Consider the Pop Tart

by Gordon Gartrell    

Growing up, I was a sugar cereal guy for a couple of reasons.  First off, most of these cereals contained a wonderful toy surprise inside.  I would often base my selection on which box housed the best toy.  A baking soda fueled submarine would barely arouse my attention but anything involving an included ripcord and I would plead to mother to buy my new favorite cereal, whatever it was for the week.  Secondly, there is a lot of sugar in those boxes.  Acres and acres of high fructose corn syrup in the form of mouth shredding balls of crunchy goodness.  Apparently they were also chock full of vitamins making my bowl of Sugar Smacks a nutritious part of my balanced breakfast.  This assumes that by nutritious the advertisers really meant diabetes inducing and when they said balanced they realized that they were full of shit – nothing is going to balance out that effect of sugar cereals on your immune system.

As I matured into high school, I outgrew my need for disposable plastic entertainment and became much more discerning about what I would consume for breakfast.  Understanding the importance of starting the day with a healthy meal, I turned to the Pop Tart.  As a child I would avoid Apple Jacks and Grape Nuts because they had fruit explicitly in the title and the thought of anything remotely healthy sickened me (Froot Loops was the obvious exception because the word fruit was intentionally and subversively misspelled as if to tell all the fruit in the world to go fuck itself – a message that a 9 year old can comfortably get on board with).  As a more conscientious teenager, I successfully transitioned into someone who embraced fruit, just so long as it was artificial fruit flavoring in a frosting laden pouch of crust.

Today, I cannot honestly recall when the last time I even tasted a Pop Tart was and I am pretty sure that my entire adult life has been Pop Tart free.  When you no longer take part in an activity, it often comes as a surprise when you find out that people still partake in said activity.  Pop Tarts had faded away into the latent nether regions of my unconscious and therefore ceased to exist in my world.  Then two moments of interruptive eavesdropping brought them back into relevance. 

One day at work, I was busy doing something (probably writing a Culture Voice article) when the two ladies in the cubicle behind me started to raise their voices toward each other.  These two particular women happen to possess a high level of inanity that is only outdone by their supreme social retardation and obliviousness to the fact that there are other people in the universe that aren’t interested in listening to their loud snorts while they are eating pie.  Did I mention that they are both obese?  Not that I am against fat people; I happen to love Santa and late term Marlon Brando.  I think that knowing the girth of these two women is germane to the story, and I’m sure you will soon understand that for yourself.

On this day, these two very close friends (they shared a mini-fridge in their cube after all) were having a deliciously banal conversation about snacking.  One suggested that she run to the store and get them both some Pop Tarts.  The other, turned up her snout at the idea and fired back that, “Toaster Strudel is way better than Pop Tarts,” and went back to pounding on her keyboard.  Stunned into a passive aggressive stupor, the Pro Pop Tart lady muttered, “I guess…if you like a flaky mess.”  Now it was on.  For the first time ever being these ladies’ work neighbor, I was interested in one of their conversations.  Not that the content was of any more value than anything else they’ve discussed (though the time when CPS kept calling was a bit intriguing), it was that at least this time, someone might get punched in the face.

After a few verbal jabs against each party’s pastry preference, they turned their chairs toward each other to settle it with a series of head shakes and finger points.  They went at it for about 15 minutes with statements like, “I can’t believe you’re sitting there telling me that Pop Tarts are better than Toaster Strudel” and “Toaster Strudel is what Pop Tarts wish they could be.”  On and on it went until they both retreated in silence.  Then the Toaster Strudel fan diffused the tension with a single word: Jimmy.

Jimmy was their special word for a conveyance of apathy on any given subject matter.  The etymology of “Jimmy” is this: Legend has it that a blackface minstrel group composed and performed a slavery themed song about a man named Jimmy who was in charge of cracking corn.  Built in the song is the statement, “I don’t care” and it is in response to Jimmy’s cracking of the corn.  Today the song has morphed into a children’s song where we have Jimmy, corn cracking, and lack of caring all without the oppressive notion of slavery.  So there you have the Pop Tart Ladies’ logic.

Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care à What Jimmy does = state of indifference à Jimmy himself = I am not caring à “Jimmy” metonymically substitutes for general ennui

As if it wasn’t bad enough hearing them ponder such life altering conundrums like “does margarine go bad” or listening to their justifications for endangering their children, I now have to have the word “Jimmy” smattering around the office.  It’s like working with a couple of autistic kids who are constantly looking for their imaginary turtle whose given name was probably James.

To this day I don’t know who was more right.  My instinct in terms of food arguments in to go with the preference of the fatter one, but alas there was no clear winner on this day.  And if you want to interpret that last sentence as suggesting there were only two losers, then be my guest.

