinner...everything is jacked up price-wise on this Hallmark-created holiday. And businesses know that a man can't skimp on the festivities, lest he do so at his own peril.

I once suggested to a former girlfriend that we go to Dennys on Feb. 14 and that she pretend to be 56 in order to get the senior citizen price on the pancakes.

The idea didn't fly.

So businesses charge their exorbitant fees on Valentine's Day and laugh to themselves, knowing that they've got us by the testicles.

2) Pressure. Here's an interesting observation I've made over the last several Valentine's Days. Giving in and paying $50 for $10 roses is no longer good enough. Today's women want something different, special, something that sets them apart from their girlfriends. It's like the man is caught in the middle of a female pissing contest.

So not only does the man have to shell out a lot of money, but now he's expected to put in some thought? What are we supposed to do? Learn the guitar and write you a love song? Take you to the circus and arrange to be shot out of a cannon while we scream "I love you" as we go soaring over the horizon? Buy you a car?

Money and thought? C'mon!!

3) It's not fair. I saw a jewelry commercial the other day with the tagline, "This Valentine's Day, show her how much you care." Well, where's the "show him" commercials? When was it decided that Valentine's Day was only about one gender? When did men get left out in the cold? Do we not have some sort of role in the whole "couples" concept?

All I want is for there to be a commercial for me. How about: "On Valentine's Day, show him you care: Madden 2011 for the Playstation 3."

Is that too much to ask?

So, non-single ladies, I'd like to end with this:

If on Valentine's Day, your man did not step up to your expectations, remember: It's not that he doesn't love you...

...it's that he can't afford you.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Lindsay Lohan may be headed to jail again.

Shock of shocks.

Yearly Rant On The De-Evolution Of Super Bowl Parties: A Nevin Barich Blog Exeperience

2011-02-05T00:23:00.000-08:00

Nevdogg Note: Three years ago, I wrote a blog talking about how Super Bowl parties had devolved into a mess of people who don't even like football getting together to eat healthy, organic food. A sickening trend indeed. Because the Super Bowl is this Sunday and because my opinion hasn't changed in three years, I decided to repost my 2008 blog on the subject. Enjoy, and please: If you're at a Super Bowl party and don't like football or potato chips, be silent. Because believe me, no one who is into the game wants to hear what you have to say. :-)

When I was growing up, we watched the Super Bowl on Super Bowl Sunday.

Let me say that again.

When I was growing up, we watched the Super Bowl on Super Bowl Sunday.

As in, we watched the game. We had a vested interest in the outcome. We knew what was going on. We knew which teams were actually playing.

Many of you (myself included) will be going to a Super Bowl party this Sunday. I was speaking to several of my co-workers recently, and here were some of their Super Bowl comments:

I don't even like football that much.

I'm just going for the commercials.

Who is playing again?

I'm making hummus!!

My point is: Somewhere along the line, the dynamics of Super Bowl parties changed. It no longer became about the game. It was about being trendy, with it, a part of the scene.

When you go to your event on Sunday, 90% of the people present will be there simply because "it's the thing to do." And the 10% who actually want to focus on the game will be forced to listen to things like, "Why are they wearing red uniforms? It clashes with their helmets."

And let me say something about the food.

When I was a kid, Super Bowl parties consisted of three things:

Pizza.

Chips.

Pepsi.

Simple. Direct. Manly.

With today's Super Bowl parties, it's like being on an episode of Iron Chef. Homemade brownies. Sweet and sour chicken. Chex.

(Freakin' Chex.)

And no more Pepsi, folks. Because God forbid we should have regular soda and all those empty calories. Diet Pepsi is now the beverage of choice.

And pizza?

"Oh God, that's so 1980s!!" I heard someone recently declare.

And then there's my personal favorite:

The veggie tray.

Because at one point, some patrons of these parties who had never seen a football in their lives were aghast that there were no healthy vegetables at these things and bitched and moaned until someone raced out to the market and got a veggie tray just to shut them up.

And because of that, veggie trays and the Super Bowl are now linked. For better or worse.

I was asked to bring a veggie tray one year.

The cost: $10.

$10 for a couple of carrots and a teensy bit of special "veggie dip" that's...green.

Oh well.

At least veggie trays are American.

Unlike hummus.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Justin Bieber has a new bio-documentary coming out in theaters called "Justin Bieber: Never Say Never."

About a boy and his dreams.

In 3D.

Yep.

A Man And His "The Pants": A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-01-29T20:11:00.000-08:00

This weekend, I went whale watching with some friends of mine over in Long Beach. It was an amazing experience, as we saw two gray whales up close playing with a school of dolphins for a good 30-40 minutes, splashing all about along the Pacific Ocean.

It was an amazing day, with good friends, good weather...

...and "The Pants."

"The Pants." Every man -- every worthwhile man -- has a pair. They could be jeans. They could be sweatpants. They could even technically be shorts. They're a pair of pants that withstand the test of time. You wear them everywhere, to everything, in every situation. They're comfortable, they're worn in, they make you happy.

It makes a man...a man.

I wore my "The Pants" to whale watching today. I wear them to whale watching. I wear them to Dodger Stadium. I where them to the movies. I wear them playing poker. I where them to sleep. I wear them watching TV. I've worn them to the gym on occasion. I wear them while eating.

And quite possibly, when the time comes, I'll be buried in them.

My "The Pants" are a pair of navy blue sweat pants, that are about two inches two short, complete with random pink paint stains that I honestly have no clue how they got there. They're unstylish, unsexy, and unflattering.

They're the greatest pants on Earth. :-)

I mean, I love them. They're like wearing warm, fluffy air. They're just awesome, awesome lower garment attire. And here's the thing: If someone else wore them, they wouldn't feel the same thing. To them, it would be just be pants. But that's the thing about "The Pants." They're special to just one person. Meant for just one person. There's a bond between "The Pants" and "The Man."

And how that bond forms is not easily explained. It can occur immediately. It can occur over time. You can buy "The Pants." "The Pants" can be given to you by someone else. Somebody could've owned "The Pants" first but it wasn't "The Pants" to them and they didn't earn "The Pants" status until "The Pants" became yours and were christened "The Pants."

As you can see, it can happen in a variety of ways.

But a man's relationship with "The Pants" is not unlike his relationship with a dog. Where the man goes, "The Pants" go. Faithfully. Truthfully. Unwaveringly.

"The Pants."

Man's other best friend.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Your legal system at work:

The fast-food chain took out full-page ads in at least nine major newspapers and launched a YouTube campaign featuring its president Friday to proclaim its taco filling is 88 percent beef.

A false-advertising lawsuit filed last week that caused an online stir alleges the company's filling doesn't have enough beef to be called that. The lawsuit seeks to make the company stop calling it "beef," and pay the suing law firm's bill.

Taco Bell trumpeted "Thank you for suing us. Here's the truth about our seasoned beef," in the ads in Friday's editions of the Wall Street Journal, USA Today and other papers.

The ads go on to say the rest of the filling is a mixture of spices and common food additives.

Personally, I love Taco Bell's common food additives.

They make me happy.

:-)

Breaking Down The Elements Of A Proper Man Hug: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-01-22T18:22:00.000-08:00

Men are taught at an early age that showing affection to, and among, his fellow man is frowned upon. We can't cry around one another; hell we can't even lip quiver. It's considered weak and unmanly. Two definite no-nos among the male species.

And it when it comes to physical affection among heterosexual males, this rule especially applies. With the exception of athletes winning the big game or your favorite team winning the Super Bowl -- in which case, huge hugs, kisses and tussling of each others' hair is both accepted and encouraged -- no physical affection outside of high fives, fist taps, chest bumps and butt slaps are allowed. I mean, it's a serious party foul.

That's where the man hug comes in.

The man hug. Arguably man's greatest invention. It allows men to great each other in such a physical play that is both accepted and adored. It's quick, simple and is an affectionate gesture that uses socially acceptable male behavior.

There are key elements to the man hug:

1) The sideways hand grab. When starting the man hug, each man moves his arm in a sideways motion, and grabs the other man's hand in a firm manly grip. It's more personal than a handshake and has deeper meaning than a high five, but it's still within cool, manly "I'm not showing any manly affection because society will otherwise frown upon me" limits. The sideways hand grab begins the man hug and leads to:

2) The bumping of shoulders. Once you perform the sideways hand grab, the next step is for each man to lean in and bump the other man's shoulders. Less loving than a regular hug but more meaningful than a chest bump, the bumping of shoulders is the man's way of telling each other:

"I'm a man. And you're a man."

And the third, and perhaps most important, element of the man hug is:

3) No eye contact. This is vital. After you do the sideways hand grab and lean in with your shoulder, it's imperative that each man look off to the side and avoid eye contact. Never, in any situation whatsoever, should men gaze into each others' eyes. I mean, it's just weird. Proper etiquette declares that when men move in to finish their man hug, one man looks left, the other man looks right, and ideally both men should be looking down at the ground, to ensure there's no evidence whatsoever of impropriety.

One last thing: There's no such thing as trial-and-error with a man hug. You have to get it right, right off the bat. There's no "rookie mistakes" or "do-overs" when it comes to man hugs. One wrong man hug and you're branded by your fellow man as a man whom one should not engage in man hugs with, because that man is not interpreting man hugs the way they're meant to be interpreted.

And you don't want that label. Trust me.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Justin Bieber gets his hair cut every two weeks, for $750 a pop.

He can get the same haircut for $14 a pop at his local Supercuts.

It must be nice to have endless money to blow.

Are Lean Pockets Junk Food? A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-01-15T17:50:00.000-08:00

Are Lean Pockets junk food?

Lean Pockets, for those international readers of mine who don't have the privilege of them in their country, are microwaveable turnovers usually containing a combination of cheese, meat, and vegetables. In America, they are a staple of freezers everywhere.

This past week, I began my quest to cut down on the amount of junk food I eat. I, admittedly am a junk food junkie (no pun intended). The McDonald's value menu is made for people like me, who like burgers, fries, mayo, and want it cheap.

It's people like me who keep America solvent.

Having said that, junk food, of course, is bad for you. Too much fat and empty calories. Because of that, I've made a concerted effort to cut down on the McDonalds and Taco Bell, and focus on lower-fat items.

But the question has been posed:

Are Lean Pockets junk food?

Lean Pockets are "lean", at least when it comes to the amount of fat and calories. A Lean Pocket contains about 260-270 calories and 8-9 grams of fat. So to me, in my view, it's not junk food. If anything, it's a diet food. You cut down on your fat, you cut down on your calories, you cut down on your cholesterol.

How is this bad?

But some folks out there are insisting that Lean Pockets are still part of the "junk food" family. They say it's loaded with sodium, preservatives, and that eating too many of them will kill you.

Personally, I think these are disgusting, short-sighted, mean-spirited arguments from people who just don't want to see someone like me embrace the idea of healthier eating.

Personally. :-)

I mean, for one: Junk food is high in fat. Lean Pockets are not.

Also, junk food needs to contain at least one or more of the following elements: An excessive amount of cheese, mayo, or something fried. Lean Pockets don't contain much cheese, and are sans mayo or something fried.

And finally: Junk food is sold in fast-food restaurants. Lean Pockets are not.

When was the last time Lean Pockets were sold through a fast-food window?

The way I see it: As I get older (I'm 31) it's time for me to realize that I can't live on a diet of Pepsi, Dorritos, and frozen chicken strips. I need to cut back on fat and junk food, increase my grains, and adopt a healthy lifestyle.

Enter Lean Pockets.

Which I've now proven, beyond a shadow of a doubt, to not be junk food.

You can't beat sound reasoning.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Horoscope signs are changing.

Because, you know, it's important to keep things fresh.

Going To a Tea Room: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-01-08T20:29:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week, my wife Ramona and I spent a few days vacationing in Cambria, a cute coastal town about 35 miles past San Luis Obispo, California's, wine country. Ramona has long been the "cultured" one in the relationship. Anything we do that goes beyond paper napkins and sports is her idea 99% of the time.

As such, it was Ramona's idea that she and I take a visit one afternoon to our good friends at The Tea Cozy, a quaint little tea room in Cambria's downtown area.

Here's my thing about tea: I hate it. I mean, I really do. Every tea I've ever tasted tastes like hot water to me. Blueberry tea? Hot water. Strawberry tea? Hot water. Tea with honey? Hot water with honey. Passion fruit tea? Passion fruit hot water...sans the taste of passion fruit.

Nonetheless, the wife twisted my arm because, as she said, it wasn't just about the tea, it was about the experience.

And here were some highlights of the experience:

1) Everyone talks with British accents. Now this wouldn't be that big of a deal were it not for the fact that everybody in the establishment was American. Seriously, what is it about tea rooms that summons up people's union jack? Everywhere I looked, I saw people go from "that's awesome" to "cheerio" once the tea was set on the table. Even Ramona was trying to speak like the queen. It was like being in an episode of "The Twilight Zone."

2) They cut the crusts off of their sandwiches. Now this, I got to say, is kind of cool. Bread crusts really are useless and tasteless. The British are lagging the Americans in lots of ways -- the Revolutionary War started that trend, in my opinion -- but they got the making of sandwiches down pretty good. They cut off the crust, have the food in nice little squares, and they put the sandwiches on this circle-y thing that spins so that you don't have to reach for food.

That's class. :-)

3) All the ordering of food and drink is done by women.

Including Ramona and myself, there were four tables filled with couples. Without exception, all of the "British tea and food stuff" was ordered by the woman. This, we came to find out from our waitress, was normal. Men have no clue what to do when it comes to tea rooms. I, personally, was lost. There's too many teas to choose from, the sandwiches all have ingredients I can't pronounce, and nowhere could I find anything that contained "burgers" or "fries."

Or "chips" as the British call it.

Ramona ordered us three fancy sandwiches and a pot of blackcurrant tea.

I ordered us a Diet Shasta.

And you know what our waitress said?

"All of the Diet Shasta is ordered by men."

My reply?

"That's because it's the only thing on the menu we can understand."

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

The wife of a prison inmate is suing A&E, claiming the network falsely made it appear that she was smuggling drugs to her husband via her vagina.

Marlorita Battle claims she was minding her own business -- visiting her hubby at the Riverbend State Prison in Tennessee -- when, unbeknownst to her, a crew for the show "The Squad: Prison Police" was secretly filming her.

Though she says nothing untoward happened during her visit, when A&E aired the show, they made her look like a drug smuggler. Specifically, Battle claims the episode featured a member of the prison police squad describing how outsiders smuggle drugs by carrying them inside their body cavities.

Battle says her images were plastered all over the screen as the squad member described how women often hide the drugs in their vaginas. And then Battle is featured walking toward the bathroom, then returning to kiss her husband goodbye. Battle says it was clear ... A&E was suggesting she had passed drugs to her hubby through "oral contact."

I pity the lawyers who will be taking this case.

Reading About Tampons (The Male Perspective): A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2011-01-02T09:26:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, a blog topic just finds you.

I was milling around the other day when I came across a discarded piece of paper, which turned out to be an instruction sheet for Tampax tampons.

Tampons are a mystery to me. Hell, tampons are a mystery to all men. We get the purpose, we just don't get (nor want to get) how women walk around with these things.

I mean, from a man's perspective, tampons are barbaric. In fact, the whole "monthly thing" y'all females go through is just strange. It's like walking around with a busted pipe. It's just odd...and we don't look at it as beautiful and natural.

I'm just saying what all men are thinking.

So I started reading these tampons instructions. And I gotta give it to the folks at Tampax: They thought of everything. First of all, they have a little section entitled:

"Your first time?"

And it reads:

Take a deep breath...and relax. It's much easier to insert a tampon when you're relaxed. It takes practice -- most women need a few tries before they can comfortably and easily insert a tampon. When using a tampon for the first time, choose a day when your flow is moderate.

I, for one, feel more at ease.

And then you're given the right ways to use the tampon, as well as "other helpful hints about absorbency":

1) Always use the lowest absorbency tampon to meet your needs.

Um...OK. Sounds reasonable.

2) Tampax makes choosing the right absorbency easy. Every box includes an absorbency chart to help you decide. By using different absorbencies, you will get the best combination of protection and comfort.

OK, trial and error. Got it.

And then...

3) Change your tampon every 4-8 hours.

WHOA!!!!! Are you %$#@&%$# me?!? You mean to tell me that during her time of the month, a woman has to submit herself to this insane ritual 3-4 times a day? That's insane!! No wonder women are pissed off during their time of the month!! I'd be cussing out my husband and throwing knives at his head too.

But wait, there's more.

I asked a female friend about this "every 4-8 hours" thing and she said:

That's if you're a slow-flow kinda gal. Otherwise, it's every 2-4 hours.

What. The. $#@^%$.

And finally, for those who are still confused, the instructions contain a visual aid.

Which is just really, really disturbing.

Luckily, for anyone with further questions, the instructions say that they can go to www.beinggirl.com.

Check out the section on periods, which contains the following snip-it:

Sometimes it seems like your period always comes when you least expect it. If you’ve had your period for less than two years, chances are, it hasn’t become regular yet. But don’t worry – it will be soon.

And on that happy note, I'm gonna go watch football.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Almost 30 robots have started teaching English to youngsters in a South Korean city, in a pilot project designed to nurture the nascent robot industry.

Engkey, a white, egg-shaped robot developed by the Korea Institute of Science of Technology (KIST), began taking classes Monday at 21 elementary schools in the southeastern city of Daegu.

The 29 robots, about one metre (3.3 feet) high with a TV display panel for a face, wheeled around the classroom while speaking to the students, reading books to them and dancing to music by moving their head and arms.

The robots, which display an avatar face of a Caucasian woman, are controlled remotely by teachers of English in the Philippines -- who can see and hear the children via a remote control system.

I only have one thing to say about this:

Didn't these guys see "The Terminator?"

I'm telling you: This is how it starts.

Jews Love Christmas (Pass It On): A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-12-25T13:30:00.000-08:00

Note to all of the non-Jews of the world, young and old:

All Jews love Christmas.

Jews love Christmas. We celebrate Christmas just like you. We have trees, bust out the lights, deck the halls, drink Egg Nog, listen to carolers, and listen to Christmas music like there's no tomorrow.

All Jews love Christmas. Even the orthodox ones. Oh sure, they say they don't. But orthodox Jews are just the Jews who were so scarred from not having Santa Claus when they were a kid that they rebelled by becoming really Jewish and trying to pretend that Christmas doesn't exist.

It's OK. I'm Jewish. I can say these things. :-)

Why do Jews love Christmas? Simple. Because Jews, my non-Jew friends, are just like you. We like presents. We like lots of presents. And we like food. And family. And time off of work and school. We like snow. We like twinkly lights. We like sitting on Santa's lap and telling him what we want for Christmas.

My name is Nevin Barich. I'm a Jew who loves Christmas. I am just like you.

And that's what this week's blog is about, really. Bridging the gap between Jews and non-Jews. During this time of year, we are exactly the same. There are no differences. We both love the same things and think the same way. Embrace the sameness. Embrace Jews this holiday season and every holiday season heretoforth.

And when I say anything related to Christmas from here on in, please don't say some kind of "Nev, you're Jewish" statement in response. Man, that gets old.

Aren't you Jewish?

Nev, you're Jewish.

Jews celebrate Christmas?

Jews don't celebrate Christmas!

Didn't you already have your Chanukah?

You know who Santa is?

You know how many "Nev, you're Jewish" statement I got this holiday season?

13.

I am Jewish.

And I celebrate Christmas.

Pass it on.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Lindsay Lohan was accused of attacking a worker in the rehab facility she's in.

My guess: The rehab worker tried to step in after finding Lindsay trying to smoke one of her socks.

That's my theory, anyway.

Getting A Barbershop Shave: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-12-19T08:05:00.001-08:00

There are many things in life that a man needs to do at least once. Among them: Backpack through Europe. Visit Fenway Park and pretend to be a Yankees fan. And eat a fried Twinkie.

And over the weekend, I found another one to add to the list:

Getting a barbershop shave.

Recently, some friends and I visited the good people at The Art of Shaving in Las Vegas, and treated ourselves to what's called "The Royal Shave." As a part of royalty, you get the works: Hot towels, straight razor, lather, facial massage, the works. You sit for 45 minutes as the hands of experience sculpt your face in a way a plastic surgeon never could.

Honest to God: It's heaven on Earth.

I mean, when you walk in the barber lies you down, invites you to put your feet up and take your shoes off, and proceed to make you feel like you are the only person who matters in the world. For 3/4 of an hour, you feel like the king of the world as you treat yourself and your face to tender loving care that you previously only got from your wife, with the added benefit of Italian opera playing in the background.

It's very Godfather-like. It makes you feel like Moe Greene, right before he got clipped through the barbershop window.

Here's the way I see it. Women have their facials. Women have their manicures. Women have their pedicures. Women have their spa days. In fact, when you think about it, women have just about every relaxation method offered to them under the sun!! What do men have that's both socially acceptable and won't get them in trouble with the wife to enjoy? (the second part eliminates both strip clubs and lap dances) If you think about it, the barbershop shave is man's only release. Where a man can be a man and talk to other men about men things, like sports and cars and action movies and "these kids today" and "in my day" and "look at the ass on her" and beer.

Seriously, the experience couldn't be any better if they had bowls of pretzels and Guinness on tap.

So mean: Add barbershop shave to your bucket list. Enjoy the experience of your face feeling like a baby's bottom.

Smooth.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Tony Romo is engaged to a pageant queen.

I'm sure this is a marriage built to last.

Playing Beer Pong For The Very First Time: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-12-11T23:48:00.000-08:00

I'm not a drinker. Never was. It wasn't because of any real moral issue, dilemma, or parental fear. The reason is far more simple: I hate the taste. Beer. Vodka. Gin. Rum. It all tastes like piss to me.

