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.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
The Annoyance Of Movie Reviews: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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.
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.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Hungover For The First Time In My Life: My Annual Birthday Blog
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...
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...
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Dealings With Drive Thru Orders: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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.
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.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Male Cosmetics: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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
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
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Seeing A "Guy Movie": A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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.
"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.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Wearing Mismatched Socks: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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.
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.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Trying To Decide On Pizza Toppings: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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.
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.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Challenging A Robot Sportswriter: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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)
:-)
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)
:-)
Sunday, April 24, 2011
I Get A iPhone: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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.
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.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Doing Some "Scientific Research" On Smoking: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
(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...
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...
Sunday, April 10, 2011
The Economic Crisis’ Latest Potential Victim: Buffalo Wings: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
(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.
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.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Watching My March Madness Dreams End On A Cool April Night: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
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.
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.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Going Into A Bank: Like Walking Into A Car Dealership And A Casino All In One: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
(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.
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.
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