My more recent Pop Tart experience came in a Literary Theory class.  I was sitting behind one of my more peculiar classmates.  He is mostly bland but just odd enough to be worthy of observation.  He sometimes wears glasses, which is a nice distraction from his otherwise vacuous gaze.  He is probably in his early twenties, but is going grey.  He has the kind of 5 o’clock shadow that suggests that he has been shaving since fifth grade and has always looked like a man, but not in a way that was a sexy, “ooh he looks like a men among boys” but more of an “eww, he looks like he’d go bowling with my dad.”  In addition to all that he always wears a hooded windbreaker – enough said.  Apparently, he is smitten with the girl that he always happens to sit next to.  By apparently I mean that it is grossly obvious to anyone who might bother to notice, which I concede is probably only me.

This girl is tiny and clearly more interesting than her admirer.  She dresses trendy, cares about her appearance, and swears in a “fucking rad” manner.  She is attractive in a Rosanna Arquette - if the angle is just right kind of way.  They would make a horrible match, at least in terms of coitus because he probably would either start crying or punching or both.  Every class session, he finds a way to engage in a conversation with her and usually it centers on another class they have in common.  On this day, he tried a new way to get her to speak to him, and this is where Pop Tarts come in. 

She was eating an individual packet of Pop Tarts that a campus vending machine pooped out.  He was staring longingly at her.  Summoning the necessary courage he fumbled the following attempt at breaking the icing.  “Hmm, I’m trying to figure out the flavor of your Pop Tart, but I can’t see the wrapper.”  Whoa, playa’, settle down.  Let’s not get straight to the pillow talk. 

She proceeded to explain that it was only the best flavor ever, brown sugar cinnamon.  It was with that statement that a perceptible change was tangible in the air.  “Mmmm, that is a good one,” he murmured, “but don’t forget about frosted strawberry.”  Without looking up from her morsel, “Yeah, frosted strawberry is pretty good.  But it’s no brown sugar cinnamon.”  Visibly shaken and no doubt filling his windbreaker with cold sweat, he defiantly mumbled, “I don’t know about that.”

And with that, it was over.  All wet dreams of her fingers through his salt and pepper hair were shattered as this flavor issue was an irreconcilable difference.  Pop Tart selection is not something to take lightly; it is more of a couple killer than being unequally yoked on whether or not to have children.  This guy knew this and was willing to forego any further advances for the sake of principle.  Even though this hottie was out of his league to the twelfth degree and it would take a liter of Jack Daniels to even get her to look at his wiener, he was pulling the plug.  He wasn’t going to stand by while she essentially said “Jimmy” to his flavor preference.  Let someone else be this girl’s biggest regret, he has his scruples and they are frosted with strawberry not whorish cinnamon.

The Pop Tart is still going strong and it will maintain its stranglehold on relationships everywhere, with or with out my complicity.  It doesn’t need me any more; in fact it never needed me.  It was I that needed it.  Like the Pop Tart Ladies in the office or the tart crossed lovers in my classroom, I am a human that will be forever measured by my interactions with the Pop Tart.  It isn’t an issue of for or against, because even if you are pro Pop Tart, you are plagued with the nuanced decisions of flavor, toasted or right out of the packet, before or after your morning cigarette, breakfast only or as a dessert, and so on.  Before you make any more life decisions, I implore you…consider the Pop Tart.

Musical Musings

by Stephen Ausburne

I like music.  How about that for an opening line?  I consider my musical taste to be eclectic as evidenced by the cacophony of genres dispersed throughout my iPod playlists.  Truth be told, my song selection is rife with the more popular tunes throughout their given eras as opposed to more obscure tracks that make for intriguing coffee house conversation.  Radiohead is about as “out there” as I get.  In my defense, I am not just a top 40 troll, I consider myself a connoisseur of pop and I’d like to share with you some evaluations and observations that I have made throughout the past few decades::

The Rick Astley surprise.  I don’t know about you but I had heard Astely’s music before I ever saw Astley the man and when I finally witnessed the phenomenon by virtue of MTV, I thought I was in some sort of Bizarro Universe.  This guy was whiter than me and sounded like Luther Vandross.  Then I saw him dance and I realized that it was only his voice that was an ethnic anomaly. 

