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.

:-)

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.

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...

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.

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.

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...

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.