As such, I had never taken part in a certain game, a certain ritual, that symbolizes youth, the feeling of invincibility, and stupidity:

Beer Pong. :-)

Beer Pong. An American drinking game involving beer and ping pong balls. I'd heard about it, read about it, and if I felt inspired, I'm sure I could've found videos on it. But I never did. I never played. Because I didn't drink beer. I hated the taste. Piss, remember?

However, recently -- during tailgating of the USC-UCLA football game earlier this month -- my friends began setting up for Beer Pong and encouraged my participation. And after thinking about it for a bit, I thought: Why not? There's not a lot of beer in the cups, I'm not driving, and I liked the idea of bouncing ping pong balls into cups (it sounded oddly thrilling).

It was time to pop my Beer Pong cherry.

So I began playing Beer Pong with my friends. And let me tell you: I was awesome!!

I mean, I was good. Really good!! One minute, I'm forced to admit to that at age 31, I have no idea what the rules of Beer Pong are (kind of like a 20-year-old admitting he doesn't know how to tie his shoes). The next minute, I'm fooling the competition with sudden bounce shots and hitting 20-foot fadeaways.

I was in the Beer Pong zone.

I don't often impress myself, but on this fall Saturday afternoon in the Pasadena Rose Bowl parking lot, I found out that I took to Beer Pong like Forrest Gump took to ping pong. There were guys I was going up against who claimed to have never lost a Beer Pong game. And they fell to the might and determination of Nev.

I played five games. Of those, my partner and I won four. And the fifth game really shouldn't count, because I was kind of swaying back and forth at that point. But it wasn't just about the victories. It was about knowing that if push came to shove, if someone put a gun to my head and said "Play a credible game of Beer Pong or I'll blow your brains out," I could rise to the challenge.

Although after five games, the beer still tasted like piss.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

From TMZ:

Pop star Miley Cyrus has been known for making hits, but a new video shows she’s also taking some.

TMZ posted footage of Cyrus taking a hit off a bong at a party in her Los Angeles area home just five days after she turned 18 on November 23. In the clip, the singer gets the giggles after she smokes what is allegedly salvia, a natural herb with psychedelic qualities. Possessing salvia is legal in California.

After inhaling, Cyrus imagines seeing her boyfriend, Liam Hemsworth. “Having a little bit of a bad trip,” she tells the camera with a laugh.

According to TMZ’s source, Cyrus’ friend shot the video, but it was allegedly stolen or copied from her camera.

Miley Cyrus: Becoming the new Lindsay Lohan.

By the way: What is the deal with people filming one another doing drugs? I mean, is it the new trendy thing to do? What possible good can come from this?

And then the video always gets "stolen."

Right.

Going Back To My Podcast Roots: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-12-05T19:32:00.000-08:00

It's been a very crazy week, so I had no time for a real blog post. However, recently I went back to my podcast roots and posted a new podcast with my buddy -- and cousin-in-law -- Michael Feldman. You can listen to the 10-minute podcast here.

We talk about MILFs.

:-)

Next week's blog: I have my first beer pong experience!!

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Queen Elizabeth II's underwear will be going on auction to the highest bidder in Miami.

Some SOTAs...just write themselves. :-)

Going Through Airport Security: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-11-26T19:25:00.000-08:00

Recently, I hopped on a plane for a 36-hour trip to Northern California to see my first-ever Stanford-Cal football game (Cal fans are psychos, by the way. They're like Raider fans, without the style and creativity). And as part of the plane-riding process, I had to go through one of life's less-enjoyable experiences:

Airport security.

Now please understand: I completely get and respect the reason for more airport security. The September 11 terrorist attacks were absolutely horrible and tragic, one of those events where everyone alive at the time will remember the exact moment that they heard the news. Having said that: Airport security is not only ridiculously annoying, but absolutely confusing.

Sorry to say, I am one of those people at airport security that others get stuck behind because he doesn't know what the hell he's doing. I mean, I am always baffled when I go through airport security. First, every time I grab a bin, I have trouble separating the damn things. I mean, everyone around me and their mother seems to be able to separate the bins with ease, but mine always seem to be stuck like glue. I can feel everyone else's eyes rolling as I struggle.

Then there's the shoes. I always forget to take off my shoes. And when I do take them off, I never remember whether I'm supposed to put them in a bin or not. For that matter, it's the same with laptops. When I take out my laptop, I put it in the bin and then put other stuff in the bin. But for some reason, you're supposed to keep the laptop separate in the bin. Otherwise, I guess, the X-ray machine won't be able to spot the bomb blueprints I have on my desktop.

When it's all said and done, I end up with eight bins, each of them filled with my own separate items because I'm all confused, a line has formed behind me, and the security guy is looking at me like he'd shoot me if he didn't fear God or the law.

And that's me and airport security in a nutshell.

Total time it takes me to go through security: 37 minutes.

Not including the time it takes to pat me down if I'm determined to be a terror risk.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Former NBA star Dennis Rodman received oral sex during a recent radio interview.

There's even audio.

And the funny part is that Rodman was the guy who called in.

I'm sure the radio host would've forgiven his tardiness.

Restaurants That Post Nutritional Information: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-11-19T18:14:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week, I visited my good friends at Chili's Restaurant in Northridge, meeting up with a couple of old high school chums for dinner. And as we were catching up and reminiscing on old times, I started looking at the menu and noticed all of these damn numbers next to the food items.

The nutritional information.

Now: I understand the reasoning behind this new phenomenon. In today's restaurant society, there are -- quite frankly -- some fattening food items out there. And no doubt some big wigs from the health food industry got together with some head honchos from the fat farm factory and conspired to pressure Congress to make people feel bad about the Texas cheese fries they want to order.

Fine. Whatever. But I have news for those who hatched this evil plan:

It doesn't work.

No one loves fattening food more than me. Now I'm not fat and I work out daily, but I'm still a prime target of health and organic food advocates. They want people like me to feel guilty. To take stock in what I'm eating and ask myself: "Is it worth it?" They want to get me to take a good, hard look in the mirror and ponder serious life changes.

Yeah, good luck.

I'm like a smoker: I don't bother reading the warning labels. I know this food is bad for me and I don't care. Why? Because it tastes good and it makes me happy. When I eat it, I smile. And I like to smile.

Just being honest here, people. :-)

My point is: I already know that the fried onion and jalapeno stack that my friends and I ordered at Chili's as an appetizer was loaded with tons of fat, calories and sodium. But it didn't stop us from ordering it. We ignore warnings. We're Americans!! We think we're indestructible!! And if we get heart problems later on, it's nothing a little open heart surgery won't fix.

Plus: Bad food is cheaper. You ever see a value menu of health food? No. Why? Because health food costs money. And times are tough. Bad food is cheaper and I like to save.

To sum up: I am winning the fight against the evil health food and diet tyrants. This whole "Hey Nev, those steak nachos from Baja Fresh you're about to order contain 108 grams of fat in them, which is about 1 1/2 days' intake" campaign is failing. And as long as I continue to eat this food, it will continue to fail.

It's a war, people. And I'm doing my part.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

As if "The Hangover" franchise couldn't get any cooler.

Bill Clinton has reportedly just filmed a cameo for next year's "The Hangover 2."

Oh.

Hell.

Yeah.

Getting a Big-Screen, HD TV: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-11-12T22:20:00.000-08:00

I was at work the other day when my wife Ramona sent me the following text message:

I'm buying us a TV! 42-inch LG LCD with Internet connectivity so you can use your Playstation 2 and we can get movies from Netflix!

Hand of God: I have never loved Ramona more than I did at that moment.

As I write this, I am in front of my new TV -- which I named Bessie -- watching the movie Old School, awestruck at how the frat parties are so much clearer in HD. I mean, you can really see the detail on the beer bongs. It's practically life-like.

I am among the last people on Earth to have an HD TV. If you know me, this shouldn't be surprising. It's not that I don't like TV. I love it!! Ramona and I are huge TV watchers. But I'm also a creature of habit, easy to please. I mean, I don't need much. I'm cool with paper plates, 16-bit Super Nintendo, flip phones with no texting keyboards, and until recently, a 20-inch box TV.

I'm loyal to things that serve my needs well. I still have socks from the 1990s. I wear shoes until they disintegrate. I'm not particularly fond of changing brands of toothpaste. So it wasn't easy for me to just jump right into an HD TV. I was used to boxed TVs. They were cheap, sturdy, and had a good picture. What more did I need? Sure, all my friends laughed at me, made fun of me, and called me "1960s Guy", but these are also people that would trade in their loyal, loving older dog for a brand new puppy.

Luckily, my wife stepped in and made the hard choice I couldn't make. I'm Vito Corleone -- who couldn't bring himself to order his daughter's husband killed even though he was responsible for the death of son -- and Ramona is Michael Corleone, the one willing to give the order.

Ramona got the new TV and killed the old one, making her man happy...and allowing me to view my HD without guilt.

Damn, this picture is clear.

What's my point here? No point. I mean, I have a flatscreen TV. It's big, it looks great, and tomorrow I'm watching the Manny Pacquiao fight on it.

Life is good.

Especially in HD.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

There's a bacon candle on the market!!

Oh.

Yeah.

Women's Obsession With Cool Cars: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-11-06T21:14:00.000-07:00

Earlier today, I was visiting my good friends at ARCO, filling up my car with gas, when I saw in front of me a Lamborghini. Now a Lamborghini is going to stand out no matter what, particularly in the San Fernando Valley, where we don't see very many cool cars. But it wasn't so much the fact that the Lamborghini was there, but rather the interesting reaction the Lamborghini received from a woman nearby.

This woman -- who was with her boyfriend in some normal two-car black Honda -- was busy snapping pictures of the Lamborghini with her iPhone. She was looking at it, salivating over it; I seriously believe that if her boyfriend wasn't around, she would've gone to the Lamborghini and licked the hood. She had a look on her face that said:

God I would look good sitting in that car!!

And it made me ponder the following question:

What is it with women and picturing themselves in cool cars?

Seriously, this is a female thing. It really is. I mean, sure guys buy the cool cars. But you know why? Because it attracts women to them!! Men don't think to themselves, "Man I look great in this car." If anything, they think that the car itself looks so good that it will cover up how ugly he is!!

But women are different. They picture how they would look in the car. They think that they look better as a result of being in the car. They believe that they and the car are one.

And here's what's funny: Women aren't naive. They know why guys buy these types of cars: To get laid, pure and simple. But despite this knowledge, women simply opt to pay this price in order to be in the car and fulfill their "Damn, I look so good in this car!! fantasy.

It's like they're whoring themselves over a vehicle.

That's right. I said it.

Look: I'm not trying to judge. I'm really not. It's just that I simply don't get it. I don't get the obsession of being in a cool car or looking good in a cool car. I don't get why when a woman sees a Lamborghini at a gas station, she flips out her iPhone, takes tons of pictures, and looks at it longingly enough to practically have an orgasm.

Her poor boyfriend. He's probably a good guy. He probably works hard, has a decent, job, treats her right. I bet he buys her flowers for no reason. Does the laundry and dishes at home. Is a good listener.

But all that pales in the face of a $200,000 sports car.

I bet the next time the couple has sex, the woman will be thinking of the car.

I just hope, for her boyfriend's sake, she doesn't say the word "Lamborghini" in the heat of the moment.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

A 10-year-old girl from Romania has given birth in southern Spain, officials in the region have said.

The father of the baby is also believed to be a minor, aged 13, who is still in Romania, Spanish media have said.

Things like this...just make me sad.

Carving My First Halloween Pumpkins: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-10-30T15:23:00.000-07:00

Halloween is tomorrow, and to help us get into the spirit, earlier this week my wife Ramona brought us pumpkins for us to carve.

And another "first" in my life was about to begin.

I had never before carved a pumpkin. Not once. Why? To be honest, I couldn't really tell you. I didn't really grow up in a pumpkin-carving environment. It wasn't that we didn't celebrate Halloween. We did. We put up some decorations outside, we wore costumes, and we went trick-or-treating and so forth. But the celebration simply never extended to carving pumpkins.

Ramona, however, comes from a pumpkin-carving clan, and she felt that us carving pumpkins together would be a good husband-wife activity.

She was wrong.

I found out within about 15 seconds that pumpkin carving, to me, is one of the dumbest exercises in the history of mankind. It's not the carving part that's so bad. That's OK, I guess. But it's all the prep work.

First, you gotta cut the top off the pumpkin. That's annoying. Especially when there's one of those big green stems that blocks your cutting path. And one of the pumpkins that Ramona bought was about as soft as concrete. Even our good knives had trouble penetrating it.

Then there's the scooping of the pumpkin seeds. That's just ridiculous. I mean...it smells!! Plus, the inside of a pumpkin looks like the surface of some planet you'd find in the Star Wars Galaxy or an Aliens movie. It's just creepy. And why the hell do some of you save these seeds? What the hell's the matter with you? What good are pumpkin seeds for? They suck in pie, they don't taste good, and they're slimy with pumpkin guts.

And then there's the carving itself. Pardon me if my pumpkin eyes aren't complete symmetrical. I don't know what the hell I'm doing!! It's not like I took a class. Besides, how can I focus after scooping out the damn thing of its seeds? There must be seedless pumpkins out there. Or pumpkins you can buy that are ready to carve. Or maybe I could pay someone $5 to scoop out my pumpkins. Hell, I can find someone to rake my leaves for $5. How difficult can finding a pumpkin scooper be?

Oh, and there's the Pumpkin warts too. That's definitely on the "WTF" list.

In the end, we have two homemade carved pumpkins that we're displaying this All-Hallows Eve. But they weren't carved with love. They were carved reluctantly, with annoyance, and with disgust.

And for any of you who are rolling your eyes at me right now...

...I'm going to drive up to your house on Halloween...

...and throw pumpkin seeds at your windows.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

A “Gentlemen’s hair salon” in Sydney, Australia is now offering topless haircuts from four confident female hairdressers.

Simply put:

Greatest. Idea. Ever.

And with the women having Aussie accents, it's even more great.

I simply don't see how this business venture will fail.

:-)

Being Nice To Solicitors: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-10-23T20:04:00.000-07:00

On the front door of my house, there's a sign on there that says "No Soliciting." We didn't put it on there; it was on the door when we bought the house. Not that it matters, because it's a sign that solicitors completely ignore. At least once a week, we get a loud knock on our door from someone selling security systems. Or pest control services. Or Jesus. The "No Soliciting" sign has no power, it seems.

So when one of these folks come knocking on my door, I'm admittedly not the nicest person in the world. I don't mean to be, but I just have no desire to hear what you're doing or selling. Honestly, I just want the salesman (or woman) to spontaneously combust, but to do so in a way that won't get any internal organs on my door, plants or lawn. S

Case in point: This morning, I got a knock on my door from this couple. Here was the conversation:

Couple: Hi, we're high school teachers and we're going door-to-door talking about your local representative who's running in your district.

Me: Uh-huh.

Couple: Are you a registered voter?

Me: Yep.

Couple: Do you vote?

Me: No.

(pause)

Couple: Well, (so and so) candidate is an advocate for education.

Me: Uh-huh.

Couple: Do you have kids?

Me: No.

(pause)

Couple: Well, we have this brochure...

Me: Great, thanks.

And I close the door.

So when my wife Ramona heard all of this, she chided me for being mean to these solicitors. But admittedly, it's a catch-22 situation. If you're nice to them, you encourage them to keep talking, which makes them stay longer. Which I don't want.

Nonetheless, what the wife says, husband does. So earlier this evening, another solicitor came knocking:

Solicitor: Oh man!! Is it cold out here? But don't worry, I'm not trying to sell you anything!! God bless you, and high five!!

(we exchange high fives).

(Note: This is not an exaggeration. This is literally, word for word, how this conversation began.)

Solicitor: I want to tell you about this product that gets our car scratches!! Works great on colors!! Look, I'm black and I spray it on my arm!!

(he sprays it on his arm)

Solicitor: HA HA!!! HIGH FIVE!!!

(we exchange high fives)

Solicitor: That your car in the driveway? How'd that white paint get on it? Let's use the spray!!

Me: Um...well...listen, I appreciate you stopping by...

Solicitor: You do? That's great!!! Because I don't want to be annoying!! Cuz I ain't sellin'. I just want to tell you about the spray!! Works great on colors!! Let's go to your car!!

Me: Well, it's not the best time...

Solicitor: I got the spray right here!! We'll get it done right now. High Five!!!

(another high five exchanged)

Me: Look, I'm really sorry, but we have company over right now. But I do appreciate your time. Do you have any information you can give me?

Solicitor: It just takes five minutes!!

Me: It's just not a good time.

Solicitor: We can fix your car!!

Me: I think the car's OK.

Solicitor: What about that white paint?

Me: I...I don't see any white paint.

Solicitor: You don't see any? Of course you see it!! It's right there!! C'mon, let's spray!!

(he sprays his arm again)

Me: Listen man, I'm sorry. I just can't do it right now.

(pause)

Solicitor: Works great on colors!!

Me: I know, man. I know.

And finally, after 1 more "God Bless" and two more "High Fives!!!" I got the guy to leave.

Had I simply slammed the door in his face, as is my nature, this would've gone a lot quicker. But instead, I had to be nice. And he kept jabberin' on. And spraying his arm.

The solution, I think, is to split the difference.

I'll answer the door.

Give a big smile.

Slam the door in their face.

Then say:

Thanks so much for stopping by!!

That's nice, right?

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Mel Gibson's cameo in next year's The Hangover 2 has been canned.

Apparently, some of the cast were discontent with working with Mel, who has a recent history of antisemitic remarks and physical and verbal abuse toward women.

All understandable. But still, this is the same cast that had no problem working with Mike Tyson in the first movie.

I mean, all Tyson did was get convicted of rape.

Just sayin'.

Preparing For My First Tailgate: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-10-16T19:31:00.000-07:00

First things first: I totally have to give a shout-out to Verizon Wireless Internet cards. As I write this, I'm in the backseat of my buddy Howie's car -- me, him and our friend Fawzi are meeting up with another friend of ours, Rachit, for the Raiders-49ers game in San Francisco tomorrow -- and I'm getting a wickedly good signal. Thank you, Verizon!! I can write my blog, check sports scores, and entertain everyone with sports factoids at the same time. :-)

And it's this trip to San Francisco that I want to write about, for it will bring about a "first" in my life. No, it's not my first Raider game (come on now). No, it's not my first trip to San Francisco (I've been there about a half-dozen times). And no, I'm not writing about my first visit to Candlestick Park (although I have never been there and am super excited).

This weekend, I'm tailgating for the very first time.

Allow me to explain.

It's not that I was ever against tailgating, or had some moral or ethical code against the idea of tailgating. Honestly, it always sounded really cool to me (despite the fact that I really don't drink, which any tailgater will tell you is a huge part of the tailgating experience). It's just that, quite honestly, I never had an opportunity to experience it. I didn't go to a ton of football games growing up -- I mainly attended Dodger games, where tailgating isn't allowed -- the college I went to, Cal State Northridge, didn't exactly have a football team seeped in tradition (and the school eventually axed football in 2001), and a lot of my close friends didn't put tailgating too high up on their to-do list.

So tailgating became one of those things where I would say to myself: "There's plenty of time for me to have a tailgating experience. I'm young. It will happen. I don't have to make it a priority right now."

And before you knew it, I was 31 years old, with a wife and a mortgage.

Where has the time gone?

So as I write this, I am mere hours away from popping my tailgating cherry. And I'm doing it right: I got a good group of guys -- one of whom, Howie, is a tailgating expert. This guy even has a tailgating BBQ travel kit!! -- we got the grill, the drinks, the food, the cooler, and we're doing it at a Raider game, where you're bound to find crazy drunks brawling across the parking lot.

Truly, I am jumping in the tailgating ocean with both feet.

As I progress through my 30s, I've come to realize that life is all about the experiences, the moments -- past, present, future -- that shape our lives. And this weekend, my first tailgating experience will truly shape me in ways I can't even fathom. Sitting in a parking lot, grilling hot dogs, bundling up against the cold, drinking beer (soda in my case), listening to football on the radio, talking to Raider fans, yelling at Niner fans and threatening to bludgeon them in the back of the head "if you don't get the f**** out of my face, you stupid motherf*****ker!! Yeah, I'm talking to you b****h!! Got a problem? Do you? Huh? Huh? HUH?!?!?!?"

My first tailgate.

I can't wait.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Kim Kardashian was recently spotted bowling in high heels.

Not that I should be surprised. But still...you know?

Arguing With The Wife About Fruit-Flavored Tea: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-10-09T15:50:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, a random conversation with my wife Ramona leads to a good blog. :-) Observe our conversation from today about fruit-flavored tea:

Ramona: Hey, you want me to buy you any of that fruit-flavored tea?

Nev: Nah, I don't like it.

R: Really? They have all different types of flavors.

N: Yeah, but it all tastes the same to me.

R: Nev, surely we can find you a flavor you like. There's blueberry. There's pomegranate...

N: OK, one day someone is going to have to explain to me what the hell a pomegranate is. I mean, I woke up one morning and all of a sudden pomegranate was in every single beverage in America.

R: Pomegranate is a fruit, Nev. It's been around forever.

N: Babe, I just don't understand this whole fruit-flavored tea thing.

R: This fruit-flavored tea thing?

N: Yeah. I mean, when did tea become fruit-flavored?

R: Um, like 300 years ago?

N: No it hasn't. Tea was never fruit-flavored. It was just tea. Simple, direct tea. Then one day someone put it in a fancy lookin' can, added some pome-whats-it, tripled the price, and now you think you're drinking something healthy.