Ozzy Osbourne’s Crazy Train is one of the most confounding songs I have ever heard.  It starts off menacing enough with a maniacally echoing “All aboard!” followed by some chunky guitar warnings intermingled with creaky sound effects and unintelligible Ozzy noises.  You think you are about to ride the rails with Satan himself until the sinister inexplicably becomes silly as the intro gives way to something up tempo and jig-worthy.  Even when Ozzy comes in with the lyrics, it seems like he is having too much Kenny Logginsesque fun to be taken seriously.  He is less of the Prince of Darkness and more of a cheerleading coach.  And the song is called Crazy Train.  Really?  Crazy Train?  Bonkers Bus didn’t work for the band?  How about Wacky Wings the Absurd Airplane?  But maybe that demonstrates just how crazy Ozzy really is.  You never know what to expect with him.  One minute you’re square dancing and before you realize how it happened, you’re scrubbing his feces from your hair.

John Mellencamp is Americana personified.  His songs are like a mixture of apple pie and dirt – sweet, gritty, and palatable if you can get past the dirt.  As the poor man’s Bruce Springsteen, Mellencamp has an astonishing hold over white people.  That said, the man needs a new publicist.  Whoever suggested that he drop the middle name ‘Cougar’ from his moniker must have been fresh off the Crazy Train.  Why would you get rid of the coolest part of your name?  If anything, he should have gone the Seal route, eliminating the first and last name insisting on being called Cougar.  Seriously, what was the thought process in becoming Cougar-free?  Did he think that Cougar was ruining his rock star credibility and that focusing on the name Mellencamp would increase his allure?  Mellencamp is the kind of last name that needs that extra something to distract you from its multisyllabic peculiarity of compound nouns.  Plus the move renders one my earliest jokes as a young boy virtually unusable: Where do John Cougarmelons go during the summer?  (I think you can figure out the punchline).

I think that Huey Lewis needs the News more than they need him.

Prince is a genius.  I can’t say that I dig every one of his songs, but I can appreciate what he does.  The guy plays 137 instruments and composes all of his music while having intercourse with women that outweigh him by 90 pounds – which is something considering that the average weight of his sexual partners is 110.7 pounds.  Prince is also a controversy machine.  The guy is always pushing the boundaries of the outrageous and just when you think he has exhausted all his options, BAM!  He becomes a Jehovah’s Witness.  You can’t track this guy, he is unpredictable and slippery.  Only Prince is bold enough to go from wearing yellow leather pants with his ass cheeks hanging out to becoming too legalistic to celebrate Halloween.  Brilliant.

REM is a tad on the pretentious side.  And by “a tad” I mean grotesquely over the top.  It’s The End of the World As We Know It is awful, like high speed dry humping on a hot engine block kind of awful.  Happy Shiny People makes me want to punch strangers when I hear it.  Orange Crush is nonsense and very difficult to sing on Rock Band.  All those songs would be enough to damn a group to musical Hades (oh I forgot, you already lost your religion so I guess damnation doesn’t apply), but it is Everybody Hurts that puts them over the top to one of the worst bands in the history of life.  I’m sure many a melancholy youth wept while this song played in the background as they cut all the heads off the pictures of their girlfriend of eight weeks who they caught getting felt up by Ted Carter with his perfect hair and school record 40 yard dash time.  If you’re reading this Ted, I hate you.  I bet you don’t have an awesome, albeit almost defunct, webzine.  Sorry, I blacked out for a minute there.  Oh yeah, Everybody Hurts gives the illusion of lyrical depth, but in reality it is something you’d expect from Banality Smith.  It doesn’t actually say anything, and the fact that there is so much emphasis on the line “sometimes” only adds to its absence of significance.

Michael Stipe: Hey guys, I have a new killer song I wrote while thinking about people with diseases and stuff.

Nondescript REM guy that isn’t Michael Stipe:  Lay it on us daddy o.

MS: Well you know how everyone experiences pain in some form or another.

NRGTIMS:  Whoa, you’re right.

MS:  Yeah, I just wrote a song about it.  It’s call Everybody Hurts

NRGTIMS:  Dude, the title is so accurate and very difficult to argue against.  But aren’t you afraid of overgeneralizing?  I mean, it isn’t like everybody hurts ALL the time.

MS:  Way ahead of you, I’ve added a caveat.

Alanis Morissette captivates me.  I did not particularly care for Ms. Morissette’s music when it first came out; in fact I would shun anyone who claimed to be a fan, mostly because my English major sensibilities were offended by her song Ironic because it is ironically absent of irony.  Then there was that trip to Minnesota with a layover in Denver.  Onboard a 737 from San Francisco on my way to Colorado, there were myriad airline radio stations that I could listen to by plugging headphones into the one armrest I was not forced to share with the mouth breather sitting next to me.  Underwhelmed by the options, I settled on one that was “All Alanis Morissette – All The Time.”  Perhaps she holds a special place in my heart because, while I was nervous to fly, she kept me company with her mysterious Canadian ways, as if cradling me in her angst ridden arms and telling me that everything was going to be alright.  Whatever the reason, she now makes my list of my musical musings amongst all the other things that I think that you, you, you oughta know.

