Daily Loaf

I had a dream the other night that I was on a transatlantic flight on its way to Africa. I was sitting next to a man in a brown jacket, clown pants and Jesus sandals who kept repeating, “Down we go.” That should have given me a clue to the unfortunate end to my dream, or nightmare, but it didn’t. Suddenly, the no-smoking sign started flashing a blood-red color and the pilot got on the intercom and said something along the lines of, “We are going down, hold on to your fucking hats.” I couldn’t really make out what he said, but I’ve always thought that would be the best way to break the news to the passengers. If we’re going to die, I don’t want to hear, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to bring an unfortunate situation to your attention. Blah, blah, blah.” Cut to the chase, man! Anyway, to make a long story short, we plummeted thousands of feet into an island and, magically, I was the only survivor. That is the point when I woke up. And for some batshit crazy reason, the first thing I thought of was an episode of The Office when the employees play Desert Island. This taught me something about myself: Apparently, if I were the sole survivor of a plane crash on a deserted island, the most important thing to me would be what movies I was carrying on me and how I could watch them. So, if that were to happen, and if there were a television and DVD player on this said island, these are the movies I would take… Read the rest of this entry »

For a cast of superhuman freaks, you would think Heroes would have some power over the future of their show. Unfortunately, Heroes’ kryptonite is cancellation. Since the start of the third season, “Volume Three: Villains,” there has been speculation that the show could be dropped. Given the rumors, I have listed a set of tips that could help save the show. I hope they work because, if they don’t, I’ll be out of a good show on Monday nights. And God knows I don’t plan on settling for the ultra-hyper-child Howie Mandel and his godforsaken Deal or No Deal.

1) Lose the cheerleader. Claire Bennet, played by Hayden Panetierre, must go. Spontaneous regeneration was interesting at first, but I’ve come to the realization that that means she can never die. She will always be around. Heroes must find a way to end this. I’ve had enough of her bitching and moaning. She gets shot twice in the stomach, her body spits the bullets out and heals itself, then she continues to sulk. I can only take so much of her playing the downtrodden, troubled teenager, which, for people who don’t watch the show, she is not. The girl gets everything she wants. Also, I can’t watch her fight crime in eight-inch stilettos and Gucci sweater vests any longer. It’s like fashion week every day at the Bennet house… Read the rest of this entry »

(Each Fall an army of eighteen-year-old “adults” floods USF, expecting to finally set foot in the long prophesied “real world.” They soon discover that college, and the real world, are whatever these freshmen make of them. In constructing their identities, most are required to take a basic writing course. Creative Loafing has chosen four of those students to blog for the Daily Loaf.)

About once every month, there is a funk in the air that leads to me making some piss-poor decisions. Last month, my moment of weakness involved (oh my God, I’m actually about to admit this) Miley Cyrus.

I was driving home, listening to the radio, which is unusual because I’m usually jamming out to Sunday in the Park with George on XM Satellite Radio. But, by chance, my car had just gotten a tune up and I removed the XM so it wouldn’t get snatched. Years ago, after I had a Donkey Kong Happy Meal toy stolen by a valet driver, I learned to remove every valuable from my car before handing it over to a stranger. So, I was listening to the radio and one of Cyrus’ songs, whose name I will not mention, came on. I reached for the volume knob to turn the song off, but instead I made a horrible, inexplicable mistake: I turned the volume up and listened to that whole damn song. And yes, I sang my heart out… Read the rest of this entry »

Each Fall an army of eighteen-year-old “adults” floods USF, expecting to finally set foot in the long prophesized “real world.” They soon discover that college, and the real world, are whatever these freshmen make of them.  In constructing their identities, most are required to take a basic writing course. Creative Loafing has chosen four of those students to blog for the Daily Loaf...

I sat there looking out of the window at the lake in my back yard. How many fish are in there? What would happen if I swam in it? Would I get a rash? Could I out swim the alligator that lives in there? No progress. More staring. That damn little cursor (to whom I gave the non-gender-specific name Pat) on the blank Word document kept flashing as if to say, “Let’s get a move on, Alamo. What are you waiting for? Type something, loser. I spit on you. You’re pathetic.”

Then I started thinking, “Christ, Pat’s right. Why can’t I write this? I am a loser… Read the rest of this entry »

Each Fall an army of eighteen-year-old “adults” floods USF, expecting to finally set foot in the long prophesized “real world.” They soon discover that college, and the real world, are whatever these freshmen make of them.  In constructing their identities, most are required to take a basic writing course. Creative Loafing has chosen four of those students to blog for the Daily Loaf.

For those of you who have never seen Weeds, it is, although you might never guess it, a show about, well, weed. Throw in some inappropriate, underage sexual relationships, Mexican drug lords, crooked cops, Jewish humor, a drug-addicted suburbia, a deaf girl and you’ve got Weeds in a nutshell. If that doesn’t scream “WATCH ME,” I don’t know what does. The following is a short list of observations I’ve made over the past three seasons:

1) With the right attire, you, too, can be a successful pot dealer. And by right attire I mean the skankiest possible outfit you could put together. Nancy Botwin, the posh, pot-dealing mom and main character, made a name for herself in the drug world not with her business savvy, but with her clothes, or lack thereof. She, with her dangerously short shorts and leather boots, has made enough money to pay for a house in a suburb of California, to send her kids to private school, and to by a new hybrid car. Her risqué attire also makes her pretty resourceful. If things turn sour at a drug deal, there’s no need to worry: she can provocatively dance her way out of it. So, ladies, with the right skirt and halter, you can make it out there too… Read the rest of this entry »

Why is everyone on this show so damn beautiful? Would it kill Shonda Rhimes to hire an average-looking person for us not-so-beautiful, common folk? Perfect complexion gets old after a while, doesn’t it? Bring on the flaws! At least give us one person with acne and thinning hair. Let us know that we are not the only ones who use dandruff shampoo and high intensity, prescribed deodorant. Those “doctors” (more like unstoppable sex machines) run around that hospital all day and don’t even break a sweat. All I have to do is run up a flight of stairs and immediately I look like I’ve been frying up Pad Thai noodles in the back of a van for eight hours. Give us some oily skin or at least some sweat beads on the upper lip. Shonda please, if I wanted a low self-esteem I’d be watching America’s Next Top Model. I come to you for hardcore flesh wounds and facial deformities and, I’ll admit, to watch everyone bump uglies in the supply closet… Read the rest of this entry »

Each Fall an army of eighteen-year-old “adults” floods USF, expecting to finally set foot in the long prophesized ”real world.” They soon discover that college, and the real world, are whatever these freshmen make of them.  In constructing their identities, most are required to take a basic writing course.

Creative Loafing has chosen four of those students to blog for the Daily Loaf.

These are their rants, insights, fears and hopes…

Years ago, I had hope. The Emmy Academy gave me something to hold on to, something to keep me coming back year after year. With hosts like Garry Shandling and Conan O’Brien, how could I not? (That lanky, redheaded geek could make me watch anything. Fox News. The Wiggles. Anything.) Although the Emmy’s were like watching paint dry, you could rely on the host to take some of that paint and get you high with it. He’d give you just enough to hold you over until his next little quip. There was a connection between the host and viewer: he was our crying shoulder. “I know this is rough,” he’d say, “but we’re going to make it through this together.”

That’s what kept me going; I knew that after the commercial break he would say something just funny enough to get me through the Outstanding Made For Television Movie category. But times have changed, my friends. We can’t just get high with the hosts anymore. No longer are they our crying shoulder. They are the tough loving, beer guzzling dads that slap you around and tell you to be a man… Read the rest of this entry »