R: Nevin, tea has been fruit-flavored for centuries. India, for example, has been flavoring their tea with fruit for years.

N: India? What the hell do they know about tea?

R: Nev, they were part of the huge spice trade.

N: Wasn't that about salt?

R: And when I went to Turkey a few years ago, I had apple-flavored tea. And it was great! It tasted like hot apple cider.

N: Well there you have it. You were drinking apple cider.

R: No, Nevin. I was drinking tea.

N: No, Ramona. You think you were drinking tea. But in actuality, the folks in Turkey don't know what tea is, so they call cider tea, and they made you think you were drinking tea when in fact you were drinking cider.

R: Nevin: Fruit-flavored tea is great.

N: You only think it's great. But in reality, you have been so bamboozled by fancy labeling and marketing and PC fanatics, that you no longer have any idea which way is up and what fruit is real!!

R: Nev, stop talking about things that you have no clue about.

(pause)

N: But what fun would that be?

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

A devout Michigan State football fan called timeout before doctors could install a pacemaker in his chest Thursday, deferring the procedure until after the school's football game this weekend against rival Michigan.

Major Hester said he was willing to risk death so that he could watch Saturday's game in Ann Arbor on television. The Spartans are ranked 17th in the country and the Wolverines are ranked 18th.

The 69-year-old retired office supply clerk said he put off the procedure until next week because he can't risk something going wrong on the operating table that would prevent him from watching the game.

God forbid.

In case you were wondering: Hester's risk of life was not in vain. His beloved Spartans won 34-17.

Having A Teenager Stay In My House: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-10-02T09:01:00.000-07:00

I currently have a brooding teenager sitting in my living room.

Actually, I don't know for sure that he's brooding. I'm assuming he's brooding. He's sitting on a sofa chair, staring at a TV that isn't on. He doesn't want anything to eat, doesn't want anything to drink, doesn't want to watch TV, and has said 5 words since he arrived 12 hours ago.

And when I say 5 words, I mean 5 words.

He has said the following:

"I got it."

"No."

"OK."

That's it. That's been the extent of our verbal correspondence.

This weekend, my 15-year-old cousin Jack, along with his brothers 10-year-old Little T and 6-year-old Draven, are staying with me and my wife Ramona. The younger ones haven't stopped talking since they've arrived. We've talked about video games, computer games, Spongebob, cereal, The Godfather, and sweeping up the leaves in my backyard.

But Jack has been silent. Wordless. I mean, this kid barely blinks. It's weird. I know this is common in teenagers, but when me and my sister Blake were growing up, we didn't go through this stage as teenagers. Ramona didn't either. The three of us all spoke to adults at age 15. We didn't go through a brooding stage. So to be honest, it's hard for me to relate.

I'll tell you another thing: It wasn't too long ago that I was young enough that these brooding teenagers thought I was cool enough to talk to. When I was in my 20s, I wasn't considered anything close to being a parent. Thus, I was OK to converse with in the eyes of teenagers.

But then some things happened. I got married. I turned 31. I bought a house. All of these scream "adult" and thus make me uncool in the eyes of a teenager. These are some of the qualities that they see in their parents; thus, I'm a pariah. It doesn't matter that I can still talk to them about music, girls, video games, high school; nope, they don't care. I'm in my 30s. I'm a loser that they'll never, ever become.

And thus, the teenager broods.

As I end this blog, the teenager rises from his chair. He looks for, and finds, the cereal. He can't find a spoon.

"Hey Jack," I say, "look left." It's in that drawer.

He goes to the drawer. Finds a spoon.

He smiles.

Nonverbal communication.

I'll take what I can get.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Remember Back To The Future II?

Remember the power laces?

Now they're a reality.

:-)

Power laces? Far out!!

Babysitting My Two Little Girl Cousins (The New Adventures): A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-09-25T08:11:00.001-07:00

Last July, I wrote about how I babysat my two little-girl cousins -- 9-year-old Cora and 4-year-old Aya -- the first time I was ever asked to babysit girls. All in all, despite a few hiccups, that adventure was a success. The kids were happy, there were no trips to the emergency room, and my house and its belongings more or less stayed in one piece.

So when the girls came to town again this week and their father Jesse asked me if I would mind donning the babysitting hat for his daughters once more, I quickly said yes. After all, I figured, I now had some girl-babysitting experience to call on. The first time it was the great unknown, but this time around I knew the lay of the land a little bit better.

Right?

Except there were a couple of new challenges this time around:

1) I would be babysitting the girls on not one, but two separate occasions -- on back-to-back days -- with one of those days being another sleepover at my house.

And 2) This time, I had to take the girls to public places -- e.g., restaurants. So if one of them threw a tantrum because their macaroni and cheese was too hot, or threw up on the floor, or starting knocking on the heads of the people in the booth next to us, then when the patrons in the restaurant started looking to see what kind of idiotic baboon of an adult would allow these children to behave in such barbaric fashion, they would be looking straight at me.

How'd it go? Take a walk with me. Each babysitting day had its own story...

-----------

IWANNAGOTOIHOP!!!!!!

That was the battle cry of Aya -- the 4-year-old -- when I came to get her and Cora on Thursday for babysitting duty No. 1. My first task was to take the girls out to eat, and both of them wanted to visit my good friends at the International House Of Pancakes. And it was while we were loading the kids into my car that their dad Jesse gave me the following parting words:

Nev, I told the girls they can order whatever they want.

OK, now clearly Jesse did not think this thing through. It's not the "the girl can order whatever they want" part that was necessarily idiotic. It was the fact that the adult who would be supervising them this afternoon -- me -- is the complete opposite of what one would call "health conscious." I love cold pizza for breakfast. Diet coke is my coffee. Extra cheese and mayo are common staples on my burgers.

He might as well have told a heroin addict that he was allowing his kids to "sample a little taste if they want to."

But luckily for me, Cora and Aya are surprisingly level-headed for their age. When we went to IHOP, they simply ordered pancakes -- blueberry for Cora, and one of those make-a-face ones for Aya. All was well...

...until each of them got the 5 types of syrup on our table, poured it all over their plates, and started licking the syrup with their tongues like dogs.

And it was here that I asked myself:

Am I setting a good example?

But then I looked around.

No dirty looks from restaurant patrons.

And happy faces on the girls.

No permanent damage done. :-)

......

I AM NOT WATCHING THE LION KING AGAIN!!!!!!!

It was during babysitting duty No. 2 on Friday that things got choppy. See, Aya loves The Lion King. She brought the book with her and I've literally read it to her six times in a four-hour span. And with the girls staying at my place for the night, Aya made me promise that we could watch the movie as well. "Fine with me," I thought. "It's a good movie and it will keep her relatively entertained for 90 minutes."

But then a problem occurred.

"I am not watching The Lion King again. End of discussion," Cora declared.

And I'm gonna tell you something: When Cora makes up her mind, she is a stone. Unflappable. The girl simply would not budge. I tried everything.

I offered to play games with her while the movie played simultaneously in the background.

No.

I tried to bribe her with Baskin Robbins.

No.

Even her mom got on the phone and tried to convince her daughter.

No.

Nothing worked. And then, Cora made an offer unlike any other...

Hey Nev, do you have video games?

And a deal with the devil was suddenly on the table.

See, here's the thing. Cora has never played video games before. And I knew she wanted to play video games. And I knew her dad would kill me -- very very slowly -- if I allowed her to play video games.

But as I looked onto my other shoulder, onto evil-conscious Nev...

...putting Cora in front my Playstation 2 would solve this problem. Cora plays, me and Aya watch The Lion King, and everybody's happy.

I almost did it. So help me God, I was this close. This Lion King argument went on for three f*****king hours. I actually asked myself: "What's the worst that could happen if I let Cora play Grand Theft Auto? Sure, she may pick up some colorful new phrases like 'Move, bitch' and 'Cap in yo ass' but by the time her parents find out, they'll be several hundred miles away and the problems I've caused will be theirs."

A sweet sweet offer, but I ultimately said no.

"Sorry Cora, my Playstation 2 is busted," I replied.

She sighed. I sighed. Aya waved The Lion King DVD around us for all to see.

Eventually, after much deliberation, discussions, yelling, screaming, crying and fighting, we all ended up watching Bolt.

Aya was happy.

Cora rolled her eyes once or twice but said no more.

And I went on my laptop to research vasectomy procedures.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

A Bill and Ted 3????

EXCELLENT!!!!!!

:-)

Going To Bars And Not Drinking Alcohol: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-09-18T17:15:00.001-07:00

Earlier this week, my oldest friend Josh -- whom I've known since I was 6 years old (25 years; wow) -- took me out for a belated birthday dinner at this Italian restaurant in Northridge not far from my house. We decided to sit at the bar so we could watch ESPN while we ate, and it was in this situation that I remembered the problem with me and bars.

See, here's the thing, which I've said many times on this blog: I rarely drink. I don't like beer, vodka, wine, hard liquor in general; I like girly drinks -- Kaluha and cream, mudslides, and so forth. So at the bar, I don't order booze. I usually order a Pepsi or a diet Coke.

And it's at that point that I might as well put on the "I'm Irrelevant. Don't Bother Acknowledging That I Exist" sign to the bartender.

I am the worst possible person a bartender wants to see at his or her bar. I won't order 5-6 beers in a 60-minute period. I won't rack up a huge tab. I won't be enamored with a female bartender chatting me up the entire time pretending to think I'm interesting, and then have that same female bartender find an excuse to jump up and down at some point during the night so I can see her boobs jiggle, enticing me to give her a big tip. Hell, I don't even earn "chatting up" status.

See, this is how the scenario goes:

Bartender (often female, often very cute, often smiling): What can I get you?

Me: Diet Coke.

Smile fades. Diet Coke given. No words for the rest of the night. I have to practically throw the empty glass at her head for a free refill, and when I get it, it's handed to me with disdain and disgust.

And honestly, I can't blame these people. I am a cancer when it comes to bars. You won't make money off of me. Why should I be spoken to? Why should I be treated as an equal? Why should these hard-working bartenders waste their time giving me my free refills?

When it comes to bars, they don't want me there. They should put up a "No Nev Allowed" sign up there. I'd understand.

Having said that, I have friends who drink -- like all of us do -- and when we go out, they should have the freedom to sit at the bar if they want. Why should I stand in their way? And if they get chatted up by the female bartender and they can find a way to use my lack of alcoholic drinking toward their goal of having sex with her, more power to them.

Female Bartender: So your friend doesn't drink?

Nev's Friend: Eh, no.

Female Bartender: Wow, what a loser.

Nev's Friend: Yeah, seriously.

Female Bartender: Cool people drink.

Nev's Friend: Yeah, like me.

Female Bartender: Yeah.

Nev's Friend: Yeah.

(pause)

Nev's Friend: Wanna f**k?

Female Bartender: Sure!!

If a friend of mine can pull that off, knock yourself out.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

In the world of drugs and celebrities:

Lindsay Lohan failed another drug test.

Paris Hilton was caught with cocaine and yet will walk away with a slap on the wrist.

And one of my favorite boxers to watch over the last 10 years, Ricky Hatton, was caught on video on a cocaine binge.

At the risk of sounding preachy and high-minded, WTF is the deal with celebrities and drugs? I mean honestly? I mean, it's not news that these drugs are not only illegal, but they're only going to hurt and destroy everything and everyone that matters to you (and that's not even going into the damage you're doing to yourself). How many times do we have to see people -- celebrities and non-celebrities -- throw their lives away over drugs before would-be druggies get the message?

I just don't get it. I really don't.

Texting: Shifting The Balance Of Power From Women To Men: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-09-11T21:44:00.000-07:00

Earlier today, I was enjoying a lazy Saturday at Borders bookstore in Northridge, doing what I normally do there -- looking through the latest sports-related novels and trying to see if there are any new "Harry Potter-like" book series -- when I overheard two college girls having the following conversation:

Girl 1: So last night, I finally heard from him.

Girl 2: What, he called?

G1: No, he texted.

G2: Texted?

G1: Texted.

G2: Well, what did he text?

G1: Yo.

G2: Yo?

G1: Yo.

G2: Whoa.

G1: Yeah, that's all he wrote. I mean, what's that about?

G2: Did you write him back?

G1: Well, I waited two hours, but yeah I did. I wrote him back hello.

G2: And then what?

G1: He wrote back what's up.

G2: And what did you say?

G1: I said nothing. So then he asks me if I want to hang out.

G2: Oh my God!! Seriously?

G1: Seriously.

G2: That's so weird. You don't hear from him for all this time, and now all of a sudden he comes out of nowhere. So weird.

G1: So weird.

Not weird.

Understand something about texting: It was created by a guy. Texting, without question, is the best thing that could've happened to men on the dating scene, and the worst thing that could've happened to women. Texting singlehandedly changed the power structure of the whole dating dynamic. Before, women had the power. It was the guy who had to put himself out there: to make that phone call, to seem witty and charming and cool and manly, all while he's quietly freaking out inside that the girl is going to reject him.

But then texting came onto the scene and everything changed. Suddenly, guys didn't have to call. Hell, guys didn't even have to e-mail!! All they had to do was be given the ability to type words into a phone and press send, and suddenly they're in control.

I mean, take the following common scenario:

Guy goes out with girl, guy has sex with girl, guy doesn't call girl for days, guy decides he wants to have sex with girl again but in order to do he needs to make contact with the girl and risk facing her wrath.

What does guy do?

Well in the olden days -- aka the 1990s -- the guy would have to call the girl on the phone. And this gave the girl all sorts of power. And she knew it too. See when a guy calls, he needs to do something difficult for him:

Talk.

This is difficult, particularly in the scenario previously mentioned above. See here, a guy needs to put himself out there. He needs to make himself vulnerable. He needs to think quickly on his feet. These are all things he's bad at, and women know this. They're the ones in control.

But when you involve texting, suddenly everything changes. The guy doesn't need to call. He doesn't need to talk. He doesn't need to put himself out there. He doesn't need to do anything!! Just text!! He doesn't have to worry about rejection or thinking on his feet. If the girl doesn't respond, no worries. If she does respond, then he's over the biggest hurdle. It's win-win for the guy.

And lose-lose for the woman. For now she's on the defensive. She's confused, unsure, no longer holding the cards. She's wondering what's going on in his head, not the other way around. And suddenly, the guy is now the one with the power.

So back to the bookstore. When I overheard this conversation between the two college girls, I went up to the first one -- the one who received the text -- and asked her if she wouldn't mind hearing a little perspective from a married guy (by the way: one thing I've discovered about being married is that it automatically gives you legitimacy with other women. If they see the ring on your finger, they trust you immediately because they figure you're mature enough to be with just one woman and they assume you're not trying to have sex with them, because if you were, you'd take the ring off before you talked to them).

I talk to this girl about her situation, explaining how the use of texting favors the guy. I broke down how this was putting her on the defensive and even gave her some insight as to what this guy may be thinking. I gave her some helpful hints on how she could combat this and assured her that there wasn't anything wrong with her and that true love and happiness with somebody did exist, whether it was with this particular guy or not.

You know what she said?

Well, the thing is that he's a Scorpio and I'm an Aquarius. And that's the worst possible match you can have. But the thing is, I have a Leo moon. So that changes things.

Uh-huh.

And with that, the shift in power from woman to man is complete.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

This is either totally disturbing or totally brilliant, depending on your view.

The Olde Salty restaurant in Carolina Beach, North Carolina, is banning screaming babies from its facility.

“Screaming Children Will NOT Be Tolerated!” say placards posted at the restaurant. And while the signs may seem to be telling some parents their patronage is unwelcome, restaurant owner Brenda Armes said it’s actually been a business boon.

“It has been a good thing for us,” Armes told NBC affiliate WECT. “It has brought in more customers than it has ever kept away.”

Of course it has.

No publicity is bad publicity, after all.

How The Dodger Game-Going Experience Has Changed: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-09-05T14:38:00.000-07:00

As a lifelong L.A. Dodger fan, I've gone to dozens of Dodger games over the years. Ever since I first laid eyes on Dodger Stadium when I was 7 or 8 years old, I still think it's one of the most beautiful places in the world. At night, when it's all lit up, there are few places in Southern California more breathtaking than Chavez Ravine.

But while the game still stays the same all these years later (baseball changes its rules as often as Al Bundy changes his underwear), the baseball-going experience has certainly changed, as I learned while attending last Friday's game.

Here are a few examples:

1) Think Dodger Stadium will ever have a "Nevin Barich Night"?

Neither do I. But it's more possible now than ever before. In the past, Dodger games had -- at most -- one special "night" per game (if that). These days, however, each game is full of special "nights." Last Friday, for example, was both "Pancreatic Cancer Night", "L.A. Police Valor Night" and "Recognize Our Team Photographer, Who Has Worked With Us For 25 Years Night."

Well why stop there? Let's also see "Breath, Blood Or Urine Testing Night." "Ode To Fat Women Who Eat 5-7 Dodger Dogs A Game Night." "Great Test Or Less Filling Night." "Broken Families Night." "Glee Night."

So why is a "Nevin Barich Night" so beyond the realm of the possible? It's not like anyone would care. Hell, it's not like anyone would notice!! What do you give a damn if I get to throw out the first pitch?

Oh yeah, that leads me to:

2) Remember where there was only one "first pitch"?

Major League Baseball games, for those of you who don't know, always have someone throw out the ceremonial first pitch before every game. It's a very cool honor, and several high-level folks -- from famous celebrities to Presidents of the United States -- have partaken in this tradition.

And it's still very cool...when there's one first pitch thrown.

But these days, Dodger games have three or four first pitches every game. Last Friday, for example, the cancer survivor threw a pitch, the police chief threw a pitch, and the team photographer threw not one but two pitches (because his first pitch sucked).

And you know what the best part is? They give the first pitches different names. "The honorary first pitch." "The ceremonial first pitch." "The warmup first pitch." "The first pitch you should actually give a damn about first pitch."

When did the first pitch need to be multiplied by 6? Whose dumb idea was this? At least change the name. Don't call it "first pitch." Call it "first throws" or "warmup tosses" or "waste of time" time.

Ya know?

And 3) Margaritas.

Check this out:

While waiting in line last Friday for some nachos (don't worry, I got some Dodger Dogs later on), I was right in front of a woman who had a drink in her hand and heard her tell her friend the following:

Oh my God, this margarita is terrible!! What the hell? Dodger Stadium makes the worst margaritas ever!!

OK, two things:

a) Why the hell is Dodger Stadium serving margaritas? I mean, isn't there a law against this or something? Shouldn't there be? Baseball games should only serve the following:

Hot dogs.

Nachos.

Beer.

Peanuts.

Soda.

Cracker jacks.

Ice cream.

And cotton candy.

Everything else is nonsense.

And b) Of course it's the worst margarita ever!! It's Dodger $#@&%$# Stadium!! What the hell did you expect?!? You got people working behind the counter who give you a blank stare when you ask where the napkins are, and you expect these same people to make you a decent margarita? Have you forgotten where you are? Do you not realize you're at a ball game? Is beer suddenly not good enough for you even though it's been serving the rest of the baseball-watching population just fine for more than 100 years?!?

I'm just sayin'.

So overall: While the game stays the same, the experience -- for better or worse -- has certainly changed. But if there ever is a "Nevin Barich Night", fear not: I don't expect you to pay attention as I throw out the fifth "first pitch" of the night. Feel free to use it as an excuse to head out to the concession stands.

Margaritas are $8.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

I got busted. :-)

In last week's blog about my first (and most likely last) wine tasting experience, I wrote about how my wife Ramona and I visited the Tolosa Winery in Edna, Calif. (population 1,600; located in San Luis Obispo's wine country). In the blog, I wrote the following:

The guy with the moccasins -- Greg -- explained each wine to me. And honestly, it was jibberish. He talked about sommeliers and tanins. He mentioned lighting rings and crystals. He talked about bonding with the wine and letting "your pallet engulf your spirit."

Well guess what? Greg got wind of the blog -- no doubt through the power of this connected, technological world we live in -- and actually responded:

Well I remember you and your wife, who did seem to enjoy her wine. You did go through the motions, swirling, dumping, but you made no faces or appearing to be drinking piss. I by the way do not have your culinary experience in that category. And for the rest of you out there there was do discussion of lighting rings or crystals, but what the heck he writes a clever line. Finally, "your pallet engulf your spirit." did not come out of my mouth.

I love it!! :-)

Now, in fairness to Greg, he's right: He did not say "your pallet engulf your spirit." That was my line. I take creative liberties sometimes. There, I admit it. And I'll say this also: The Tolosa Winery is a beautiful facility. Pretty views, it's nice inside, and for those of you who come there as part of a group and are tasked with being the designated driver, Tolosa's got some Martinelli's apple cider on tap. Plus, Greg is a cool dude. Nice guy, very mellow, the kind of person you'd hope to find working in a winery. Plus, he gave Ramona a good price on some wine she bought, which she very much appreciated.

But Greg: You did talk to me about lighting rings and crystals. That's something I couldn't make up if I tried.

Regardless, next time folks in So Cal have the hankering for wine tasting, visit Tolosa. Say hi to Greg. Tell him I sent you.

He'll love that.

:-)

Going Wine Tasting: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-08-28T05:52:00.000-07:00

I hate wine. Always have. Nothing against wine, but I'm not a drinker in general (I have maybe 3-4 drinks a year, and when I do, it's your "girly" drinks like Kahlua and cream or mudslides) and simply never developed a taste for wine. Red, white, dinner wines, dessert wines, religious booze like Manischewitz; it's all the same to me.

So the idea of wine tasting, quite frankly, always bored me. I simply have no desire to go to vineyard after vineyard, regardless of the view and pretty plants, drink battery acid (which is essentially what wine tastes like to me) and pretend that I'm cultured.