Katie Burke

Competition’s Payin’ the Price (Mama Said Knock You Out)

"You can't just beat a team; you have to leave a lasting impression in their minds so they never want to see you again." -Mia Hamm

I was hanging out with my friend Jenny, a mild-mannered gal with straight red hair and a gentle smile. I suggested that we play a board game, and Jenny agreed. Several minutes later, I was wracked with anxiety and green with envy: Jenny had already located and sunk my battleship and my aircraft carrier, and the only thing of hers I'd taken down was her puny submarine.

When Jenny landed one of her pegs in the front of my destroyer, I undertook desperate measures. Under the auspices of wanting to show her something that couldn't wait until the game's conclusion, I lured Jenny into my closet. I followed her inside and shut the door, so that we would be safely hidden from anyone else's view. And then I did what I contend any rational Battleship would-be loser would do: I punched Jenny in the stomach.

In my defense, I was six years old.

I learned the technique of guerilla sucker punching from my two older brothers. In response to complaints that my male classmates wouldn't let me play soccer with them during recess, my brothers showed me how to rule the playground. They took me into my closet and shut the door, so that our parents could not possibly know or suspect that we were doing anything of which they would disapprove.

Despite the exceedingly clear warning signal that a closed-door sibling meeting actually sends to parents, my brothers and I somehow stole several minutes of uninterrupted stomach-punching tutorials, which included demonstrations and hands-on practice, much to the chagrin of Harvey, my giant stuffed rabbit.

I kicked Harvey's ass up and down my closet floor, pounding his stuffed gut with

the indomitable fury of an athlete scorned. An onlooker might be led to believe that Harvey had personally excluded me from the European Football Championship finals. And though the boys on the schoolyard mysteriously capitulated the next day, allowing me to play soccer without my having to ball a fist (did Harvey rat me out?), the punching lessons weren't wasted. There was always Jenny. 

Jenny, with her infuriating Battleship prowess.

I would love to report that I've matured since those days, that I've outgrown the behaviors that prompt children to scream for their parents from behind body-blocked closet doors. Alas, it was but two months ago that I scorched my opponents in Marco Polo, catching myself at one point yelling, "No fair! You can't do that, cheater!"

Never mind that I was the only one in the pool older than eight. Rules are rules, and that little punk was way out of bounds.

In spite of its obvious downsides, my competitive spirit has shaped me into quite the desirable teammate. None of my friends can deny that my passion keeps games wildly entertaining and nail-bitingly suspenseful. Indeed, 28 years after I terrorized sweet Jenny - and pummeled the cotton out of Harvey - I can finally lay claim to my popularity on the soccer field, in living rooms on board game night, and pretty much everywhere except the closet.

But I think it's safe to say that Jenny, for one, never wants to see me again. 

Facebook Saved my Marriage

• I would ask a series of questions in order to find out which household appliance they would be and/or which Muppet best represents them.
• I’d ask them to name five bands they’ve seen in concert.
• If they would kidnap me, where would their hideout be and could they tell me some interesting cultural facts about said hideout?
• What television shows are they a fan of?
• If I poked them, would they poke me back?

A Defense of Tavern Poetry

by Gordon Gartrell

The movie Cocktail is, of course, a classic example of the media of film in its most perfect incarnation.  I state this obvious fact only to demonstrate my credibility as one who understands and appreciates fine art.  While the mere mention of the Tom Cruise vehicle will no doubt invoke images of gin bottles spinning through the air and the now legendary side boob shot of Elisabeth Shue under a waterfall, there is yet another element of Cocktail that I will choose to recognize: Cruise’s poetry.  At one point in the film, Cruise’s character is asked to recite an impromptu poem from behind the bar and this is what he delivers:

The Last Barman Poet

I am the last barman poet

I see America drinking the fabulous cocktails I make.

Americans getting stinky on something I stir or shake.

The sex on the beach, the schnapps made from peach,

The Velvet Hammer, the Al-La-Bam-A Slam-a!

I make things with juice and froth: the Pink Squirrel, the 3-Toed Sloth

I make drinks so sweet and snazzy:

The Iced Tea, the Kamikaze,

The Orgasm, The Death Spasm,

The Singapore Sling, the Ding-a-Ling.

America, you’re just devoted to every flavor I got.

But if you want to get loaded,

Why don’t you just order a shot?

If you only see the movie once, not only will you be depriving yourself of more opportunities to soak in the brilliantly nuanced screenplay and performances, but you might not fully absorb the poetic genius.  On paper, the poem is almost perfect in every way, but when you take the time to actually listen to Cruise recite it you will begin to understand how important the oral tradition is to poetry. 

