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.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Adopting A 23-Pound Cat: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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...
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...
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Playing Basketball With Teenagers...And Feeling Like An Old Man: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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.
:-)
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.
:-)
Friday, December 23, 2011
The Jews Who Love Christmas: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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.
:-)
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.
:-)
Monday, December 12, 2011
Video Game Store Workers: They Never Change: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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.
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.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
The Right Kind Of Organic Foods: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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...
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...
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Prices For 3D Movies: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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.
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.
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