Conversely, I have no desire to go to vineyard after vineyard and simply get plastered.

So at either end of the spectrum, there's simply no place for me.

That said, recently my wife Ramona and I spent a lovely few days in Pismo Beach, Calif., celebrating our one-year anniversary. Pismo Beach is right outside of San Luis Obispo, home to some of Southern California's most picturesque wine country. Ramona likes wine, and a happy wife means a happy life, so I agreed to take a trip with her to nearby Edna (population 1,600) to see our good friends at the Tolosa Winery.

When you walk into Tolosa, it's like you died and went to the movie Sideways. I mean, you got your wine glasses hanging upside over the bar; you got your huge room of barrels; you got a guy behind the counter wearing silk shirts and moccasins, talking about fermentation, temperature and crispness. All that was missing was Sandra Oh.

I tried seven wines: Pinot Gris, "No Oak" Chardonnay, Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, Syrah, Legacy Sweet Viognier, and Viognier.

I have no idea what I just said.

The guy with the moccasins -- Greg -- explained each wine to me. And honestly, it was jibberish. He talked about sommeliers and tanins. He mentioned lighting rings and crystals. He talked about bonding with the wine and letting "your pallet engulf your spirit."

And all I wanted was a Pepsi.

I did what the guy said. With all seven wines. I examined each in the light. Saw nothing. I swirled. I'm an excellent swirler. I sipped and held each one in my mouth, letting it go over and under my tongue for full effect. It was like gargling with Listerine, without the plaque-fighting element. I spat into cups. One time, I slightly missed.

In the end, I discovered what I already knew: That wine tasting wasn't for me. Maybe if I had smelled something other than bad apples in one of the wines, I'd feel differently. Maybe if I found a wine that didn't taste like piss, my mind would change. But for now, I'll leave the wine tasting to the wannabe wine snobs and the folks who just want to use wine tasting as an excuse to get drunk.

For either group, I'll be your designated driver.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Did you know that there is fantasy sports insurance?

I mean...

Seriously?

My One-Year Wedding Anniversary: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-08-21T22:10:00.000-07:00

Marriage is like pizza.

That's the best way I can describe marriage.

Like pizza.

Pizza, in my opinion, is always good. It's never bad. I can never recall a time I've ordered a pizza and thought to myself: "This sucks." It's always been good. Oh sure, some pizza has been better than others. Some pizzas haven't been all that great. There have been "bad pizza days." But all in all, as a whole, the pizza in my life has been very, very good.

Like marriage.

:-)

This Sunday, Aug. 22, is my 1-year wedding anniversary. For myself and my wife Ramona, it has literally flown by. So much has happened over the course of a year. Our jobs have dramatically changed and given us more responsibility and success; we bought our first house; and we're talking about dogs.

Lots of things, folks.

But the actual "marriage" part? Once you get used to calling each other husband and wife and wearing the ring, it really is like a Meat Lovers Plus pizza from Pizza Hut. Always good, never bad. Oh sure, some days the Meat Lovers Plus pizza is particularly meaty and you think to yourself: "Damn, it doesn't get better than this." Some days, the meat toppings seem a bit skimpy and you think to yourself: "This isn't what it could be." But always, in either scenario, you eat the pizza. Because the pizza is good. It makes you happy, familiar, comfortable, warm, occasionally surprises you, and always knows just what to do to make you feel better.

That's marriage. That's pizza.

Ramona and I were together for more than eight years before we got married. So the "pizza" concept was already very much in effect before we said "I do." And once we got married, everyone was asking me: "So how does it feel being married? Is it different? How different? Do you feel more adult now? Are you two stronger than ever? Is your bond now officially, now and forever, unbreakable?"

And here's the thing: It's not exactly like that right away. Don't get me wrong: It's not that things are bad at the beginning; the Meat Lovers Pizza hasn't been replaced by one of those organic veggie pies. It's that the Meat Lovers Pizza is still the Meat Lovers Pizza. The recipe hasn't changed just because you've now made a commitment to Meat Lover's. So at first, nothing really feels any different.

But it's only after some months have passed that you realize what the difference is: You've grown to appreciate the Meat Lovers Pizza more than ever before. You've grown to realize how much you appreciate it -- both its strengths and its flaws, it's great meat and cheese, its occasional too-oily crust. You've grown to understand just how great of a pizza it is. You've come to understand that if you replaced the Meat Lovers Pizza with another type of pizza, it just wouldn't be the same.

That's pizza.

That's marriage.

Always good.

Always getting better.

One year already.

Whoa.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

OnlineBootyCall.com now has more than 5 million registered members.

Said Moses Brown, president and founder: “The phrase ‘booty call’ has made its mark in pop culture and we were thrilled to trademark such an iconic term.”

Some SOTAs...just write themselves.

Going Purse Shopping For A Friend's Birthday Gift: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-08-14T20:14:00.000-07:00

My friend and co-worker Tiffany had her birthday a few days ago, and in anticipation of the day, I had our other co-workers chip in so we could buy her a gift. Now I'm someone who really likes to get gifts that I know the person will like, so to ensure of this, I asked Tiffany's mom for gift idea's for her daughter.

Mama Tiff's response:

Well, she mentioned to me that she wanted a black Guess purse from Ross. You could probably find one for $50 or $60.

So I went online, saw that there were 3 Ross stores in a 6.5 mile radius of my house, and said to myself:

How hard can it be?

And thus, an adventure began.

Now before I begin my purse-buying experience, know the following:

1) I have never bought a purse before, for any woman.

And 2) I did not enlist the help of my wife Ramona in this endeavor. Now, although hindsight will show us that it would've been wise to enlist the purse-buying wisdom and experience of Mrs. Nev (and Ramona and Tiffany are friends) Ramona likes to shop for hours at a time. I like to shop for 4 minutes. So it's hard to find a middle ground.

Anyways:

I had never been in a Ross store before, and this is the lesson I learned:

In order to get what you want, you need to be willing to push the old lady in front of you out of the way, onto the ground, and even – if necessary – bash her head in repeatedly on one of the metal bar racks.

This way, she won’t grab the purse you’re looking for.

5 women died in the search for the purse.

So when I went into the first Ross store, needless to say I was ill-prepared. I mean, these places are zoos!! It’s like being in a Hippo cage at feeding time!! All the purses are in one place and there’s no rhyme or reason as to what brand is where. I was pushed around, bounced around, stepped on. I simply wasn’t ready for the war zone I was about to enter. Finally, some poor customer service kid looked at me in pity, went through all the purses, and saw they were out of Guess.

So onto Ross store # 2.

This time, I was more ready. I harkened back to my teenage fighting days and decided on a strategy:

I went low.

These women go high, I duck and dodge and shuffle on my knees. I managed to get right in there, going through purses like a 75-year-old who is waiting at 3 a.m. for the store to open for a day-after-Thanksgiving sale.

I even found a Guess purse!!

The problem:

It was zebra.

And my friend's mom said:

No Zebra.

So onto Ross store #3.

And by this time, I thought: “To hell with it, I’m going right into the line of fire.”

So I pushed down a woman looking at the Tommy Hillfiger purses.

“MOVE BITCH!!” I yelled.

I gave an elbow to a 60-year-old looking at the Nine West rack.

“OUT OF THE WAY, SEA HAG!!!” I declared.

I gave an 80-year-old a knee to the stomach.

“Because I just have a bad feeling about you,” I told her, hovering over her hunched body.

And after all of that…

No black Guess purse.

So instead, I just bought a Visa gift card.

My friend can find her own damn purse.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Southern rapper Birdman recently bought a $2.1 million Bugatti Veyron, a European sports car.

The car requires $300,000 worth of annual upkeep, can get up to 267 miles an hour, but at its top speed the fuel runs out in 12 minutes and the tires start disintegrating after 15.

But on the flip side, the key is shaped like a Swiss army knife.

That's something.

Turning 31 Years Old: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-08-05T18:21:00.001-07:00

When I turned 30 last year, I admit I was a bit surprised that I really didn't fret about it in any way shape or form. I mean, I didn't freak out, I didn't search my face for wrinkles or gray hairs, I didn't even put on an exaggerated sad face that my 20s were over with.

You see, when I turned 30 last year, I felt exactly like I did when I was in my 20s. No different. No changes. In a way, I was 30 in number only. My heart, my spirit, my physicality remained in their 20s.

Last year, I simply couldn't figure out why turning 30 wasn't a big deal.

Turns out, I had to turn 31 to figure it out. :-)

For those of you who don't know, this Friday, Aug. 6, is my birthday. I will be the ripe old age of 31 years old.

And it made me realize something:

You know why 30 was no big deal? Because I was still close enough to my 20s. I was close enough to be in my 20s; to remember what they were like, what I did, how I felt as a younger man. Sure, if I looked ahead, all I saw was 30s. But if I looked behind -- a few days, a few weeks, a few months -- the sunshine of my 20s was still very much in my sights.

In a way, it was like moving out of your parents' house and into their garage. Freedom...without the real responsibility.

But then something happened:

I'm turning 31.

And the sunshine that was behind me is a lot harder to see.

Now, I am officially in my 30s. I'm not just 30. I've added an "s". I look ahead: 30s. I look behind me: 30s. And if I look far enough back, I can still see the Nev of the 20s. But his face is covered in shadows, and the expression on that face is one of sadness, knowing I'm never to return.

My youth...is dying. :-(

Now several good things have happened since I've entered the 30s realm. I've gotten married to an amazing woman. I bought my first house. I'm watering plants and they're not dying. My 30s have been kind to me thus far, and I have no reason to suspect they will not continue to do so otherwise.

But it's hard to say an official goodbye to 20s Nev. We were together so long, had so many laughs, that it's difficult to just turn your back on that relationship and move on. There's history there.

So I'd like to say a few parting words to my 20s self:

Live on. Live on in spirit. Live on in memory. Live, 20s Nev. Live for me, your 31-year-old blood brother who has no choice to grow up. Be carefree, have fun, get into fights with random strangers at Subway restaurants (it happened not once, but twice). Chase the ladies (during the period in your 20s when you weren't dating your future wife), blow money in Vegas, get in trouble!!

Because I'm 31 now.

And my 20s are covered in shadows.

...

On the other hand...

31-year-old Nev owns a house.

And a backyard so he can now get a dog.

I like dogs.

"Floppos" is on the short list for names.

20s Nev couldn't think about getting a dog.

He lived in an apartment.

You know what?

I guess 31's OK.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Meet Antoine Dodson.

Just trust me.

:-)

Action Movies Vs. Chick Flicks: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-07-31T15:17:00.000-07:00

Here's one of the great dynamics my wife Ramona and I have: When we go to the movies, we both like the films that the other gender typically favors. I like a lot of the chick flicks she likes. She digs a lot of the action films I enjoy. It's a nice overlap, making for a pleasant experience for when we're deciding what movie to go see.

But last night as we were walking out of "Inception" (great movie), we came across a huge display for "The Expendables", an action movie with a distinct 1980s-ish feel with a crazy star-studded action star cast (Sylvester Stallone, Bruce Willis, Jet Li, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Dolph Lundgren, among others) that's coming out Aug. 13.

"Oh yeah, we're definitely seeing that opening night," I said to Ramona as we walked by the display."

"Or," she replied, "that weekend we could first see 'Eat Pray Love.'''

Now I didn't say anything at this point, but my lovely wife had just committed a cardinal sin of marriage: Suggesting a chick flick over a movie starring Sylvester Stallone. I mean, no good comes of this. The man's not happy because he's seeing a chick flick over Sly. And the woman's not happy because the man, ultimately, becomes less of a man before her very eyes.

Nonetheless, I had to play caring, attentive husband. So I asked the Ramona the following:

"What's 'Eat Pray Love' about?"

Well, it was originally this great book!! See, this woman was married, wasn't happy, and so she gets a divorce and...

And I have already checked out of this conversation. While Ramona goes on about this woman divorcing a guy and trying to find herself by doing yoga in India, I think to myself: I can't believe I am seeing another movie starring Sylvester Stallone and Dolph Lundgren in my lifetime. Hell, I thought Dolph was dead!! Damn, are we living in exciting times.

And so then the woman goes to Italy to learn about food. Then she goes to Bali to learn about balance...

You know what me and my buddies need to do before seeing "The Expendables"? See a bunch of Dolph Lundgren movies. We'll call it "Dolph Fest." It will get us in the proper mindset.

And then she goes back to India and does more yoga!! And then she thinks: 'I should write a book!'

Preliminary "Dolph Fest" movie list: Rocky IV (obviously), Universal Solider, and "Showdown In Little Tokyo", where Dolph plays a big white guy who's a ninja.

And it's all a book, Nev!! She use her book advance to go to all these places. Isn't that amazing!?!

I'll tell you what's amazing: That Ramona thinks I've been listening this whole time. And that "Expendables" also stars both World Wrestling Entertainment legend "Stone Cold" Steve Austin and UFC star Randy Couture. How were they able to co-exist on the same screen? Does Couture respect pro wrestling or put it down as fake? Does "Stone Cold" give props to mixed martial arts, or think that one of his patented "Stone Cold Stunners" would put Couture down?

I wonder if the two of them fight in the movie. That would be sweet!!!

So what do you say, Nev? How does Eat Pray Love sound?

And I turned to my lovely wife:

"Like a movie you should go see with your mom."

Because I'm going to see "Expendables".

And I've got "Dolph Fest" to plan.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

This is just wrong.

The New York tourist hot spot Serendipity 3 has made it to the Guinness World Records for the world's most expensive hot dog: a rare truffle-slathered sausage priced at $69.

The dog is grilled in white truffle oil and it's served in a homemade pretzel-style bun that's brushed with truffle butter. This hot dog is topped with duck foie gras, caramelized Vidalia onions, black truffle Dijon mustard and homemade heirloom tomato ketchup.

Problems? Let's review:

1) The price. That's obvious.

2) Duck foie gras.

I shouldn't have to explain the issue there.

3) Fancy onions, mustard and ketchup.

Why the hell would anyone want to pay ridiculous prices for fancy condiments? Furthermore, why the hell would anyone want to pay for condiments in the first place? This is insane!! Last I checked, you would get regular onions, mustard and ketchup -- AMERICAN onions, mustard and ketchup -- for free!! But some fancy, trendy New York craphouse has to try and upset the balance of power with truffle butter.

Hot dogs and the wheel: Two things you leave alone.

The One-Year Anniversary Of My Bachelor Party: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-07-24T15:44:00.000-07:00

(Nevdogg Note: One year ago today, my buddies Kevin, Joe, Jeremy, Carlos and Evan took me to Las Vegas for the male ritual of rituals known as: "The Bachelor Party." Today, as I fondly reminisce on the event, I've decided to re-post my blog from July 23, 2009, the night before we were to leave for Vegas. I remember being super excited, borderline giddy, and unable to sleep. As fun as the bachelor party was -- and it truly was the best time I've ever had in Vegas, and I've probably gone nearly 20 times -- the excitement the night before was just as much fun. I even remember having fun writing that blog, the words came so easily. :-) Hope you enjoy!!)

When I got engaged last August, one of the first things I did was tell one of my best friends Kevin the good news.

And Kevin -- one of my oldest friends, who has seen me through many ups and downs in my life (and vice versa), and who has met the love of his life and gotten married himself during the course of our friendship -- proceeded to ask me one of the most important questions that a good friend asks upon hearing the news that one of his closest buddies is planning to tie the knot:

Bachelor party in Vegas?

And that's why he's my best man. :-)

As I write this blog, I am mere hours away from joining Kevin and four other good buddies to participate in a tradition that has spanned across the world throughout the generations: The bachelor party. A chance for a man about to get married to enjoy one last romp of single-dom; to drink, to gamble, to see naked women, to be stupid in general with his equally stupid friends.

All to celebrate the fact that I'm pledging my love to a single woman for the rest of my life.

It makes no sense. None whatsoever. And it's OK. Because it's a bachelor party!! It's supposed to be mindless!!

And this weekend, it's all about me me ME!!!!!!!

I'm a little excited. :-)

The bachelor party. My father before me, and my grandfather before him, are among the many men who have participated in this ritual of rituals. I've heard their bachelor party stories, seen the light shine in the oldest of eyes as they retell the stories of their own bachelor party experiences. I've even been a member of the experience, but always on the outside looking in, someone planning it rather than living it.

And now, it's my turn. Men young and old, living and deceased, all waiting for me to join this prestigious fraternity, ready to say:

Welcome, brother. This is your moment.

I'll just admit it right now: I'm gettin' misty. And I'm not ashamed.

Know this about me:

I consider myself a nice guy. I try to be a good person. I do my best to be a good friend, a good fiancee, someone who listens and tries not to judge. I was never into wild parties, drugs, or heavy drinking. I was a good student in school and have worked professionally since I was 17. I never caused my parents any real trouble and have done my best to become a responsible adult.

I guess what I'm saying is:

I've earned the right to act like a %$#*&^$# idiot for a couple of days. :-)

Bachelor party in Vegas?

Could we possibly have it anywhere else?

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Betty White has unveiled a new clothing line.

Next week's SOTA: People are buying Betty White's clothing.

Feeling Fat In An Airplane Seat: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-07-18T03:33:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, I went to California's Burbank Airport to catch a plane to meet my wife Ramona in Las Vegas for her birthday weekend. And as I boarded the plane and sat down, I found myself asking the following question:

Am I getting fat?

Now I'm 5-foot-10, 170 pounds, and more or less have been that since I graduated college. So I was fairly certain that my size was not the problem. But the problem, I realized, was that airplane seats had gotten far smaller, to the point where I -- a relatively thin fellow -- felt packed in like a sardine.

I mean, I feel for fat people in this case. I really, truly do. They must be miserable when traveling in economy class. How, I wonder, do they not get stuck? Are they allowed to bring butter on the plane to grease themselves before and during the flight so they can slide right off when needed?

I'm not trying to be mean here. I'm just posing an honest question.

This is just one of many things I don't understand about today's airplane industry.

Here are two more:

1) The size of the bathrooms.

Now airplane bathrooms have always been small. And honestly, you don't really need it to be all that big. What I never understood is how, given the size of the lavatory, people have been able to join what's known as The Mile High Club.

Every guy in their life has been asked 100 times over the course of his existence by his fellow man if he is a member of this exclusive club. And to those who have answered yes, I say to you:

You're lying.

I mean, you must be. I can barely fit in there. How the hell can you fit both you and one other person and...you know, position yourselves?

I mean...are you midgets?

Because that's the only explanation I can think of.

And 2) Having to pay for airplane food.

Now this stuns me. Airplane food was never good. In fact, unless you pay thousands to sit in first class, you've probably never tasted good airplane food. I'll never forget how, on my way to Philadelphia in 1998, American Airlines handed me a bag of food on the way onto the plane, because I was no longer deemed important enough for them to serve me my food.

Well apparently, I'm now no longer worthy enough to be given this food free of charge.

I mean: $3 for chips? $5 for cookies? $10 for a ham and cheese croissant? Is the airplane industry hurting that bad? And why the hell would you pay $10 for a croissant? Are you that hungry? Do you not realize that if you eat too much, you won't be able to get out of your seat?

Unless, of course, you grease yourself with butter.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Jon Bon Jovi recently tore a calf muscle while playing a concert at the New Meadowlands Stadium in New Jersey.

Bon Jovi.

Getting old.

That's gotta be one of the seven signs of global doom, don't you think?

No Ranch Dressing, Fries That Aren't Called 'Fries', And Lack Of Free Soda Refills: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-07-10T22:29:00.000-07:00

My dad Bob and I are complete opposites when it comes to food. He likes fancy restaurants. I like McDonald's. He makes stuff veal chops. I microwave bacon. He flavors his food with port reduction sauce. I use pepper.

So when my dad and his girlfriend Vera took me and my wife Ramona out to dinner tonight to celebrate our buying a house, I was a little concerned. Simply put, my dad and I are on opposite ends of the food spectrum. We don't see eye-to-eye on this. He's all "how can you eat that crap?" when he sees my chili cheese dog, and my eyes glaze over when he talks to me about shrimp vodka sauce.

So tonight, we went to La Frite, a French restaurant in Sherman Oaks, Calif., on L.A.'s semi-world famous Ventura Boulevard. And as far as "places my dad likes and I just roll my eyes at" go, it really wasn't that bad. Yes, they had foo-foo dishes that were more about presentation than taste, but they also had burgers, pizza, and the option to add grilled onions on my food.

Still, there were three things about the place that reminded me why I never go to restaurants like these:

1) No ranch dressing.

I'm an American in the 21st century. And as an American in the 21st century, I like ranch dressing for my fries. Ketchup is fine, and I still use the standard tomato condiment. But more and more, I dip my french fries in ranch. It's part of the "french fry dipping sauce" evolvement.

(Is "evolvement" a word? Not sure.)

One problem here:

"We don't have ranch dressing," the waitress said.

No ranch dressing. They got mushrooms stuffed with snails, but no ranch.

"Do you have mayo?" I replied.

"Well, yes," the waitress said. "But what I was going to recommend was a dijon tarragon sauce. It's amazing."

OK, three problems here.

a) No apologies for ranch dressing. I mean, at least feign remorse.

b) Don't brush off my request for mayo with...

c) Something I'm not even sure I can spell.

"Mayo," I said. "Bring me my mayo."

I hate having to ask twice.

Carl's Jr. would never have me ask twice.

Hell, they wouldn't ask once.

They'd have ranch.

2) They don't call french fries "french fries."

I hate fancy names for things I already know the name of. Don't call hamburgers "grilled sirloin." Don't call salad "garden medley." And don't call fries "pomme frites."