His passionate enunciation of what would normally be pronounced “the Alabama Slammer” demonstrates that he is in full control of both language as well as his audience’s emotions.  Cruise also does some lovely tongue work when he hits the words “sweet and snazzy.”  He manufactures an accent rife with upper class snobbery that is simultaneously cocksure and uproariously hysterical.  Perhaps he saves his absolute best for when he slowly utters, “the Orgasm,” in such a way that he illustrates the primal gravity of his subject yet also mimics function with form by drawing out the word to achieve maximum satisfaction.  It is as if he having sexual intercourse with the ears of every man and woman in the audience; penetrating their faces with his bulbous vocabulary.  I admit that I was more than willing to offer my consent when sitting in the movie theater. I sat there prone, Goose to his Maverick, ready to fly into the Danger Zone.

Basking in the rhyme scheme that was The Last Barman Poet is not where the journey through verse ends.  As you travel to the islands with Mr. Cruise you can hear the faint sounds of the Beach Boys who, along with Uncle Jesse from Full House, will lull you into a trancelike state with the lucid confession:

“Aruba, Jamaica, oooh I wanna take ya”

If you are still wearing pants by the time those steel drums play, then my friend, you must have been born without functioning genitalia – or at least Jamie Lee Curtis style bad wiring.

On a side note, you have to admire a group of sixty year olds who still refer to themselves as “boys” but I guess you can’t expect too much clarity from a group whose front man was batshit insane.

Cocktail is more than a film that contains moments of poetry – the film is poetry.  One day when sitting backstage of Inside the Actor’s Studio, James Lipton and I were discussing Cocktail and its various merits.  James and I were equally yoked in our admiration of the film though he seemed to miss the overall significance of the inclusion of Cruise’s poetic asides.  I attempted to explain to him how a poet lurks in each and every one of us, and how the release of Cruise’s inner artist simultaneously betrayed the image of a spirit slinger and philanderer while it revealed a complexity far too often ignored by himself and others.  I went on to expound how Cruise’s vocational conflict mirrored his complicated existence as committed lover and ladies’ man, but Lipton was not grasping the concept.  Lipton is seldom in the right mind to be reasoned with because of his hard headed nature, though on this particular night I blame his stubbornness on the fact that he was high on crack cocaine and had just killed a prostitute.

In the movie, it was Cruise’s passion to open up his own bar called “Cocktails and Dreams” which is apropos – he’d serve you cocktails as elixirs for the moment while his poetry conjured up dreams to remind you that life is worth living.  The cocktails may pass through, but the dreams linger on in a way that you just can’t shake.  Even with the Hippy Hippy Shake.

Wherefore Art Thou Alex P. Keaton?

by Stephen Ausburne

Has the television show made a comeback?  I ask this as someone who has not had cable for over 5 years and does not regularly watch TV.  Let me be clear, I’m not your “Kill Your Television” bumper sticker adorning sort, but I do think that I am better than you regular TV viewing folk.  It isn’t just my opinion either, science will back me up.  To call my bluff you could go on the internet to look up the statistical justification for why I am better than you but that would require you to tear yourself away from the latest episode of Discovery Channel’s hit show, Man Vs. Villains From 18^th Century British Literature (my money is on the cannibals from Robinson Crusoe, they will straight up eat your ass).  As it stands, I am superior because I am no slave to the boob tube – which has a lot more boobs these days I’m told.

Back to my question about whether or not the TV show is suddenly relevant again.  I realize that there have been myriad shows that have been deemed “must see” for years.  People have been watching on a consistent basis even though I haven’t been, so something had to be on.  I did follow Seinfeld regularly (own every episode on DVD) and I now catch the Office and 30 Rock on Hulu so I am definitely not opposed to television in its entirety.  Ultimately it’s the commercials that I have no patience for, and now internet viewing and DVD purchasing affords me the opportunity to be very selective and efficient in what I watch.  I understand that reality television has certainly taken the world by storm and I overhear coworkers discussing the talented people of America that must first pass the scrutiny of master thespian, Sir David Hasselhoff – he was knighted right?  Well he should be.  That said, there seems to be, at least in my circle of friends (both real and those on Facebook) a flurry of recommendations for what I should be doing with my down time.  Most of which involve the shows found on HBO and Showtime where anything goes, and often does. 

I, with the aid of my Netflix pusher, got addicted to The Sopranos during its last season.  I was watching up to three episodes a night and I couldn’t get enough of it even though I recognize it was essentially a modern day Dallas with nudity and F-bombs.  I am now dabbling into Dexter thanks to Netflix Instant Watch and I fear I might be hooked.  Now I’m being told that I absolutely have to watch Mad Men and the fact that Culture Voice now has two reviews on it almost surely cinches it.

Interesting to note that these shows all revolve around exceptionally flawed protagonists.  I use the term protagonist only because that’s what my conventional TV show watching sensibilities tell me to call Tony Soprano, Dexter Morgan, and Donald Draper.  In actuality, they are more of the antihero variety.  I grew up with the Heathcliff Huxtables, Ricky Strattons, and the guys from Full House, so I have delusions of sitcom sweetness.  These new guys are like taking the scoundrel Dan Fielding from Night Court and making his ancillary escapades the primary focus of hour long weekly romps. 

Looking back, the television landscape was littered with flawed characters leading the way like Mike Seaver, Sam Malone, and the nefarious Myposian terrorist Balki Bartokomous.  Unlike the modern human monsters, these guys always learned their lesson in at least thirty minutes so redemption was always attainable.  These new guys not only seem void of salvation, they don’t even seem to be interested in it.  It is like deliverance is not even an option.  Bastards.

So what is it about these characters that make us tune in?  I thought television was supposed to be some form of escapism that transported us to mystical locations where everybody knows our name, to far off lands where people thank us for being a friend, to enchanted places where streaks on the China never mattered before.  Now it seems that our options are watching reality show wannabes with trainwreck lives or fictional assholes that we can’t seem to turn away from.  I’m sure this says something about our society and how we are deteriorating morally, but I’m not convinced.  Perhaps we’ve matured as humans and we are making strides at understanding the sick people we encounter throughout this fallen world and these shows provide us some insight in the psyches of the men and women we would have otherwise previously drawn away from. 

Whatever the answer, I do know that I still love it when Simon Cowell makes some poor white trash cry.  

Mommas Don’t let your Babies Grow up to be Grammarians

 by C.C. O’Lorin

 The other day my friend pined on about how he’d like to become a grammarian. Just in case you didn’t already know how nerdy I actually am, this is the kind of company I keep. Said friend has professional acumen in the philosophy of language but spends his free time working out the correct usage of lay versus lie. I know how that sounds, but he’s actually not that… yes he is. In fact he holds court among the upper echelon of dork royalty. I’m even worse; I’m not nearly as dorky but aspire to be dorkier.

As he dreamily spoke his wish into possibility, I slapped his pretty, little mouth.  I immediately rebuked him, thinking only of his wellbeing. You see, I am not a grammarian, but I dabble. From what I can see, grammarians are among the most miserable people on the planet. The only folks more miserable are hazmat rookies and libertarians. Choosing the path of a grammarian is the path of pain.

You see, informal language dominates the human experience. So much so that we see the world through grammar colored glasses. We create mental categories based on phonetics, word associations, and unbeknownst connotations. Grammar is ubiquitous. And yet, most of us commoners grammatize incorrectly most of the time. For instance, I count two grammar errors in the above three paragraphs that could be avoided if I wasn’t worried about sounding stilted. And I wish to God that I wasn’t aware of this.

Grammarians are faced with incorrect grammar at every turn: common speech, emails, twitter, not to mention television, talk radio, and newspaper journalism. The grammarian cannot watch major sporting events without constant distraction (sans games called by Jon Miller, who might be the most intelligent man alive). Until very recently, White House briefings were grammatical train wrecks. For years grammarians would simply ignore the Washington sideshow. But during Sarah Palin’s five minutes, the grammarian suicide rate jumped to 79%—the highest since Red Barber passed.

Faced with this constant and violent affront to our most foundational hermeneutic, grammarians are left with only two choices: (1) become silently superior, or (2) become assholes. There is a third option but it involves a combination of one and two and is too grotesque to mention.

The first option renders one helplessly alien to his fellow man. While others will croon alongside U2 in Barcelona, the grammarian will stand aloof, parsing Bono’s lyrics. While her girlfriend offers a heartfelt toast at her wedding, the grammarian will be distracted by her friend’s use of an adjective where an adverb was warranted. While others read training manuals for their new job, grammarians will circle typos while lamenting the unfortunate soul who wrote the thing.

The second option basically involves correcting people’s poor grammar and ensuring that grammarians are hated far and wide. This has been true as long as language moved past the grunting stage. But for a recent example, take a look at the facebook group called “I Judge You When You Use Poor Grammar”. There is no better example of the adage that misery loves company. Even my friend who aspires to be a grammarian called these folks, and I quote, “assholes”.

Neither option available to the grammarian is beneficial for society; both are detrimental to one’s spiritual health. So do us all a favor, dorks of the world! Focus your sickness upon LOTR, or Planet of the Apes, or Pauline theology, or grappling hook lore. Dress yourself as a Ferengi or as a Confederate soldier. Do not choose the path of pain. Grammar won’t never get you what your yearning for.  