Pomme frites. Last I checked, I lived in America. And -- with all due respect to the many minorities living in this country (and I respect you all; I really do) -- we speak English here. And as such, I want my fries to be called fries. Not pomme frites or papas a la francesa or franse frietjes.

French fries. Call them french fries.

Because that's what they are.

French fries.

Calling them something different does not make them different.

Even with your dijon tarragon sauce.

And 3) No free refills on soda.

Now this just pisses me off. I've come to expect something in all of my dining experiences: Free refills on soda. I love soda. It's my vice, I'll be the first to admit. I don't like coffee, I hardly drink alcohol, and I hate sparkling water. I like soda with my meals. So when I go to a restaurant, I expect (as I should) to be given a tall glass of soda with my meal, and then many other tall glasses of soda (at no extra charge) whenever I ask.

But tonight, when I ordered a soda, they came back with this 10-ounce glass bottle of Diet Coke and a small glass of ice.

There were many things wrong with this:

a) 10-ounce glass bottles of soda. I mean, who created them? They're downright insulting. It announces two things to me, the customer: No free refills, and "we're going to charge you $2.95 for each of these dinky glasses because we're a fancy restaurant and we can."

I mean...

F******* YOU!!!!!

You know?

And b) What's with the small glasses? What am I, 4? Give me a big-boy glass, for crying out loud!! Hell, at barbecue glasses they give you jugs. Give me a jug. I want a jug. I'm used to soda jugs.

And french fries that are called french fries.

And ranch dressing to dip them in.

No ranch dressing.

And they call these restaurants "classy."

(shakes his head)

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

5,000 Happy Meals were distributed with colored condoms instead of a plastic toy from the movie The Last Airbender.

The condoms were intended for the Provincetown, Mass. school system, which recently established a policy making them available for students of all ages; they were delivered to McDonald's distribution center in Barnstable, Mass. in error.

"The packages were so bright and colorful that they were misled by small toys for Happy Meals, but unfortunately most of the workers who do not read English package, and thought 'Ribbed Latex' was a character in the movie," said Robin Anderson, vice president of public relations for the chain, as published by El Universal of Mexico.

"'Ribbed Latex' was a character in the movie."

You can't make this stuff up.

Babysitting My Two Little Girl Cousins: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-07-03T23:34:00.000-07:00

I haven't babysat in a long time, but babysitting boys is pretty straightforward. See, boys are relatively simple creatures, especially if you were once a boy because you can relate to their interests and their mindset. When you're babysitting boys, you just need to know the following:

If they're hungry, order pizza.

If they get dirty, hose them down in the background.

If they get troublesome, grab them by the collar, lift them up, look them straight in the eye, and say:

I'm bigger than you.

And finally, if they need a lesson in right and wrong, plop them in front of the TV and have them watch World Wrestling Federation matches from the 1980s. Hitting someone with a steel chair, you explain, is bad.

So when my wife Ramona asked recently if I would babysit her little cousins tonight while her and some of her out-of-town family went to dinner, you would think there'd be no problem, right?

Just one thing, however:

Ramona's cousins were girls.

9-year-old Cora and 4-year-old Aya were the two little ones I was asked to watch over this evening. And admittedly, I was a little worried. I mean...these were girls. What do girls play with? What do they eat? Are they crazy and emotional at the ages of 9 and 4, like their older brethren? How was I going to relate to them? I had nothing to fall back on; no experiences, no female bonding stories, no Barbie dolls (excuse the stereotype, but...hey.)

So when the girls arrived, I was a bit on edge. I mean, I had seen and played with them many times. But this was different. I was watching them. I was alone with them. I was responsible for them. What would happen with me in charge? What if something...I don't know...female happened?

And the final verdict? For one kid, it was no problem. Cora is without question the most responsible 9-year-old on Earth. She ate her dinner when asked, she brushed her teeth when asked, she was quiet during the movie, she even put herself to sleep because "it was past her bedtime." She didn't even finish her ice cream because "I don't want to spoil my appetite for dinner."

Cora is 9 going on responsible adult, and it made the job for Babysitter Nev a breeze.

And then there was 4-year-old Aya.

Aya Aya Aya. Where do I begin?

Let's start with the Mac and Cheese.

I heard that the girls loved Mac and Cheese, so I bought them the microwavable kind that you can make in 4 minutes. Pretty easy...except Aya wouldn't eat it.

"It's too hot," she said.

OK.

10 minutes later.

"It's too hot."

20 minutes later.

"It's too hot."

30 minutes later, when the damn thing was ice cold.

"It's too hot."

And finally, I took action.

"Aya, sweetie," I said, "I think it's fine."

And you know what she said?

"OK."

And she began to eat it.

Sometimes...it's the simple solutions.

And then there was the brushing of the teeth.

"I don't want to brush my teeth," Aya said.

Now I get where Aya's coming from. Every little one, boy or girl, hates brushing their teeth. It's an unnecessary chore, they figure. The problem, however, is that it is very difficult to break the child's will on this, especially if you're me and you're a big softy who gives Aya ice cream before dinner and generally will do whatever she wants and says.

But still, I knew her mom would be pissed if the teeth weren't brushed. So I tried something:

"Aya, come with me," I said.

And I led her into the bathroom, her toothbrush and toothpaste in hand.

"I'M NOT BRUSHING MY TEETH!!" she announced.

"No no, I know," I replied. "But I need your help. I want to brush my teeth, and I need you to tell me if I'm doing it right."

And I put some toothpaste on my toothbrush...and began brushing my cheek.

"No no," she said. "You're doing it wrong!!"

"Well, how do I do it?" I asked.

And I began brushing my other cheek.

"No silly!!" she said. "You put it on your teeth." And she began brushing, without toothpaste.

"OK wait, hold on," I replied. And I put some toothpaste on her brush. "Show me again."

And she began brushing her teeth, educating me on how to make them clean.

"And then we spit," she said.

And we spit into the sink, both our smiles a little brighter.

And finally, there was the movie we all watched: The Adventures of Milo and Otis. A story about a cat (Milo) and a dog (Otis) who get into a crazy adventure, with Otis having to find Milo after he accidentally wanders too far from home.

Twenty minutes in, Aya came in with the questions.

"Which one is Milo?" she asked.

"The cat," I said.

"Which one is Otis?"

"The dog."

"Oh.

And then...

"What is Milo doing?" she asked.

"Trying to find his way home," I said.

"And what's Otis doing?"

"Trying to find Milo."

"Why?"

"So they can go home."

Oh.

And later:

"Where's Milo?" she asked.

"In the swamp," I said.

"Where's Otis?"

"In the cotton fields."

"What's cotton?"

"That white stuff."

"Why is it moving?"

"It's blowing in the wind."

"Why?"

"Because wind blows."

"Why?

"Because that's what wind does."

"Why?"

(pause)

"Aya, I just don't know."

(pause)

"Oh."

And lastly:

"Who's Milo?" she asked.

My verbal reply was "the cat."

My non-verbal reply was:

Are you f***in' serious?

If Aya was a boy, I'd of hosed him down in the backyard right then and there.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Megan Fox and Brian Austin Green were recently married.

A love that will no doubt last throughout the ages...or until Megan's next lesbian tryst.

The New iPhone...And Those Who Waited Hours In Line For It: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-06-24T19:23:00.000-07:00

My work day starts early. Every day, I drive to the Westfield building in Century City, Calif., where my company's office is located, around 5:45 a.m., before the sun even rises, and begin saving lives...in my own little way.

Today as I drove in, though, I noticed there was this huge line outside my building (which is near a mall). The line seemed to stretch a half-mile wide, complete with people full of eagerness, anticipation and lawn chairs. It was clear that many had been there for several hours, braving the bitter Westside cold.

And why were they in line? Concert tickets? An autograph of a major Hollywood star? Some guy handing out free money?

Nope.

It was for the new iPhone.

The new freakin' iPhone.

I wrote about the iPhone back in July 2008. And back then, I had some scathing things to say, the main one being that it was hard to...you know...make an actual phone call with it. At that time, my friend, co-worker, and Apple and Steve Jobs worshipper Rachit and I had the following conversation about iPhones that I wrote about in my last blog on the subject. Here's the excerpt:

"How do I call someone with it?" I asked him.

And he looked at me. Just looked at me. Like a puppy pondering why there wasn't any food in his bowl at the pre-arranged feeding time. He was confused, a vacant glaze coming over his eyes.

"You don't need to call someone," he said.

Come again?

"You don't have to call with the iPhone," he continued. "It's easy to text or e-mail."

"But what if I want to talk to the person?" I asked.

"But you don't have to," he replied.

"But what if I want to?"

"Why would you want to?"

"Why? What you do mean why? Because I'm used to talking to people on the phone, that's why."

"But you don't have to talk with the iPhone."

"But what if I want to talk with the iPhone?"

"You don't have to."

"But I want to!!"

"You can text or e-mail them."

"I don't want to text or e-mail them."

"But it's faster."

"It's impersonal."

"No one talks anymore."

"We're talking now."

"But not over the phone."

"Dude...I want a phone to talk."

"Talking isn't necessary."

"BUT IT'S A PHONE!!!!"

(pause)

"You know what, Nev? I don't think the iPhone is right for you."

Fast forward two years. Rachit is one of the lunatics waiting in line before sunrise for the new iPhone. To his credit, however, he did not have a lawn chair.

When he came into the office after several hours, new iPhone in tow, I asked him what made this new iPhone different from the other iPhones.

"It's got a camera," he said.

Didn't the last one had a camera?

"This one has two cameras," he replied.

And, uh, why do you need two cameras?

"For video chat."

Apparently, with the new iPhone you can now video chat with people. Just one more reason that Apple founder Steve Jobs is a genius. He's capitalizing on the fact that people no longer communicate face-to-face and feel guilty about it, by giving them the ability to video chat on their phones, thus making it so that a) they still don't communicate face-to-face but b) no longer have to feel guilty about it.

No matter that you're talking to someone on a 1-inch screen. Or that if you're walking and talking at the same time, you won't be able to actually see the person. Steve Jobs has capitalized on the current American mindset, is making another major fortune on an idiotic idea, and getting people to wait in half-mile long lines for it.

And you know what the crazy part is? In order to actually access this video chat feature, two things must happen:

1) Both people have to have the new iPhone.

And 2) Both people have to be in a place where there's WiFi.

"So wait a minute," I asked Rachit. "Both people need to be somewhere with WiFi in order for it to work? What if one of them doesn't have WiFi?"

And you know what he replied?

"You can jailbreak it because of the 3G."

(pause)

"But I don't jailbreak, Nev. Jailbreaking is illegal."

(pause)

"Don't jailbreak, Nev. Jailbreaking is not good."

(pause)

The iPhone language:

When English is spoken...

...and not a word is understood.

Steve Jobs would've been proud.

:-)

Before I go into this week's Sign Of The Apocalypse, I wanted to share this story:

In the middle of writing this blog, Rachit and I had the following conversation over Instant Messenger:

Me: I'm writing a blog about you.

Rachit: Nev...noooooo!! Don't mention me!!

Me: Sorry Rachit, some things just can't not be shared to the world.

Rachit: Nooooooo!!

Me: You're gonna be a star!!

Rachit: Nooooooo!!

Me: Don't worry: You're being painted in a positive light.

Rachit: I am?

Me: Yeah. I'm mentioning that you didn't have a lawn chair.

(pause)

Rachit: All right.

And a blog topic was approved.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Amanda Bynes is retiring from acting.

And a piece of the world slowly begins to die...

Buying Toys For A 2-Year-Old Boy: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-06-19T22:16:00.000-07:00

Earlier tonight, my friends Elly and Jeremy threw a birthday party for their son Max, who turned 2 years old. As such, I had to buy Max a birthday present.

Over the years, I've learned that there are two rules adults must follow when buying birthday presents for kids:

1) Adult males must buy the gifts for boys.

This is a vital, vital rule. Simply put, adult females can be horrible at buying gifts for little boys. They buy clothes, puzzles, books and educational items, and truth be told, they're all boring. Little boys want toys, pure and simple. They like what they want, not what they need.

And 2) You have to buy something that you would like yourself.

If you wouldn't play with it, the little boy isn't going to play with it. Toys for little boys are, and should be, uncomplicated. When it comes to toys for little boys, it's pretty black and white. They're either really cool and fun and are things that make noises and are cool to bang together...

...or they're puzzles.

There's no middle ground. :-)

So it was filled with this knowledge that I visited my good friends at Toys R Us to buy toys for 2-year-old Max. And oh, was I a kid in a candy store!! If you're a guy and you're an adult, you want to feel young again? Go to Toys R Us. It's filled with the coolest things!! Action figures, cars, trucks, Legos, soccer balls, things you can bounce on. It seriously is Disneyland without the lines.

Now, shopping for a 2-year-old boy can admittedly be a tad tricky. See, 2 is an awkward age for kids' toys. The toys for kids ages 4 and up are too big for him, and the toys for kids ages 1 and up are lame and made of foam. But here's the secret: Go for the toys for kids ages 3 and up. Kids today are advanced, beyond what you and I were at that age. So the way I see it, what's good for 3-year-olds are good for 2-year-olds as well.

Makes sense, right?

So I found a Toys R Us saleswoman, got her attention, and said the following:

Cars. Trucks. Star Wars action figures. Point the way.

First were the cars. This was pretty simple. You can't go wrong with Hot Wheels or Matchbox. They're small, they come 3 or 5 to a pack, they look cool, and you can bang them together multiple times before they break. Toy cars are timeless. I liked them when I was 2 and I liked them now. How could Max not like these?

Then we went to the Star Wars section. And boy, have Star Wars toys come a long way!! In my day, you could buy Darth Vader, Luke Skywalker, Chewie, Han Solo, and one of the random bad guys in the white outfit whose name escapes me now. Now? You have 76,829 items to choose from. And among them are little tiny Yodas and Jedis made for little tots like Max!! How could these not be a hit?

But the biggest thrill was the trucks. Did you know these things talk now? It's the coolest thing ever!! You press a button and the truck stands up and says 9 different things!! It's the greatest toy on Earth. I'm not ashamed to say it: I played with the talking truck I bought for Max before I gave it to him. That's right, I said it. I played with a toy truck, and I'm 30.

Hell, I'm kind of bummed I didn't buy one myself. :-(

As I loaded up my arms with all these goodies, I saw a couple -- a man and a woman, both in their mid 30s -- walk through the truck aisle. The man was looking at some of the trucks I was looking at earlier when the woman screamed at him from behind:

We're buying him clothes, Hector!! My friend's son is only 3!! He needs clothes!!

I looked at the woman. She had a look of insistence, uncaring and non-understanding.

I looked at the man. He had a look of sadness, looking at the trucks, looking at me with my arms full of the toys that both he and the other little boy would love. And I'm telling you: The light went out from his eyes.

This is what war must feel like, when you see a brother-in-arms die.

One last story about this:

At the birthday party, little Max opened my gifts early on. He loved my gifts, especially the talking truck, which was a huge hit.

The next gift he opened were clothes.

He tossed the orange shirt and matching shorts aside.

And went back to the talking truck.

The next gift he opened was one of those musical toys that sang the alphabet.

He handed the gift to a friend of mine.

And went back to the talking truck.

The next gift he opened was a puzzle and storage unit.

He looked at it as if to say:

What the %$#@&%$*@ is this?

And went back to the talking truck.

The talking truck was cool.

It says nine things.

I want one.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Think it's bad when people go a bit nuts after their team wins the NBA championship? Read this:

Police say a South African man who wanted to watch a World Cup match instead of a religious program was beaten to death by his family in the northeastern part of the country.

David Makoeya, a 61-year-old man from the small village of Makweya, Limpopo province, fought with his wife and two children for the remote control on Sunday because he wanted to watch Germany play Australia in the World Cup. The others, however, wanted to watch a gospel show.

"He said, 'No, I want to watch soccer,'" police spokesman Mothemane Malefo said Thursday. "That is when the argument came about.

"In that argument, they started assaulting him."

Malefo said Makoeya got up to change the channel by hand after being refused the remote control and was attacked by his 68-year-old wife Francina and two children, 36-year-old son Collin and 23-year-old daughter Lebogang.

When it comes to the "psychotic fans" department, Lakers fans have nothing on soccer.

Exposing The Farce Known As Hand Sanitizer: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-06-12T16:33:00.000-07:00

Remember the good old days when you could open a door without fear of dying?

Back when I was growing up, whenever I needed to open a door, I would do the following:

Put my hand on the door knob.

Move the door knob to the right.

Open the door.

Walk out the door.

Close the door.

Sounds simple enough, right?

But lately, when I go to reach for the door knob, I'm liable to hear the following:

Don't touch that!! Who knows what kind of germs are on it.

Did you wipe the knob down first?

Use hand sanitizer!!

Hand sanitizer. Like organic food, reusable bags, and eco-friendly laundry detergent, hand sanitizer has become the latest in a long line of products designed to play on people's fears to get them to pay more, even though the previous years without these products has not brought these people horrible, horrible doom.

I have grabbed door knobs for nearly 31 years without the use of hand sanitizer, and I've gotta tell you: I'm OK. I don't have any deadly diseases, I have no rashes, and my skin has not turned any weird colors. I live a hand sanitizer-less life and I'm healthy as a horse.

You can be, too. Don't listen to the lies.

For those of you reading this blog who are germaphobes and sanitize their hands before touching any foreign surface, I ask you to do this: Remember the person you used to be. Remember when you were young. You were wild, free, grabbing one door knob after another without a care in the world. And then somewhere down the line, you lost your way. Someone, probably an adult, wagged their fat adult finger in your face, told you "No!!" like you were a bad dog who knocked a flower vase off the table, and forced a bunch of hand sanitizer onto your hands.

And from then on in, you used hand sanitizer. Because someone made you feel bad about yourself when you didn't.

Well, allow me to right this wrong in your life and put you back on track.

You are not a bad person. There is good in you, and lots of it. You are not a bad dog. Knocking the vase off the table was not your fault. Your are special. You are unique. And you can touch door knobs without putting a foreign substance on your hands!!

You don't need hand sanitizer!! It will not protect you, because there's nothing to protect you from. It's a marketing creation, meant to do nothing but take your hard-earned money. It's a lie, a myth, like global warming.

The ozone layer has no holes, and the ice glaciers will never melt.

So put away your hand sanitizer.

And bust out your aerosol spray cans.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

The industry of psychic readings has apparently become more sophisticated.

I was driving to work earlier this week when I heard a radio ad about a company called California Psychics. I went online to their Web site and not only do they offer psychic readings, but you can book a psychic tailored to your specific psychic needs.

Need visions loaded with information? Cherilyn's your psychic. Need the ultimate truth? Ask for Fiona. Want to channel messages from a higher realm? Joy's your girl.

I personally need to heal past karma to manifest my dreams.

So I'm asking for Avery.

:-)

Finding Organic Ketchup In My Fridge: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-06-05T13:44:00.000-07:00

This morning, I opened up my refrigerator and saw something I thought I would never see in a fridge occupied in my home.

Organic ketchup.

A staple, an icon, of preservative food, now in organic form.

My wife Ramona wants us to start eating more organic food. So currently, my home contains organic pasta, organic vegetables, organic stir fry, organic meatballs, and soda that has cane sugar.

But organic ketchup?

That's where I draw the line.

I'm an American. And as an American, I like foods that have become American staples. Hamburgers. Hot dogs. French fries. Bacon. Eggs. Sausage. All of these things are best when they're layered in preservatives -- everyone knows this -- and all of these things can have ketchup as a condiment of choice. So it naturally should be assumed that the ketchup used for these foods should also be layered in preservatives.

So when you bring organic ketchup into the fold, it disrupts the natural order of things. It brings about change when no change is needed. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Ketchup ain't broke. It should be immune to this organic nonsense. Putting organic ketchup on processed fries is not only wrong, it's un-American.

And it has no business being in my fridge!!

I mean, what's next? Organic salt? Organic chili? Organic baked beans? Are you one of those people who just have to have mustard and relish on a hot dog? Do you really want mustard and relish -- the things you love -- to fall prey to the organic nut jobs of the world? It can happen.

I don't like organic food. It scares me and I fear change. But it's one thing when things like beets and squash and kumquats become organic; I don't eat those things anyway!!

But organic ketchup?

That hits too close to home.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Four peaceful protesters, some dressed in full-length black and yellow bee costumes, represented the American Literacy Council and the London-based Spelling Society and stood outside the Grand Hyatt earlier this week, where the Scripps National Spelling Bee is being held. Their message was short: Simplify the way we spell words.

According to literature distributed by the group, it makes more sense for "fruit" to be spelled as "froot," "slow" should be "slo," and "heifer" — a word spelled correctly during the first oral round of the bee by Texas competitor Ramesh Ghanta — should be "hefer."

Now I'm all for the right to protest, but...

...ya know?

Plus:

Black and yellow bee costumes?

A touch much.

Moving Into My New Home: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-05-29T21:49:00.000-07:00

As I write this blog, I'm lying on my stomach in my new living room, a bunch of boxes -- empty and filled -- behind me, grassy areas beyond the doors to the left and right of me, and surrounded by more space than I currently know what to do with.

Yep, that's right: Earlier today, I moved into my new house.

:-)

I know that since my wife Ramona and I found out our offer for our first home got accepted last month, I've written several blogs about my new digs. But please indulge me for one more. I mean, this is the big one. I'm here. I've moved. The packing is over. The unpacking can begin. This very well may be my place of residence for the next 60 years. And with medical technology advancing every day, that number can easily grow to 70 or 80.

I've already picked out which tree out front I want to be buried under.

And as my first day in my new house comes to an end, I've learned three things:

1) Hiring movers is the way to go.