Dr. Dagmar Schroeter has responded to this essay:

I don’t have much to say in response to Dr. O’Lorin. However, he should be aware that the pluperfect would have been a better choice in the second to last sentence of the third paragraph. It presently reads: “For instance, I count two grammar errors in the above three paragraphs that could be avoided if I wasn’t worried about sounding stilted.”

My suggestion is set in bold face font: “For instance, I count two grammar errors in the above three paragraphs that could be have been avoided if I wasn’t worried about sounding stilted.”

Also, what is this rubbish about grappling hook lore? Other than that, I quite liked this essay.

Cobra Commander Destroyed My Penis

by Stephen Ausburne

A while back, an article was submitted by friend of Culture Voice, Dr. Anthony Le Donne, discussing circumcision.  The good doctor brought up some interesting things to consider when contemplating the social, medical, and religious values of “taking a little off the top.”  I find it a fascinating topic and have thought long and hard (pun regrettably intended) on the issue and have come to what I think is a profound discovery. 

It is convenient to blame the God of the Old Testament for the ritual maiming of infants, but I can’t comfortably say that Yahweh deserves all the ire from the pro-foreskin contingent.  Don’t get me wrong, God is ultimately to blame for everything (the buck has to stop somewhere) but I would suggest that over time, a different figurehead has taken the lead on leading a culture toward dong dinging.  The culprit is none other than Cobra Commander.

For those of you too Baby Booming to know who Cobra Commander is, in GI Joe lore he is the leader of Cobra, a sinister team of militaristic baddies hell-bent on global domination.  Obviously, the cobra is the ideal metaphor for an oppressive patriarchal system – it’s deadly, efficient, and strikes fear in the heart of all its prey.  It is also the ideal metaphor for the actual members of said patriarchy.  By members I mean penises.  When agitated, the cobra rises from a flaccid state, its head swells, and, in some cases, spits.  I think you get the idea and I will spare you further embarrassment of reading why snakes are like phalluses. 

As for the Commander himself, he was the primary nemesis to the GI Joe team and ultimately the brains behind the terrorist organization.  As any young Gen X-er will tell you he was highly recognizable as a fixture in just about every episode of GI Joe and provided a bit of evil comic relief.  Cobra Commander was a staple of any youngster’s regular television diet in the 1980’s.  His visage came in two familiar flavors and here is where we get to the circumcised agenda hidden within the animated series. 

When Cobra Commander was out on the battlefield, he sported a shiny helmet and chrome faceplate.  This was his “man about warzone” attire and was most definitely the more prevalent of his two modes of facial concealment.  His second look was that of the dark blue hood.  This was what he wore when he was lurking deep within the bowels of Cobra Island and provided him a more menacing appearance.  Clearly we see the perpetuation of circumcision as the social norm at work within the cartoon universe*. 

*On a side note, I am referencing the animated series as opposed to the comic book legends, due to the fact that I have never read the comics.  If you are a hardcore GI Joe the comic fan and take umbrage with my treatment of the canon, I apologize but suggest that it doesn’t really matter if I’ve caused you to stop reading this article – mostly because if you are a hardcore comic book fan, the state of your penis will be forever irrelevant.  Good luck with your unintentional perpetual celibacy.

The implications for penile preference are so obvious they almost go without any need for expounding, but given my inability to leave well enough alone coupled with my over appreciation for my explanatory gifting I will break it on down for the masses.

When Cobra Commander is out in public, making the rounds, and attempting to be more socially acceptable, he is adorned with the symmetrical shiny helmet.  When he is hidden away and invoking more fear and disgust, he is rocking the droopy hood.  Simply put: helmet = good, hood = friggin’ awful.  As you have no doubt surmised, the circumcision like helmeted version of Cobra Commander is much preferred to the misshapen mass of material that is his hood of horribleness. 

Thanks to the brain trust behind the GI Joe cartoon, millions of young men entered communal showers in their public schools only to embrace their helmeted brethren and shun the hooded freaks.  For those of you wondering about how circumcision became the dominant American practice, now you know.  And knowing is half the battle.

WWFD

by Stephen Ausburne

How then shall we live?  Isn’t that the key question for us all?  Regardless of the obstacles in your path – how to behave around your in-laws, how to throw away food discreetly, public restroom etiquette – one must always take the time to compare their behaviors in certain situations with the behaviors of a well respected and admired person of history.  If I wish to truly emulate another, I must learn to react to my stimulus in a way that would reflect this person’s potential decision making process.  First and foremost, one must choose a historical figure that is worth imitating.  Secondly, in order to successfully determine what it is that this person would “do” one must look long and hard at what this person “did.”  What better way is there to determine what someone is apt to do than to examine their past behaviors?  That is a rhetorical question for those of you wishing to write in.  For those of you who don’t know what rhetorical means, let me save you the trouble of activating your iPhone dictionary app, it means: “trust me, I’m right on this one, I only pretend to give you the option to answer so move on.”