If you're one of these people who say, "I can move myself. I don't need to hire anyone to do it for me," I have one thing to say to you:

You're a imbecile.

Why the hell would you want to do all the heavy lifting yourself, renting the truck, getting the equipment, loading and unloading everything, returning the truck, then going back to your new place and unpack, when you can simply hire professional movers to do the work for you? They have the truck, the equipment, they know what they're doing, they'll move whatever you want, and they're very quick because they have other jobs to get to.

In short, it's easily worth the few bucks you spend.

The guys we used today showed up on time, packed up our apartment and dropped off the stuff at our house, all within two hours. By late morning, we were already unpacking boxes and my back didn't hurt because I paid guys to do the heavy lifting for me.

Now I know what you "do it yourself movers" are thinking:

I get my friends to help me.

I got news for you, kids: No friend of anybody's wants to help another friend move. Ever. It is the single worst thing you can ask someone to do. It's boring, it's painful, it always involves stairs, and the promise of pizza and beer a) don't make up for it, and b) become irrelevant because the pizza and beer don't arrive until after the move is over, and by that time your "friends" want to get the hell out of there because they can no longer stand the sight of you because you made them so miserable.

Just sayin'.

2) Having my own washer and dryer is the coolest thing since the return of Jay Leno to The Tonight Show.

I've been in an apartment for the past 4 1/2-plus years, and in that time I've had to learn to deal with sharing laundry machines with over 100 people in one building and finding enough quarters to do the laundry in the first place. But today, I found myself having my own washer and dryer, and the result was me doing 6 loads of laundry while skipping and dancing the entire time.

I washed everything: Clothes, sheets, mats. I even wanted to wash some stuffed animals just because I now had the power to do so (Ramona said no). There's nothing like leaving your stuff in the dryer for a long period of time following completion and not having to worry about some stranger stealing your boxer shorts.

Just sayin'.

And 3) My wife is a psycho.

I love Ramona. I really do. Marriage rocks, it was the best decision I ever made. But that doesn't change the fact that the purchase of our home has made her, on some levels, a lunatic.

Case in point:

Yesterday, during one of my half-dozen trips to the house to drop stuff off in anticipation of the next day's big move, I walked in to see Ramona and my mother-in-law spreading incense smoke all over the house, one room at a time.

"It's a Native American ritual called smudging," Ramona said. "It's to ward off all the bad spirits of our house."

Bad spirits?

"Yeah. The vibe in here was just really icky and eerie, and it was because there were bad spirits left by the previous owners. This incense will help."

Oh.

So I watched for a bit. And in an eight-minute time span, I watched Ramona and her mom smoke up the bathroom, nearly set a door on fire, and set off the smoke alarm three times.

No, I'm not exaggerating.

Three times.

After this, I thought hippy time was over. But no, Ramona said. First, she had to take the incense residual and put it with the earth...

(nope, not kidding)

...and then...

"Next, we're going to light some sweetgrass," Ramona said.

Sweetgrass?

"It's for positive energy."

Oh.

She asked if I wanted to participate.

I declined.

One psycho in the relationship is enough.

Just sayin'.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

This is quite honestly one of the most disturbing stories I have ever read.

A 2-year-old boy in Indonesia is addicted to cigarettes after his dad gave him his first one at 18 months. Now the boy, who is grossly overweight and doesn't have the energy to play with other kids, smokes 40 cigarettes a day.

His mom was quoted as saying: "He's totally addicted. If he doesn't get cigarettes, he gets angry and screams and batters his head against the wall. He tells me he feels dizzy and sick."

The father, meanwhile, had a different answer: "He looks pretty healthy to me. I don't see the problem."

I only see one problem: The fact that you still don't need a license to become a parent. Because of that, idiots like this guy are allowed to procreate.

The Art Of Throwing Stuff Away: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-05-22T18:09:00.000-07:00

My wife Ramona and I are scheduled to move into our new home next Saturday, which means packing up our belongings are well underway. Like most men, I'm bad at packing. I really am. I don't know how to separate things, and boxes utterly confuse me. Where does one buy boxes? How the hell do you put these things together? What size should I buy?

Plus, there's tape involved. And that's never pretty.

However, like most men, I'm an expert at throwing stuff away.

Throwing stuff away: No one does this better than men. Let me ask you: Have you ever met a trashwoman? No. Why? All trash collectors are men. It's in our DNA. So when it comes to tossing stuff out of here, my skills are top notch.

Ramona is out of town this weekend for work, which is good because when it comes to throwing stuff away, she has to analyze every single piece of "potential throw away" material. This takes forever. But since she's gone, I'm free to handle the throw-away trash task in a 10th of the time using the following "throwing trash away" rules of men:

1) If it's dusty, throw it away.

If there's dust on it, that means it's been there a long time. Which means it's unimportant. Which means it's got to go.

2) If it's not yours, throw it away.

Ladies: If your man goes on a "trash tossing" spree and you don't want your stuff in the dumpster, do yourself a favor: Hide it from sight. If it's on the ground, it's fair game.

You may be asking yourself:

"Why can't he just ask me if I should throw it away?"

Because a) That takes too long, and b) we're afraid you'll say no, and that will interrupt our momentum.

3) Don't get attached to anything.

Men are really good at detaching themselves from their feelings. So it's really easy for us to toss things without getting too sentimental. Our thinking is: It will leave us more room for all-new crap that we'll eventually toss.

And that makes us happy.

And 4) Don't waste time giving the stuff away to charity.

Here's a fact that men embrace and women don't want to admit:

Giving stuff away is a pain in the ass.

That's right, I said it. And you know what? You're thinking it.

If you're doing a whole "throwing stuff away" spree, you don't want to lug all that crap down to Goodwill. You know how long it would take to load the car? Know how many trips it would take to get everything down there? And that's not even taking into account the fact that you have to take the stuff to the car in the first place!!

I'm just saying what you're thinking, folks.

Now, some folks will say:

"Nev, some charities will pick the stuff up."

But then I got all these bags all around the house. And that's clutter.

Plus, it takes too long.

Screws up my momentum.

Anyways, for those of you calling me a selfish, heartless bastard right about now, consider this:

When I was throwing stuff away today, I came across a pile of Ramona's clothes.

Most husbands would throw the clothes away.

But I threw it all in a storage bin, so Ramona can go through it later.

I'm one of the good ones, folks.

I'm considered enlightened.

Scary, huh?

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Bristol Palin, the 19-year-old daughter of former Alaska Governor and Republican Vice Presidential Candidate (and MILF) Sarah Palin, is hitting the speakers' circuit and will command between $15,000 and $30,000 per appearance.

The younger Palin, who got pregnant at 17 and later had a kid, will be speaking about the challenges of being a teen mother. OK, that's fine (not "$30,000 fine" but at least it's a topic she can speak to) but other topics include: Abstinence (Uh, yeah it's a little late, sweetie) and her outlook on life.

I mean...c'mon.

I can speak well about wearing holes with socks in them.

That's gotta be worth $4,000 a pop, doesn't it?

Taking My Friends' Teenage Daughter To The Movies: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-05-15T09:43:00.000-07:00

I wouldn't say that I'm a crazy fan of horror movies, but I enjoy your classic Jason and Freddy Kruger movies. So when my friends Kevin and Amber asked if I would be interested in taking their daughter Bailey to see the new "Nightmare On Elm Street" movie, I happily jumped at the chance.

But then I realized something:

Bailey is 14. I am 30.

And this would be the first time I would be hanging out solo with a teenager since I went into the 30s realm.

And admittedly, I was a little fearful. Why? Consider this:

Bailey's parents aren't much older than I am. And, I figured, Bailey finds her parents to be uncool and older than dirt. Now, are they uncool and older than dirt? Of course not!! But they are her parents, and thus they are automatically given the "uncool" and "older than dirt" titles by their teenage daughter. It's just the way it is.

So because I'm not much younger than her parents, I feared that I too would be given the "uncool" and "older than dirt" labels. After all, it would be easy for Bailey to view me as "this uncool, older-than-dirt friend of my folks who I'm forced to hang with on a Friday night because the movie is Rated R and I need him to buy my ticket instead of hanging with my friends who won't embarrass me in public."

Buying the tickets only elevated these fears. If you're 30 or older and want to feel like you should be called "Pops", head on over to one of the AMC Theaters in Burbank, California. The median age is 16 and believe me when I tell you that you stand out like a freak if you're wearing a collared shirt and Dockers.

I felt older than dirt and uncool. Hell, I wasn't even cool when I was 20. Today at 30, I get called "dork" at least six times a day. How the hell would I be able to be anything less than a complete embarrassment to a 14-year-old girl for a couple of hours?

But luckily, however, experience kicked in.

For one thing, when I picked up Bailey at her folks, I realized that something about teenagers hadn't changed: If you're 30 or older, they won't speak unless spoken to. And honestly, when we began our drive to the theaters in absolute silence, this calmed my nerves. It made me remember that teenagers hadn't really changed all that much from when I was a teen -- hell, at age 14, I said about 7 words a week to my parents -- and the quiet time helped me to form a game plan.

And here was my game plan:

I was not going to ask Bailey the following questions:

1) "How's school?"

You'll get a one-word answer.

Fine.

2) "Are you dating yet?"

You'll either get a giggle (if you're lucky), a "No" or she'll roll your eyes and begin wondering how dangerous it would be to jump out of a moving car just to get away from this conversation.

And 3) "What do you kids do for fun nowadays?"

Hands down the worst question you can possibly ask. Not only will you not get an answer -- teenagers don't do anything. They're teenagers. -- but she will spend the rest of the night 30 feet ahead of you or behind you just to make it seem like she doesn't know you.

So instead, I decided to stick with the fundamentals. I would only talk about things I know she'd be interested in. Which is why, over the course of the evening we talked about:

1) Cheerleading.

Bailey just made the cheerleading squad, and so we spent 15 minutes discussing handstands, thigh stands, stunts (I had no idea what a stunt was, but I couldn't risk breaking my momentum), cheerleading camp at UCLA, the excitement of high school football, and the fact that no one comes to the freshman games.

"It sucks that no one comes to the freshman games," Bailey said.

"Yeah, that does suck, huh?" I replied.

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

You hear that, people? A bond is being formed. :-)

2) How Her Parents Are Utter Embarrassments To Her

This topic of conversation, admittedly, was very dicey. At one point, Bailey brought up the fact that she avoided her parents as much as possible on weekends (as teenagers do regardless of what her parents are like). Now herein lied my difficulty: On one hand, I wanted to defend her parents. I mean, they're dear friends of mine. Hell, I've known my dad for 11 years; he was best man at my wedding, for God's sake!! On the other hand, doing so would've killed any clout I had gotten over the previous cheerleading conversation.

So I did the only thing I could do.

"Did you know your dad and I went to Vegas one time, and he blew all his money in seven minutes?" I said.

And I immediately had Bailey hooked.

Telling a story about her dad that would make him seem cooler in his daughter's eyes. Really, it was the only play here. As Bailey hung on my every word, I told the 2001 tale about how her dad and I rolled into Vegas at 4:23 p.m. one afternoon, hit the roulette table, and he was flat broke by 4:30. Luckily, I was a winner and we were thus able to buy Pop Tarts and gas.

"He did that?" Bailey asked, astounded. "I can't believe it!! It doesn't sound like him at all!!"

"Oh Bailey," I replied, "the stories I could tell you."

And then I paused.

And therein lies the genius of this plan. Only one "mildly embarrassing/cool story that won't really affect his ability to parent his daughter" need be told. You see, Bailey wanted to hear more. You could see it in her eyes. But in order to hear more, she would've had to actually ask a question. And that's just it: She'll never ask. Teenagers won't ever ask people 30 or older actual questions. It's not in their DNA. So all it took was one story. And for the next couple of hours, Bailey's dad was no longer as much an embarrassment to her as previously thought.

What more can a father ask?

And 3) Justin Bieber.

I'll be honest: I have no clue how this ever became a topic of conversation. Nonetheless, when it did, I had to be a participant. And as such, there was only one question I could ask:

Where the hell did this kid come from?

See, if you're age 18 or older, Justin Bieber just appeared one day out of thin air. No one my age has any clue who he is, what he does, or whether he actually exists. He's just a name you suddenly started hearing all over the place.

Luckily, because Bailey is a 14-year-old girl, she's a fan of little Justin by default. So she filled me in:

HewasdiscoveredonYouTubeandhewassignedbyUsherandhe'samazing!!!!!!

Oh.

So overall, after what was surprisingly a really good movie, we got back in my car so I could take Bailey home. I had done very well to this point of not embarrassing myself, but I had one more trick up my sleeve to ensure I was over the hump.

"Hey Bailey," I asked, "do you like the show 'Glee?'''

"I love Glee!!" she replied.

And I pressed my CD player.

And Glee songs filled the car.

"Oh my gosh, you have the soundtrack!! That's so cool!!" she said.

Yep.

I'm still "so cool."

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Did you know that there are professional Rock-Paper-Scissors tournaments?

Yes, they do exist.

Not only do they exist, but those who participate in them have the following philosophical discussions:

Does Rock "smash" Scissors or merely "blunt" them?

Can a pair of scissors really cut an entire piece of paper with one snip or should, in fact, it take two wins by Scissors to defeat Paper?

Should prosthetic arms be allowed? (World RPS Society president Doug Walker says no. "It opens the possibility for infrared technology to send signals to the arm to instantly fire a throw a millisecond before it hits, giving it an unfair advantage," he once wrote.)

Um...

Yeah.

Read more about this here.

The "OH MY GOD!!! I OWN A HOUSE!!! WHAT THE $%$#%@&% HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO" Moment: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-05-08T15:05:00.000-07:00

It finally hit me yesterday.

I own a home.

Yesterday, my wife Ramona and I officially got the keys to our new house, after a month of Ramona handling the inspections, documents, down payment arrangements, and in general making sure we weren't getting screwed over on anything.

My contribution during this process was mostly nodded and agreeing on everything she did and said.

So by the time we were actually handed the keys yesterday, Ramona had plenty of time to process the fact that, yes, we are indeed buying something with a roof. But I, playing catchup, didn't really come to this revelation until yesterday.

And here's the funny thing:

My "OH MY GOD!!! I OWN A HOME!!! WHAT THE %$#%$#@& AM I GETTING MYSELF INTO?!?!" moment didn't occur when we wrote the first deposit check. It didn't occur as we went through escrow. It didn't occur as we signed the loan documents (which, contrary to popular belief, is not that bad of a process). It didn't even occur when Ramona and I walked to the bank to take almost everything out of our joint account to pay the rest of the down payment, with her declaring loudly to the bank teller and any robbers and muggers nearby that "WE HAVE A LARGE SUM OF MONEY TO TAKE OUT TODAY!!!!"

No, my OMG moment occurred when I walked into my -- my -- backyard and realized something:

I'm gonna have to water these flowers.

And despite the fact that it was 85 degrees outside, I suddenly got very, very cold.

I realized that these plants were my responsibility. Then I realized that so was the fence, walls, living room, garage, walls, kitchen, appliances, front yard, bedrooms, closets, bathrooms, and the washer and dryer. It was all on my shoulders now; no parents or landlord to rely on.

And my sudden fears and anxieties over this manifested in my new backyard.

"When should I water the plants? How do I use the misting water things? What about this drip-sprinkler system I heard about? How often do I water? Are those flowers dying? What are river rocks? We have a tool shed? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?" I asked Ramona in about a four-second span.

Understand this: I haven't had a backyard in quite a while. It's practically foreign to me. And when I did have one, gardeners did the work. I didn't -- and don't -- have the first damn clue on how to proceed.

And thus, I did the following:

Turned on my new hose.

Sprayed the plants with water.

Spent 10 minutes trying to figure out how to turn off the hose.

Tried the water misting system.

Flipped out about now knowing how long I should let the plants be misted.

Turned off the mist.

Went back inside.

Stared at my living room ceiling.

Lied down on my living room floor.

Stared at my ceiling some more.

Went back outside.

Turned on the mist again.

Turned off the mist.

Went back inside.

And afterwards: My path was clear.

Monday morning...

...I'm calling a gardener.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Kim Kardashian is "proud to rock the mom jeans."

You can read a whole article about it here.

Yes, please do. Please read an article about Kim and her mom jeans.

Because, you know, it's not like there aren't other pressing issues in the world that should take up our time, focus and concern.

Kim and her mom jeans. That's what counts.

Paying The "Marriage Penalty": A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-05-01T22:03:00.000-07:00

When I got married, I assumed I was going to get some breaks on my taxes. After all, my entire life I've been told that being married entitles you to more money from Uncle Sam.

Apparently, I've been lied to.

My wife Ramona has been working with our tax guy this week, and he informed us that we're going to be hit with a "marriage penalty."

Apparently, the United States of America does give married couples a tax break...but only if one of the people in the marriage is working.

In other words: U.S. tax law hasn't stepped into the 21st century -- hell, it hasn't stepped into the mid-1970s -- by realizing that these days, both spouses work in most married homes.

In addition, apparently Ramona and I now make too much money -- well, maybe our lifestyle really is too lavish. I mean, a 1-bedroom apartment in California's San Fernando Valley and eating regularly off of fast food value menus does scream "affluence." So now we're in a higher tax bracket.

So in other words:

We're being punished because a) I'm OK with my wife working. And b) We've actually managed to achieve some moderate financial success in our careers after working our butts off for several years.

You want to know why the divorce rate in this country is so high today?

Taxes.

That's right, I've discovered the problem. More than 50% of marriages -- the ones that fail -- actually are hummin' along quite well till tax season comes. Then when they find out that they would've had more money if they stayed single, the married couple starts to look upon one another as a liability.

And that's where the fights about money, lack of listening, and bad sex lives begin.

It all starts with taxes.

In fact, I'm willing to bet that when one of these spouses cheats on the other, the other spouse is happy. Seriously. I can just picture it in my head: The wife walking into the bedroom, seeing her husband with another woman, her looking at the two of them for a minute, and exclaiming:

Great!! Now I can get another $500 from the state!!

In the end, I will pay my extra taxes. And I would never even dream of divorcing my lovely wife.

But the next time Ramona gets mad at me for something, I'm going to tell her:

Hey I'm losing money on this deal, you know!!

Not sure how she's gonna take that.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Recently in a European basketball game, a team makes a jumper in the closing seconds of a close game and celebrates in the middle of the court, with fans and coaches alike running onto the floor and going crazy.

Just one problem:

There was 0.6 seconds left on the clock.

And in the middle of this celebration, the other team throws up a half-court shot, makes it, and wins the game.

One of the most surreal sports moments I've ever seen. View the video here.

Ranting Again About Starbucks: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-04-22T20:29:00.000-07:00

My hatred for Starbucks is well-documented. I don't like the place. Every time my wife Ramona forces me to go there, I find another reason to complain.

After Ramona and I went to the movies last week, she made me come with her to Starbucks so she can get a coffee for the morning. Which, in turn, made me rant about Starbucks for the millionth time. Which, in turn, made her ask the following question:

Honestly, Nev, what's your real beef against Starbucks? I really don't get it.

And a blog topic was born. :-)

My "real beef" stems from two things:

1) Starbucks changed the name of a long-existing item, sells it for inflated prices, and makes you think you're buying something different when you're actually buying the same damn thing.

Let me tell you something about coffee: It's been around for hundreds of years. You know what it was called way back when? Coffee. You know what it was called hundreds of years later right before Starbucks came about? Coffee. You know why the name coffee was never changed? Because it didn't need to be changed!! It was called coffee!! It didn't need to be called anything else for the world to keep spinning. And then Starbucks comes in and somehow convinces the world that they're providing you something different by using words like "latte", "venti", "skinny", "no foam" and "frappuccino".

Ever hear of something called bread? Bread has been around since the dawn of time. And what was bread called at the dawn of time? Bread. What is it called today? Bread. Know why? Because there ain't no reason to call it anything else. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. That's why bread is called bread, and not "omega grain sandwich slices."

And 2) Starbucks sells you things that don't exist.

Starbucks regulars routinely buy the following non-existent items:

Chai.

Makiato.

And sugar-free vanilla syrup.

Question for you: What is chai? Can you honestly answer the question? Can you? No. Why? Because there's no such thing. A "skinny chai latte with no foam" is a small black coffee. There's nothing "chai" about it or in it. It's just a word Starbucks made up to make a longer coffee title to make you think you're buying something really cool and fancy when in fact you're just spending $2 extra for a made-up word.

And then there's makiato. You know what makiato is? Caramel. Makiato is just another made-up word by Starbucks for caramel. Only you people are so stupid that Starbucks will call their drink "caramel makiato" and you're too stupid to realize that the makiato is not making their caramel coffee any more caramel.

And another thing: Why the hell do you need to put caramel in your coffee in the first place? WTF? Since when is cream and sugar not enough? You want caramel? Have a sundae. Or a Twix.

And finally, there's sugar free vanilla syrup.

Two things to point out here:

A) When did people start choosing how many pumps of sugar-free syrup they wanted in their coffee? When we made chocolate milk as a kid, we didn't say "two pumps please, Mom." We just pumped until our instincts told us when. This is a natural skill humans have.

But nowadays, people insist on putting a number on their syrup pumps. Ramona, for example, asked for three pumps of sugar-free vanilla syrup in her coffee. No more, no less. A number other than three wouldn't work for her. It's three pumps that defines who she is as an individual.

And B) Does anyone ever actually see the Starbucks worker pump the sugar-free vanilla syrup into their coffee?

The answer is no.

And why is the answer no?

Because there's no such thing as sugar-free vanilla syrup.

Because you can't have vanilla without sugar.

Which means sugar-free vanilla doesn't exist.

You know what's being pumped into your coffee?

Air.

Three pumps of air.

Which is free.

Except at Starbucks.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

OK, this will officially be the greatest movie of all time:

The Expendables. An action firm scheduled to be released this August about an assembly of hired guns are sent on a mission to a South American country, with the objective to overturn the cold-blooded despot in charge. As the mission begins, the mercenaries discover that the situation is not as it appears. The men find themselves trapped in a deadly game of deception with a traitor among their ranks.

Why this will be the greatest movie of all time?

It stars Sylvester Stallone. Dolph Lundgren. Arnold Schwarzenegger. Jet Li. Bruce Willis. Mickey Rourke. Jason Stratham. Terry Crews. Randy Couture. And Stone Cold Steve Austin.

OK, you can put these guys around a table, doing nothing but playing Crazy 8s for two hours, and it would still be the greatest movie of all time with this cast.

By the way: You gotta hand it to Stallone. The dude is doing a masterful job of resurrecting his career. First he did Rocky VI, a surefire hit. Then he did Rambo 4, a surefire hit. Now he's going to do a movie surrounded by a bunch of big-name action stars and UFC and wrestling legends.

Sly is back, people. Deal with it.

Texting Using A Number Pad: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-04-17T11:09:00.000-07:00

I came to the following realization the other day:

I am the only person on Earth whose cell phone does not have a keyboard.

My cell phone is not a mini computer.

I cannot write a letter or a novel on my cell phone.

I type on my cell phone using the number pad.

Let's focus on that last sentence.

I type on my cell phone using the number pad.

Remember the dark ages? You know, the time when we could only send text messages using numbers? You may find it hard to believe, but I still live during this archaic time. While the rest of you suddenly came to the conclusion that having a cell phone that didn't contain letter keys was beneath you, I remained perfectly content with the ability to send my friends a message using numbers.

Sending a text message in general was enough to keep me happy.

Here's my issue with these cell phone keyboards: They're horizontal. It's just...odd. I like my cell phones vertical. I'm used to it being up and down. I'm not into this "left to right" cell phone concept. When I type on my current cell phone, a lot of my fingers are getting fresh air, not touching any part of the phone. They're free to roam, to explore, to be.

But when I type on these cell phone keyboards, the palms of my hand have to act as a brace for the phone. It's like I have to give it a support system just to use the damn thing.

Plus, I can't get used to going back and forth between numbers and letters on a keyboard. It's just not natural. It's borderline unholy. I honestly believe that this will ultimately lead to the destruction of the world. I really do. It's just another example of "I want I want I want" and "more more more" and "now now now."

Everyone in the world but me is greedy: That's what I've determined.

You know what everyone should do for one day? Go back to your roots. Get your hands on a regular cell phone. Type a text message using numbers. Go back and remember what it was like. Appreciate how things used to be. Think to yourself: "What would happen if I murdered someone, was found guilty in court, and sent to prison? What if they didn't let me bring my cell phone keyboard with me? How would I survive? Can I survive?

Think about it.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Broadcaster Larry King is seeking his eighth divorce.

King has been married to seven different women, but this is his eighth divorce, because he remarried one of his former spouses and then divorced her again.

Now let me ask you a question:

If you're this latest divorcee of Larry's, what's her mindset going into the marriage? I mean, she's gotta be marrying him for the money, right? She couldn't really assume that the marriage was going to last. The dude had been divorced seven previous times!! Don't tell me she deluded herself into thinking she was going to be the one who changed him.

You know what would solve the divorce problem in this country?

Pass a law that states the following:

If you divorce someone, you get caned.

Works in Singapore.

:-)

Buying A House: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-04-10T15:33:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, my wife Ramona and I bought a house.

We are now homeowners.

We are now going to have a mortgage.

We are now going to have to handle all home repairs ourselves.

(As I write that last line, I realize two things: 1) I don't own a hammer. And 2) I'm going to eventually have to decide on a plumber.)

In a way, we just had a kid. Only it's made out of wood.

Buying a home. Admittedly, I never thought it would happen this quickly. I mean, yeah, Ramona and I talked about it before we married last August. And this past January, we decided that we would start looking, But I thought it would take a lot longer than it did. I mean, you should've heard the horror stories we heard from some of our friends. "This takes forever." "You're going to be rejected 100 times." "Your Realtor is going to do everything he/she can to screw you...but use mine because he/she screwed us the least."

And then...boom!! We see a house on a Saturday, we put an offer in on a Sunday, and they accept our offer on a Monday.

And just like that, I'm responsible for eventual roof repairs.

As we begin the final stages of this process, I've come across the following realizations:

1) I am utterly useless when it comes to this process. Seriously. When it comes to home buying, it has been all Ramona. She looked at the listings, she asked the questions, she explained things to me using simple words and hand puppets. She's working with our Realtor, overseeing the home inspections, and is already picturing in her mind how our future backyard is going to look.

For the first time over the course of our nearly nine-year relationship, I find myself saying "Yes, dear" multiple times throughout the day. All of this is over my head. What Ramona wants, I want. What she says, I say. I simply nod, give money when told, and hand her my tax forms.

The woman is in charge. When it comes to the home buying process, I'm told this is common.

And 2) I drove to my future home the other night, parked across the street, stared at my front yard for a while, and it hit me:

I own trees.

I mean: I own this. This is all mine. See that grass? Mine. That window panel? Mine. Mailbox? Mine. Door handles? Mine. I am now officially the ruler of my own kingdom. I can have a real barbecue, paint things, take a piss in my backyard late at night when the mood strikes me, and no one can say anything because this -- all of this -- is totally, unequivocally 100% mine!!!

(at least, it will be in 30 years).

I'm going to name my trees.

One of them will be called:

Otis.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

The Syfy channel is coming out with a TV movie called "Mega Piranha."

It's about giant piranhas with the ability to bite helicopters out of the air.

It stars former rockstar Tiffany.

And the dude who played Greg Brady.

I couldn't make this up if I tried.

Lugging 50-Pound Bags Of Fertilizer Up A Hill: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-04-03T21:16:00.000-07:00

My father-in-law Jim is a total handyman and outdoorsman. He can fish, he can build shelves, he knows how to stack things on the roof of your car and make sure it doesn't fall. You ever watch Survivor? Jim would be the guy who builds the shelter and everyone loves, but ultimately gets voted out because he's considered too strong and too likable.

I'm not handy in the slightest. I think I've used a hammer in my life exactly twice, don't own a wrench, and do nothing of the sort in my home outside of screwing in light bulbs.

It's one of my flaws as a man. Let's face it: Handyman-ness is sexy. You can be the fattest, dumbest slob alive, but if you can fix a car yourself, you're going to find some woman who will sleep with you. It's simple human psychology.

I cannot fix cars, nor do anything handy. So I've been forced to focus on other aspects of myself to exude sexiness. I should've made it easier on myself and either figured out how to build a birdhouse or learn how to play electric guitar.

As the son-in-law of a handyman and outdoorsman, it was only a matter of time before Jim asked me to help him out on some of these tasks and try to teach me a few things involving tools and sod. So it didn't surprise me when Jim recently asked me to assist him in his garden by helping him lift 50-pound bags of fertilizer up a hill that he would later use for planting.

Jim's garden really is a thing of beauty. His backyard goes up a hill about 20 feet, and over the years he's turned it from a dirt field into a wondrous sea of green grass, blooming flowers and fruit trees. But when I met up with him on an early Saturday morning to pick up the fertilizer at the school where he teaches, I soon realized that I was going to be doing more than lifting cow poo up a hill.

One of the things Jim teaches is wood shop. I never took a wood shop class. Actually, I don't even think my high school offered one. So when Jim took out his wood shop blades and drills, I was staring at things I had never used.

Unbeknownst to me, I was about to be given a lesson in cutting wood.

"I have a little project for you," Jim said.

The project was to make a little wood carving of the word "Mom" and give it to my mom for Mother's Day. This conjured up two thoughts in my head:

1) "What am I, 7?"

And 2) Jesus Christ, I'm gonna cut my fingers off using this blade."

Luckily, Jim has known me long enough to realize that blood loss was inevitable if I got near a blade for too long. So instead, he simply had me cut the wood for 3.5 seconds, during which he shouted "STOP AND LOOK WHAT YOU'RE DOING!!" (I was cutting the wood in the wrong spot), had me plug in an electric drill -- which I inadvertently turned on and almost killed us both -- and almost dropped a heavy buzz saw on my foot.

Like I said: I ain't handy.

Thankfully, the fertilizer lugging went much more smoothly. I was able to slug those things over my shoulder, I didn't fall down the hill, and save for squashing a bed of flowers when I dropped one of the bags of fertilizer in the wrong spot, I did well.

"Maybe soon, I'll have you come back and use the weeder," Jim said.

Then he looked at those squashed flowers.

And he sighed.

"Maybe not," he said.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

I'm a little boy at heart. So when my 3-year old cousin Quinten came to town earlier this week, we had a little too much fun playing with his toys. Check out our YouTube videos here and here. :-)

Going To My First Baby Shower: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-03-26T22:32:00.000-07:00

I went to my first baby shower last weekend.

My friends Silvia and Mike are expecting their first child next month and recently hosted a couple's baby shower.

And going in, I had some reservations.

You have to understand something: When I hear the words "baby shower" I think of women, and only women, sitting around a living room, on 1970s decor, knitting, drinking tea, with the pregnant woman opening up gifts full of baby clothes.

I'm a sexist. I admit it. Sue me.

Luckily, this baby shower didn't fit that image at all. Actually, it wasn't all that much different from going to a barbecue. Lots of food, booze, people talking and joking in the background, etc.

Plus: They had M&Ms!! :-)

But even though the baby shower was similar to a lot of parties I've gone to, there were a few differences.

First, there's this whole "bring the happy couple a couple a box of diapers" thing. My wife Ramona and I have no kids, and won't anytime soon, so I've never bought a box of diapers in my life. Let me tell you: Those things are freakin' expensive!! $20 for Huggies? Good Lord.

Then there's the whole "name brand vs. non-name brand" thing with diapers. I'm a non-name brand person. I'm fine with no-name soda, no-name chips, no-name cheese. The no-name diapers were $6. I was tempted. I won't lie. But how could I look my pregnant friend in the eye and plop a box of cheap diapers in front of her, announcing that I was too cheap to buy the good stuff?

"Isn't my unborn baby worth more?" I can see her eyes telling me as she eyes the cheap diapers.

Christ, this diaper thing for baby showers is a scam. :-)

Then there's the games they play at baby showers. I'll be honest: I don't get them. I really don't. Guess the number of jelly beans in the jar? Guess how many inches the pregnant woman's waist is? (isn't that mean?) Guess how many bobby pins are in the rice?

Bobby pins in the rice?

Listen: I know times are changing. Men are becoming nurses. Couples are using hyphenated last names. Males do laundry now. But this whole couple's baby shower movement is going to take some time for men to get used to. It's like a poor kid being invited to a country club by his rich friend: The poor kid has no idea what to expect.

To help make the trend easier, my friend Greg told me a story about a couple's baby shower he once attended:

All the women played games, while the men went into a side room and played in a poker tournament.

Now that couple's baby shower had something for everyone.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

India's military is going to weaponize the world's hottest chili.

No, I'm not kidding.

After conducting tests, the military has decided to use the thumb-sized "bhut jolokia," or "ghost chili," to make tear gas-like hand grenades to immobilize suspects.

Next item on the agenda: Making rocket launchers out of garlic sauce.

How Much (March) Madness Is Too Much Madness: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-03-20T00:11:00.000-07:00

For those of you who were born yesterday, this week was the beginning of the NCAA men's basketball tournament, where 65 of the top college basketball teams in the nation compete in a single-elimination tournament and people like me fill out brackets trying to figure out who is going to win each game, following the games online at work, watching nothing but basketball at home, ignoring our friends, loved ones and co-workers for three weeks, etc.

If you think I'm exaggerating, think again. People like me will do their research trying to pick the winners in the days leading up to the tournament, and tell their wives the following:

You're not expecting me to pay attention to you, are you? Because I have to figure out if UTEP has a shot against Butler.

I'll be paying for that statement at some point. Of this I am sure.

Two years ago, I took my readers through the craziness of following the first two days of March Madness. Last year, I wrote about how my alma mater, Cal State Northridge, made the tournament, almost pulled off a gigantic upset, and how I almost had three massive coronaries from the excitement.

This year, I want to write about how people tend to fill out multiple brackets in NCAA pools, the idea being not only to expand the fun, but also to expand the chances of winning a pool and thus a lot of money.

A lot of people fill out more than one bracket. Many fill out two. Some fill out three. A couple of folks here and there may even get really crazy and fill out four.

I filled out 14.

14. Granted, it's a touch on the high side. But the way I see it, NCAA March Madness tournament brackets are like lottery tickets. They're cheap and the more you have, the more chances you have to win.

But as I've come to find out over the past couple of days, not everyone feels the same way I do.

Apparently, the fact that I have 14 brackets has caused a stir among those around and connected with me.

For example:

In one pool I'm in, in which there are more than 100 entries, the commissioner of the pool is considering adopting "The Barich Rule next year, which would limit how many brackets an individual can fill out."

I'd like to say two things here:

1) I MIGHT HAVE A FREAKIN' RULE NAMED AFTER ME!!! "The Barich Rule." I will not have lived in vain. :-)

And 2) When the hell did America turn communist? I mean, when one goes to McDonald's, is there a limit to how many Big Macs someone can buy? Am I restricted in the number of video games I can own? When I buy girl scout cookies, does little Tammy from Troop 546 say to me: "Sorry sir, limit 4"?

If you restrict the number of NCAA March Madness brackets I can fill out, it's akin to rebuilding the Berlin Wall. Let the wall come down!!

My wife Ramona doesn't get it. Although both a sports fan and a columnist for ESPN Los Angeles who actually gave her own predictions on the NCAA Tournament on ESPN Radio earlier this week (fast forward to 12 minutes in on the podcast), my better half told me the following the other day:

Nev, I'm your wife and I love you. And this is coming straight for the heart: You're totally ridiculous.

I'd like to say two things here:

1) For the remainder of this blog, Ramona -- who still goes by her maiden name Shelburne -- will be referred to as "Mrs. Barich."

And 2) What Mrs. B doesn't realize is that the NCAA Tournament is like Christmas morning for me. Each bracket I fill out is like an individually wrapped gift under the tree, filled with mystery and excitement and possibilities. Is it a great gift? Is it socks? Will the gift bring a smile to my face or make me groan because it's a useless piece of crap that I can't throw away because the person who bought it for me will get offended and thus I have to stash it in a drawer somewhere where it will collect dust for the remainder of time?

The more brackets -- gifts -- I have, the more chances I have of getting great gifts. Now granted, it also increases the odds of me getting crap, but I'm a optimist. Hence, 14 brackets.

More than once over the past couple of days, I've been asked: "Nev, if you have so many brackets going on, with different picks for each one, then how do you know who to root for?" But that's the beauty of technology today: I don't need to know!! Today's computer software tabulates my scores for me throughout the tournament, helping me to decide as time goes on who I should throw my unwavering allegiance to. While others were crying the other day because "Georgetown lost and I had them in the Final Four!! My bracket's busted!!" I can take comfort in the fact that I have so many chances to win, that it doesn't matter if one dream gets crushed. Because I have 13 more dreams that can come true!!

I've become about quantity, people.

In the end, folks, it's about one thing: Winning an NCAA March Madness pool. And I'll confess something: I've never won one (at least one involving money). Oh, I've come close enough to get to the championship. But I've never been able to win the big one. And maybe that's what this is all about: Accomplishing something I've never accomplished. Climbing the top of a mountain that has thus far proven unscaleable. I want to win, God damn it!! And if it takes 14 brackets to do it, then so be it.

A good friend asked me the other day:

"Would you throw me in front of a moving bus if it meant you winning one of these things?"

"Of course not," I replied.

"But I'd push you down a flight of stairs."

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Jellyfish are immortal.

Joy.

Deciding Whether Cheetos Are Chips: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-03-13T10:32:00.000-08:00

The building where I work has a downstairs cafe, and yesterday I ordered a patty melt for lunch. The burger came with a bag of chips, which I didn't want, so I asked my friend and co-worker Cindy if she wanted them and, if so, what kind.

"Yes please!!" she replied. "Anything that's spicy. The spicier, the better."

So when I went down to pick up my food, I saw that the only thing on the chips rack that was of the spicy variety was Flamin' Hot Cheetos. But when I brought them back up to Cindy, her response surprised me:

Thank you, Nev. But Cheetos are not chips.

"Cheetos are not chips."

And a debate among us, as well as our fellow co-workers began.

Are Cheetos chips? It's an interesting question. In my view, yes. After all, you can find them in the chips section of your local supermarket. When your mom bought the variety pack of chips and put them in your lunch box as a kid, Cheetos was among the choices.

In Cindy's view, no. Chips are made of potatoes or tortillas. Cheetos are not, nor are they explicitly described as chips. Because of this, Cheetos are...well, something else.

Opinion among our other co-workers was divided. Some were in the Nevdogg camp, defending Cheetos' right to be a proud member of the chips family. Others were Cindy boosters, saying that Cheetos didn't belong where chips reigned for years. The rest understood where Cindy was coming from but struggled to define what category Cheetos should be in.

Here were the main arguments, both for and against:

1) Chips don't have to be made out of just chips or tortillas. Thus, Cheetos should be considered chips.

Cheetos have sat side by side among Ruffles, Lays and Fritos for years now. One can make the claim that they've already earned their chips membership card. And if they don't have one, such membership is long overdue. Cheetos, supporters say, have paid their dues and earned the right to have full chips rights and privileges.

2) You can find pretzels in the chips section at the market. Pretzels aren't chips. They're pretzels. So just because Cheetos can be found next to chips, it doesn't make them chips.

On paper, this is a very strong argument. But there's a flaw. Yes, pretzels are found in the chips section. However, if you look at the aisle sign at your neighborhood Ralphs, like I did yesterday, you will find that it clearly says "chips and pretzels."

Pretzels have their own listed word at the supermarket. Cheetos don't. So if Cheetos aren't chips, what are they?

This leads to:

3) If Cheetos aren't chips, just call them snacks.

That's right. Let's just call them snacks. And while we're at it, let's call all dogs dogs. All white people white. All video systems Nintendo. If we can't easily define something, let's just it in a neat little box and call them snacks.

This is how war starts, people.

If you don't want to die over Cheetos, you'll think of something better.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

A friend of mine recently passed this along to me: Heidi Montag before plastic surgery, and Heidi Montag after.

Which do you prefer?

I go with the before, myself.

DVR And Tivo: Changing Our Lives Forever: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-03-06T21:16:00.000-08:00

Do you remember what your life was like before DVR and Tivo?

DVR. Tivo. Two words, incomprehensible not long ago, that are now a part of our everyday vocabulary. The ability not just to recover shows without the use of a VCR, but the power to a) record two shows at the the same time, b) record one show while watching another at the same time, or c) record two shows at the same time while simultaneously watching one of your recorded shows.

And that's not even getting into the ability to pause live TV, rewind it, fast forward it, manipulate and alter and control time in a way that no one thought possible.

Thanks to DVR and Tivo, we truly are the masters of our own universe.

As I write this, I'm currently recording the HBO special on Magic Johnson and Larry Bird, while at the same time recording boxing on Showtime, all while watching the horror film "Carrie" for the very first time (OK, I'm actually just watching the end of it. So let me get this straight: She becomes prom queen, someone dumps gunk on her, she kills everyone by looking at a hose, comes home to a house lighted with candles, washes the blood off in a bath, cries a bit, and then hears a speech from her mom telling her that the reason she's like this is because the mom had sex before marriage and thus "the devil has come home." What the hell? Oh, and now the mom stabs the daughter in the middle of a prayer. WTF?). I feel happy and light at heart, free of the shackles that came with having to pop a blank cassette tape into a VCR, not to mention the pressure of figuring out which speed to pick (which I never understood) and making sure that you're entering the right day and time.

With DVR and Tivo, the work is done for you. You don't have to worry about anything. You just come home and all of your favorite shows are there waiting, right inside your TV.

You know what DVR is like? Having a maid. Instead of the stress of cleaning your home yourself, you can leave in the morning, come home after work, and find everything spotless. It's effortless. DVR is the same thing. You come home, and it's all done for you. All that's missing is a home-cooked meal on the table.

But there is a concern here. We're getting spoiled. Lately I've been hearing radio ads about "the perils of only being able to record two shows at once." I've heard friends bitch and moan about how hard life is becoming because three of their favorite shows are on at 8 p.m. on Mondays and so they have to eliminate one. It's like hearing someone who three years ago was driving a Pinto and was just happy to have a car that got from Point A to Point B, now complaining that the leather seats in the 2010 BMWs are not up to their suddenly exacting standards, and so they need to spend thousands more on the 2011 model.

So now people are flocking to electronics stores with devices that allow them to record four shows at once. I mean, dude: How much more do you need? Me me me. Now now now. More more more. Enough already. You can record two shows at once. Be happy with that.

Remember:

In certain parts of the world, they still have VCRs.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

The NBA's New Jersey Nets, which is the worst team in pro basketball this season, is trying to counter their dwindling attendance in various ways.

The latest promotion: New Jersey residents 18 or older who attended a recent game got a coupon that they could redeem at a Roni Deutch Tax Center to get their state income tax done free.

To be fair: The Nets did draw 2,000 more fans than usual on free tax preparation night. Still, I like the Lakers' free taco promotion better.

Pretending To Understand The Winter Olympics: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-02-27T13:06:00.000-08:00

If you're like me, 95% of the Winter Olympic Games are beyond your understanding. I mean, almost every time I turn it on to watch, some sport is going on that seems nonsensical to me.