I want my life to be reminiscent of a person who is relevant today even though their time of initial impact may have been long ago.  I want to live like someone whose style was unorthodox.  Someone who lived by a different standard than that of the mainstream culture they were raised in.  Someone who dared to be a radical.  I’m sure you’ve guessed by now where I’m going with this – I know, I know, not very original.  But hear me out.  This man went by many names.  Some called him Arthur Fonzarelli, but I called him the Fonz.  Fonzie represented rebellion with a heart.  He wasn’t all about living by their rules, he was about leather jackets, motorcycles, and riding motorcycles with a leather jacket on.  He was cool when cool wasn’t cool -- it was bad -- back when bad was not yet good but not altogether bad either.  He was so cool that he was played by Henry Winkler and we didn’t care because he was the Fonz.  Let’s take a step back for minute here…isn’t Henry Winkler like the most uncool name in the history of names?  He could have been played by someone named Giggles McTurdface and it still would have sounded better than Winkler. 

Alright Steve, Fonzie is cool, we can all agree on that, but how do we apply his teaching to our lives?  Let’s be honest with each other, supernatural powers like starting a jukebox with your fist may not be something tangible to aspire to, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make the effort to live in a Fonz-like fashion.  The Fonz scared people with his style – which says something because he was like some 5’5” thirty year old guy who hung out with high schoolers and called the bathroom “his office.”  Not exactly a picture of intimidation.  Creepy perhaps, but not someone to admire, that’s for sure.  That said, when Fonzie talked, people listened.  When Fonzie snapped his fingers, people stopped.  When Fonzie said to sit on it, people sat on whatever it was they were supposed to sit on.  He carried himself with confidence and the masses reacted.  Keep in mind that I’m talking about Fonzie in his prime.  Not the Fonzie that was the only guy left from the original Happy Days cast and ended up taking over Arnold’s and kept trying to shoehorn himself into the jeans that the wardrobe department still hung on to because someday the Smithsonian might want them for their Golden Age of Television Exhibit.  Definitely not the Fonzie that jumped over a shark with his motorcycle.  Although, on paper, jumping over a shark with a motorcycle sounds like the coolest thing ever but, unfortunately, something was lacking in the execution.  I’m talking about the Fonzie before he went commercial and his mug was on every lunchbox and t-shirt in town.  (I did have a Fonzie action figure – it was in no way a doll mind you– and when you pulled a lever on his back his thumbs went up.  If only I could have had the gift of prophecy and seen the word E-Bay written on a wall by a divine finger, I would have never surrendered that sweet bit of pop culture idolatry).

As a Fonzie apologist I constantly have to defend my loyalty.  I am up for any challenge put forth by the Chachi followers out there.  They may be small in number but they do exist.  Joannie may have loved him, but he did nothing for me.  Chachi is a false Fonzie and a one dimensional character at best.  The Fonz was complex, he demonstrated that it isn’t always easy to keep your emotions in check, but sometimes you have let go to truly be macho.  I’ve seen Fonzie cry, and for that I am a better man.  I’ve also seen Fonzie do an awkward little Russian dance to help Joannie win a dance contest, and for that I am in counseling.  

I’m not saying that if we were all like Fonzie that it would be goodbye grey skies, hello blue, but if some of us would dig deep down to find and nurture the inner Fonz these happy days could truly be yours and mine.  Wow, Happy Days.  I’ve always just accepted the title of that show without question, but come on, Happy Days?  I’m lost for words here.  Good Times came along later and that title was essentially saying the same thing but in a less syrupy sweet way.  When the show’s producers sat down to come up with the title I could just imagine the final meeting:

“We have this idea for a show.  It takes place in the 50’s back when days seemed, you know, a lot happier.  We’ve narrowed the options for the title down to these three:  Fun Moments, Happy Days, or Everybody’s White.”

“Fun Moments doesn’t work.  And as for the last one, well, we just signed Pat Morita to play Arnold.”

“Happy Days it is then!”

The rest was history. 

The bottom line is that Fonzie was cool and by and large, we are not.  We must learn that there is a time to laugh and a time to cry.  A time to lift one thumb and a time to lift two thumbs.  A time to comb your hair and a time to recognize that it’s perfect just how it is.  A time to jump over a shark with your motorcycle and a time – well, I guess there’s never actually a time for that in retrospect so scratch that.  How then shall we live, I ask?  If you answered “to live cool,” then I would have to say that you are correct-o-mundo.