Guys pushing one another with sticks. Sledders sledding on their butts. People doing flips on skis. Announcers screaming about "more emotion than I've ever seen in all my years of broadcasting" when it looks to me as if no one has made any sort of facial expression whatsoever.

I'm lost. I admit it. As this year's Winter Olympics conclude tomorrow, I confess that I have no clue what's going on. I mean, I truly am lost. My wife Ramona has been totally into the Olympics, talking about how "the artistry of the South Koreans was just captivating" when all I see are a couple of people wearing sequins and doing random spins.

When I hear people talking about the Olympics and sounding like they know what they're talking about, I nod and smile and say things like "Oh yeah, the Russians are definitely making more of an impact than I expected." But I have no clue what I'm talking about. I really don't.

So here's my take on these Olympics, from the "what the hell is it that I'm watching" perspective:

---The Olympics consist of exactly five athletes: The two hot female skiers, Bode Miller, the guy with the long red hair, and Apolo Ohno (but only because of his soul patch and headbands).

---Everyone in America hates Canadians.

---Everyone in Canada hates Americans.

---Canadian judges are trying to screw over Americans.

---The Olympics are the only time that watching hockey on TV is fun.

---The only other countries involved in the Olympics besides the U.S. and Canada are: Russia, China and South Korea. None of the other countries are on TV; I guess it's because they don't get snow.

---All the athletes pretend to like each other, when really they're thrilled when one of them fails.

---All Olympic married couples announce after their event that they're having kids.

---All Olympic boyfriend-girlfriend couples announce after their event that they're getting married.

---All the women are blonde.

---All the guys, except for the red-headed dude, have dark hair.

---Victory laps on skis are boring.

---Bob Costas knows all.

---And I am convinced that there is a random Olympic sport that I can quickly pick up, try it a few times, and be ready to make a run at a medal in 2014.

You are, too.

Don't lie.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

A man who recently bought an online virtual island for $26,500 is making more than $100,000 in real money per year off of it.

Apparently, the owner of this virtual island runs Amethera Treasure Island, which he purchased in the virtual world Entropia, as a rare game preserve and taxes hunters on his land.

Reading that last paragraph back, I feel like I'm reading back the minutes of some Star Trek fan club meeting.

The Stupidity Of Movie Reviews: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-02-20T22:34:00.000-08:00

I don't get movie reviews. I mean, I truly never understood people's obsession with them. Why the hell do people care about the opinion of movies critics when you don't even know who these people are or what their tastes are like?

My wife Ramona and I are big movie goers, and we have this argument all the time. It's the same scenario. I look up the movie times online, I give Ramona some options, and she says:

What do the reviews say?

Then I say:

Who cares?

Then she says:

I just want to know.

Then I say:

But what makes you think that they like what you like?

Then she says:

Would you just tell me?

Then I say:

What difference does it make what they say?

Then she says:

It matters to me.

Then I say:

Well it shouldn't.

Then she rolls her eyes.

Then I roll my eyes.

Then she looks up the reviews herself.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I just never understood why we care so much about some random person's opinion. Do people think they're experts just because their opinion can be found in print or online? As a former journalist who spent 13 years in TV, print, online and magazine writing and editing, I can tell you: This isn't so. Most of these people don't have two brain cells in their head. They simply tell you what they like and don't like, and use fancy words and catchy phrases to make it seem like they have some deeper knowledge of what makes a movie good or not.

In reality, it's like going clothes shopping, trying something on, and grabbing the arm of some random stranger passing by and asking them: "Excuse me, person who I have never met before in my life and whose taste I know nothing about, what do you think of this color on me?" Do you do this when you go clothes shopping? No. Why? Because you don't give a damn what that person thinks. Because you don't know them!! They're not a fashion expert!! And they know nothing about your taste. And even if they answered you with fancy words and catchy phrases, you still wouldn't care.

The movie critic is like that random stranger. I don't care what he or she thinks because he or she doesn't care what I think. We don't know each other, we have no clue of each others' tastes, and I for one want to keep it that way.

I was watching the movie Street Kings the other day, starring Keanu Reeves. It was your typical dumb action flick, with a moronic plot and filled with such Keanu lines as "We were black and white when black and white was a big deal" and "Quicks? Not quick enough." I loved it. I thought it was entertaining as hell. I'm told movie critics hated it. Did I listen? No. Did I even read? No.

And thank God I didn't.

Because if I did, I would've missed Keanu go into a convenience store to break his ex-partner's jaw, try to save him when some gang bangers come in to kill the ex-partner, and then Keanu accidentally shoot his partner in the back.

And that would've been a real shame.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Ramona and I put our first offer on a home today.

Whoa...

The Bane Of Male Existence (aka Valentine's Day): A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-02-12T17:31:00.000-08:00

Nevdogg Note: One of the first blog posts I ever wrote was about how men hated Valentine's Day. And with the "holiday" two days away, I thought I would repost my Valentine's Day blog from 2008, since my feelings haven't changed. For my new readers, enjoy. For my original readers, enjoy this trip down memory lane.

This Sunday marks one of the most painful days of the year in the life of the non-single man. It's a day we dread, a day we fear, a day that makes us sag our shoulders at the mere thought.

They call this horror of horrors: Valentine's Day.

Now, all the men reading this know exactly where I'm coming from, nodding and thinking, "Amen, my brother. The truth must finally be told." So it's to you, female audience of Nevin's blogs, that I'm speaking to today.

If a man has a girlfriend, fiancee or wife, he despises Valentine's Day. Why?

1) Money. When Valentine's Day is over, the man's wallet is going to be a couple of hundred dollars less (and that's IF the woman in question is easy to please). Flowers, candy, dinner...everything is jacked up price-wise on this Hallmark-created holiday. And businesses know that a man can't skimp on the festivities, lest he do so at his own peril.

I once suggested to a former girlfriend that we go to Dennys on Feb. 14 and that she pretend to be 56 in order to get the senior citizen price on the pancakes.

The idea didn't fly.

So businesses charge their exorbitant fees on Valentine's Day and laugh to themselves, knowing that they've got us by the testicles.

2) Pressure. Here's an interesting observation I've made over the last several Valentine's Days. Giving in and paying $50 for $10 roses is no longer good enough. Today's women want something different, special, something that sets them apart from their girlfriends. It's like the man is caught in the middle of a female pissing contest.

So not only does the man have to shell out a lot of money, but now he's expected to put in some thought? What are we supposed to do? Learn the guitar and write you a love song? Take you to the circus and arrange to be shot out of a cannon while we scream "I love you" as we go soaring over the horizon? Buy you a car?

Money and thought? C'mon!!

3) It's not fair. I saw a jewelry commercial the other day with the tagline, "This Valentine's Day, show her how much you care." Well, where's the "show him" commercials? When was it decided that Valentine's Day was only about one gender? When did men get left out in the cold? Do we not have some sort of role in the whole "couples" concept?

All I want is for there to be a commercial for me. How about: "On Valentine's Day, show him you care: Madden 2010 for the Playstation 3."

Is that too much to ask?

So, non-single ladies, I'd like to end with this:

If on Valentine's Day, your man did not step up to your expectations, remember: It's not that he doesn't love you...

...it's that he can't afford you.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

ESPN has launched a wildlife cam.

Apparently, a camera focuses on a lot of land, and people can watch the plot of land all day long on their computer and view...nature.

One in a while, a bird flies onto the screen. Or a deer roams on the land for a few seconds.

But mainly, you're just watching a plot of land.

Thousands of people are watching the ESPN wildlife cam.

Um...

...yeah.

Yearly Rant On The De-Evolution Of Super Bowl Parties: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-02-06T12:03:00.000-08:00

Nevdogg Note: Two years ago, I wrote a blog talking about how Super Bowl parties had devolved into a mess of people who don't even like football getting together to eat healthy, organic food. A sickening trend indeed. Because the Super Bowl is this Sunday and because my opinion hasn't changed since last year, I decided to repost my 2008 blog on the subject. Enjoy, and please: If you're at a Super Bowl party and don't like football or potato chips, be silent. Because believe me, no one who is into the game wants to hear what you have to say. :-)

When I was growing up, we watched the Super Bowl on Super Bowl Sunday.

Let me say that again.

When I was growing up, we watched the Super Bowl on Super Bowl Sunday.

As in, we watched the game. We had a vested interest in the outcome. We knew what was going on. We knew which teams were actually playing.

Many of you (myself included) will be going to a Super Bowl party this Sunday. I was speaking to several of my co-workers recently, and here were some of their Super Bowl comments:

I don't even like football that much.

I'm just going for the commercials.

Who is playing again?

I'm making hummus!!

My point is: Somewhere along the line, the dynamics of Super Bowl parties changed. It no longer became about the game. It was about being trendy, with it, a part of the scene.

When you go to your event on Sunday, 90% of the people present will be there simply because "it's the thing to do." And the 10% who actually want to focus on the game will be forced to listen to things like, "Why are they wearing red uniforms? It clashes with their helmets."

And let me say something about the food.

When I was a kid, Super Bowl parties consisted of three things:

Pizza.

Chips.

Pepsi.

Simple. Direct. Manly.

With today's Super Bowl parties, it's like being on an episode of Iron Chef. Homemade brownies. Sweet and sour chicken. Chex.

(Freakin' Chex.)

And no more Pepsi, folks. Because God forbid we should have regular soda and all those empty calories. Diet Pepsi is now the beverage of choice.

And pizza?

"Oh God, that's so 1980s!!" I heard someone recently declare.

And then there's my personal favorite:

The veggie tray.

Because at one point, some patrons of these parties who had never seen a football in their lives were aghast that there were no healthy vegatables at these things and bitched and moaned until someone raced out to the market and got a veggie tray just to shut them up.

And because of that, veggie trays and the Super Bowl are now linked. For better or worse.

I was asked to bring a veggie tray this year.

The cost: $10.

$10 for a couple of carrots and a teensy bit of special "veggie dip" that's...green.

Oh well.

At least veggie trays are American.

Unlike hummus.

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

This is an older SOTA involving me and my sister Blake, but it is rather timeless. :-)

She and I once had the following conversation:

Blake: I have a chia pet.

Nev: That's nice.

Blake: Its name is Pickles.

Sometimes, I wonder about my family...

Facebook Status Updates: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-01-30T22:38:00.000-08:00

Facebook status updates have gotten out of hand.

For those of you who choose to live outside of basic human society (which hopefully would be none of you, since it would be disturbing to me -- albeit a bit flattering -- that you would lift your "interact with human society" ban to read my blog), Facebook is a social networking Web site in which users can add friends and send them messages, and update their personal profiles to notify friends about themselves.

It's the "update their personal profiles to notify friends about themselves" portion that I want to address today. It really has gotten out of hand, folks. A lot of you on Facebook are posting the most basic and mundane facts about your life, and it has to stop.

Let me ask you this: Would you call your friend on the phone to let him know that you just brushed your teeth? No? Then why would you put that as your Facebook status? Putting it on your Facebook status does not make people care that you floss regularly. It just doesn't. By the same token, no one gives a damn that you're at the grocery store, walking your dog, or that you ran a mile in under 9 minutes.

And what's with the people who put their status as "is"? I mean...what the hell?

Personally, my Facebook status updates only list the major things going on in my life. The things I know my friends would be interested in. Observe some of the status updates I've posted over the past few days:

"Nevin Barich had a long day at work."

"Nevin Barich really can't stand traffic."

"Nevin Barich is watching TV with Ramona."

"Nevin Barich is hanging out with friends tonight."

"Nevin Barich expanded his farm in Farmville."

"Nevin Barich finished second in a poker tournament on Zygna Poker."

"Nevin Barich expanded his farm again Farmville."

"Nevin Barich needs his chickens in Farmville fed."

"Nevin Barich thanks everyone for feeding his chickens."

"Nevin Barich now hopes that someone can fertilize his crops."

"Nevin Barich thanks everyone for fertilizing his crops."

"Nevin Barich is looking left."

"Nevin Barich is looking right."

"Nevin Barich is blinking his eyes."

"Nevin Barich says hello."

"Nevin Barich is thinking about making a cheese quesadilla."

"Nevin Barich is making a cheese quesadilla."

"Nevin Barich's cheese quesadilla is done."

"Nevin Barich is eating his cheese quesadilla."

"Nevin Barich's cheese quesadilla could've used a bit more cheese."

And finally:

"Nevin Barich has lost his socks."

So you see: When it comes to Facebook status updates, I only post the important stuff.

Learn from me.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

I came across this story earlier this week that talked about the world's most outrageous guest requests at hotels. Give it a read. It's an SOTA you won't believe.

More Info About Haiti Dontations, And Looking For A House: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-01-23T15:05:00.000-08:00

Before I go into this week's blog, I want to write a little bit more about those who are providing aid to the people of Haiti in the wake of the devastating earthquake that killed at least more than 111,000 people.

My friend Korina is the founder and CEO of Humanitarian Travels International, an organization that provides people with the opportunity to travel to areas in need and assist in philanthropic expeditions. HTI has partnered with members of Airline Ambassadors International (www.airlineamb.org) to deliver shipments of relief aid to Haiti. Airline Ambassadors has done a great job of getting planes donated from American Airlines and other major airlines that will be used to transport shipments.

HTI will be taking an emergency team within the next couple of months to continue the flow of needed supplies. If you have access to any of the following items and can donate them to the people of Haiti, please e-mail Korina at ksmith@humanitariantravels.org:

Medical Supplies
- crutches of all sizes
- rubber gloves
- medicine (neosporin, hydrogine peroxide)
- anti biotics- PRIORITY
- emergency kits
- bandages
- aspirin and tylenol, pain medications

Hygiene Supplies
- baby wipes
- soap
- wash clothes
- toothbrushes/paste
- feminine hygiene supplies
- mosquito nets

Food
- pre-packaged items (light and easy to transport, not canned)
- granola bars, high energy biscuits
- water bottle filters
- water purification tablets
- powedered milk, formula
- rice and beans

Clothing and Bedding materials
- shoes/flip flops only, no other clothing supplies for now.
- sheets
- yoga mats

Thanks everyone. :-)

And now onto this week's blog:

Earlier this week, My wife Ramona and I began the process of looking for a house.

Now when I say "begun the process", I place great emphasis on the word "begun." Essentially, we spoke to a family friend who is a realtor (who gave us some amazing advice and put us in touch with some great people). We've looked at a couple of listings online and are starting to put together the stuff necessary for loan pre-approval, but that's it.

And already craziness has begun.

Here are three things that have taken over my life since "House Hunting 2010" began (and bear in mind again that it really has just begun. I mean, we're talking "first shovel of dirt toward digging a grave" beginning here:

1) Ramona has now deemed our apartment too small.

Prior to the word "house" being uttered, this was never a real issue. Our apartment isn't huge by any stretch -- one bedroom, one bathroom, 850 square feet -- but it's not a box, either. But now that we've begun trying to dig up old tax returns to get a home loan, I've heard the following statements from my lovely recent bride:

I WANT ANOTHER BATHROOM!!!

THERE'S NO ROOM IN THIS KITCHEN TO COOK!!!

THERE'S NO SPACE FOR OUR WEDDING GIFTS!!!

WE HAVE NO ROOM FOR GUESTS TO STAY OVER!!!

I WANT A HOUSE!!!!!!!!

Men everywhere feel my pain.

2) Everyone who bought a house has a horror story.

I cannot begin to tell you how many people have told me how horrible the journey I'm starting will be. Everyone who has bought a house, apparently, has gone through absolute misery. Bad realtors, bank shenanigans, escrow falling through, crazy closing costs. You'd have thought these people had come back from war, these stories are so depressing.

And that leads me to:

3) Everyone says their realtor is the best.

This is what I don't understand: If your house-buying experience was so terrible, why the hell do you want to put me in touch with the person who put you through hell in the first place? Is it a "misery loves company" thing? I mean, everyone wants me to use their realtor. It's like I'm single again and everyone's trying to set me up with different women.

Tell you what: Let's play a game entitled: "Realtor and Woman." The object: Take the following statements that have the word "woman" in it and replace it in your mind with "realtor."

Nev, I've got the perfect woman for you!!

Nev, I want to set you up with this woman. She's really nice, sweet and honest.

Nev, this woman is very genuine and really cares about what you want and think.

At this point, I half-feel like I should find a realtor by looking at the personal ads.

But in the end, I know it will all be worth it. We'll eventually have a house, which means we'll have grass, which means we'll have pets, which means we'll have room for kids, which means the rest of my life will be devoted to lawn mowing, dogs, and doing my best to not screw up the lives of my young ones.

In short: My life is over.

But we're just at the beginning of the "my life is over" stage.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Read this about Heidi Montag, and when you're finished, I want you to know something:

If you thought to yourself, "Damn it I wish she had just died," it's OK.

You're not alone.

:-)

Helping The People Of Haiti, and 'I Dump You' Cards: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-01-16T12:23:00.000-08:00

Before I go into this week's blog, I wanted to talk for a minute about the recent earthquake that struck the people of Haiti. Sadly, the death toll is estimated in the tens of thousands, with current estimates ranging anywhere from 50,000 to 200,000.

In horrific situations like these, it goes such a long way if each of us can donate to help in the relief efforts. The following story contains several links where you can make a donation. You can also use your cell phone and text "haiti" to 90999, and Red Cross will charge $10 to your next phone bill. Help make a difference. Thank you.

And now onto this week's blog.

Try and picture the following:

A greeting card where the front of it contains a picture of two identical trees, with the following words:

Both of us have a lot of growing to do...

Now imagine opening up the insides of the card, where it reads:

...maybe it would be best if we grew separately for a while.

If you're the recipient of such a card, you've just been dumped.

Via greeting card.

Now I know what some of you are thinking:

Nevin, what the f***? That's the absolute dumbest idea I ever heard!! Why the hell can't someone be man enough to break up with someone, oh I don't know, in person?!? A greeting card dumping someone? Disgusting!!!

And if you're thinking this, you're thinking from the perspective of the person being dumped.

But what if you're the one during the dumping?

All of us have been on both sides of the fence. And on several levels, it's harder being the dumper than the dumpee. Breaking up with someone in person is hard. The other person cries, yells, begs, offers money so that you'll stay with them. Simply put, it sucks to listen to those pleas. But by the same token, there's a huge backlash against people who break up with someone via text or e-mail.

Enter the "I Dump You" card.

A greeting card is the best of both worlds. You don't have to break up with the person in person, and yet at the same time it's better received than a text or e-mail because you actually had to go out and buy something. Some thought was put into this!!

And there can be varying degrees of the "I Dump You" greeting card.

There can be the soft approach, as mentioned earlier.

There can be the mean approach.

I'm sorry I ever met you. You're a psycho and I never want to see you again."

Or there can even be the more-complicated I-don't-want-us-to-be-exclusive-right-now-but-I-think-I-might-want-to-later-once-I-sow-some-oats-so-I-want-to-keep-you-on-the-hook-for-a-while approach.

I'm not ready for someone like you right now. But I want to be, and one day I hope I'm worthy enough for you.

Either way, Hallmark should jump on this immediately.

"I Dump You" cards.

If you're in a miserable relationship, you know you're begging for this to happen.

(Note: I am happily married, and this blog topic was written with the direct verbal consent of my wife).

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Freakin' McDonalds!! I went there today and found out that they raised the prices of their small fries to $1.19.

It used to be $1.

Value Menu, my eye.

Self-Serve Butter Dispensers For Movie Theater Popcorn: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

2010-01-08T14:48:00.000-08:00

I'm sure everyone who reads this blog has at one time or another eaten popcorn when they've gone to the movie theater. After all, popcorn is a movie theater staple. I know some folks who can't imagine sitting in a theater without a large tub of popcorn in their hands.

But lately, I've noticed the next stage in the evolution (or, depending on your view, the de-evolution) of movie theater popcorn:

The self-serve liquid butter dispenser.

Instead of the concession stand worker putting the butter on the popcorn for you -- and taking your "can I have extra butter on that" or "no butter please. I'm watching my weight" requests -- you can now handle the butter responsibility yourself. You don't want butter? Head right into the theater. Want a ton? Head over to the self-serve thingy and let the butter times roll.

Now here's my question:

Who the hell in their right mind thought this was a good idea?!?!

Listen: Today's society is fat. Let's just get that right out in the open. More than half of you who read this blog are overweight. The statistics don't lie. And now y'all are gonna get fatter because you're gonna take an-already fattening snack in movie popcorn and make it infinitely worse by putting scores of liquid butter on top.

I mean, people simply can't be trusted to act responsibly when it comes to do-it-yourself liquid butter. For the fatsos of the world, this will be like Homer Simpson in the Land of Chocolate. Why don't you just put a recovering cocaine addict in a room filled to the brim with white powder? I mean, it's essentially the same thing when you think about.

And skinny people will struggle too. When they walk past that self-serve liquid butter dispenser, they're going to wonder. They're going to think to themselves: "Hmm, what's it like?" They'll imagine themselves putting the butter on their popcorn and they'll eventually utter the words that will spell their doom:

Oh what the hell. One time can't hurt.

And their downward spiral will begin.

Eventually: You have even more fat people.

This is bad, folks. Bad bad bad. I mean, at least self-serve soda fountains have diet options. But with self-serve butter, there are no buffers. There's just the single fattening option. And the only defense is a man and woman's own self-control.

In other words...

...we're doomed.

:-)

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Some guy paid $330,000 in real money for a virtual space station in the game Project Entropia.

So to review:

Some guy had enough to pay $330,000 for something that doesn't, nor will ever, exist.

But don't worry. According to the article, the guy who paid for this "will be able to make money on his investment by taxing players who visit it, shop there, or use its extensive hunting facilities."

I'm sure the hunting facilities will draw a crowd.