Archive for September, 2006

Ad "Nausea"

Thursday, September 28th, 2006

There are two television ad campaigns that are bugging me right now. They both happen to be for pharmaceutical products and they usually air during the Today Show and Greta Van Susteran, two shows I watch regularly.

Why am I bringing this up to you? Because this is my blog and I can do whatever the hell I want.

The first ad is for Rozerem. This is the sleep aid for people with insomnia. It features “Honest” Abe Lincoln and a furry beaver playing chess while a man in a space suit is making eggs on the stove. The whole scene freaks me out like you wouldn’t believe.

The image is supposed to represent some dude’s dream. Its no wonder he can’t fall asleep. I’d be fighting hard to stay awake if I knew that was the dream world I was waiting for.

The whole 60 seconds is ridiculous, although it is somewhat amusing when the beaver accuses Lincoln of cheating.

The second ad that irritates me is for Cymbalta. This is the commercial for an anti-depressant that asks “Where does depression hurt?” and “Who does depression hurt?” All this, while showing very sad people and playing very sad music. I’m a happy guy and this commercial leaves me depressed–it must leave depressed people feeling suicidal!

Don’t advertise an anti-depressant by depressing people further. Show happy scenes, with happy people and happy music. Show us what the pill can do, we already know why we need it!

And that’s the rest of the story…

, ,

Share/Save/Bookmark

Burying Head in Sand 101

Monday, September 25th, 2006

In this morning’s Los Angeles Times, education columnist Bob Sipchen (right) wrote a piece on a new book called High School Confidential. The book is an expose written by a 24-year-old named Jeremy Iversen after he spent a semester undercover at a Southern California High School.

I saw Iversen on Good Morning America last week and it led me to pick up his book. As I read through it, he confirmed every suspicion that I had about high school today. High School is basically an out of control, wild party from the opening bell until the end of detention.

I’m not sure it was like that when I attended high school last decade (at least I hope it wasn’t because then I’d kick myself for missing out on all the fun) but it sure looks like it is now. And I believe it. Just walk through the mall and see how 13 and 14-year-old girls are dressing the way 18 and 19 year-old girls used to dress. Is it such a leap to believe that they’re also behaving that way too?

Iversen describes a scary world of in class drinking games, teachers coming onto students, teenager sex tapes being emailed around and parents and administrators with their heads in the sand. But now, thanks to Iversen, its all exposed and maybe our public schools can get back on track and ensure that our test scores don’t lag behind those in third world countries. Right?

Wrong! In comes the aforementioned LA Times column by Bob Sipchen. All the good that Iversen has done trying to open the nations eyes to this crisis in education including changing the name of the school to protect the underage innocent and guilty,) Sipchen systematically and recklessly tears apart.

Sipchen, who lauds the student newspaper staff for covering this story and indicates that they awarded those student reporters with “student journalism awards,” then quotes those same students as being outraged by Iversen’s actions. Butter up your sources with prizes and then get quotes to support your opinion. How is that legal?

Incidentally, the one non-student journalist quoted in Sipchen’s piece stood by Iversen and supported his findings. Probably because Iversen’s claims are true. Its time to stop trying to convince ourselves that everything is okay.

Sipchen’s column exemplifies the very reason why our public school system is in such disarray. The moment you hear something that is unpleasant to think about, you go and shoot the messenger instead of taking in the information and doing something about it–just like the friend who never talks to you again after you tell her that her boyfriend is cheating. Nothing is going to be solved in this way. The longer our heads are in the sand, the dumber our kids are going to get. I think Sipchen has done his community a big disservice by not taking Iversen’s findings seriously.

And, yes, I am just pissed that I didn’t get laid in high school!

, , , , , , , ,

Share/Save/Bookmark

Chris Hansen: The New Ashton Kutcher

Saturday, September 23rd, 2006

Not since Punk’d has there been such a great candid camera show as Dateline NBC’s To Catch a Predator series.

The premise, as if everyone isn’t a hard core fan of these, is NBC teams up with online vigilante group Perverted Justice to lure unsuspecting child predators into a house rigged with cameras and swarming with law enforcement.

Team PJ chats up these creeps online, invites them over and lures them into the house with a young looking 19-year-old actress. Then, just as the dirtbag, who by the way, truly believes that young Brittany wants to be deflowered by a 41-year-old truck driver with pock marks all over his face, gets comfortable, in walks NBC reporter Chris Hansen.

The scumbags don’t know what to think. Is Hansen a cop? Is Hansen the girl’s dad? Its fantastic watching these men caught (sometimes literally) with their pants down.

Then the men try to wiggle out of the situation, not realizing that Hansen is equipped with the rat’s entire chat transcript. The excuses are priceless: “I got lost and stopped in to ask directions,” “I was never going to do anything, just wanted to talk,” or “I’m R. Kelly.”

Eventually, these pervs walk out of the house with their head down in shame only to find a whole S.W.A.T team waiting to take them in. The best part is that all these sceevy men are kept together in the same holding cell! I wonder about the conversations that go on in that place.

Thanks to NBC, “Hello, my name is Chris Hansen and I’m with a show called Dateline,” now overtakes “My dad has a shotgun” as the phrase least wanted to be heard by a child predator.

I don’t understand why they just don’t make this a regular series. This is absolute Must See TV!

, , , , , , , ,

Share/Save/Bookmark

Famous People Eat Too

Friday, September 22nd, 2006

I think that I now officially feel bad for celebrities and what they have to go through with the paparazzi. Or do I feel bad for the people that want to see the pictures that the paparazzi try so hard to get?

celebrities eating dot com is a website devoted to photos of (guess what) celebrities eating. Most of the photos are mid bite or of the celebrity shoving something into their mouth (the Paris Hilton joke is way too easy here.)


My question is:
Why?

Why does this site exist?

Why do people want to see this?

Why am I strangely interested in seeing Lindsay Lohan eating an apple? (The fruit, not Gwyneth Paltrow’s daughter)

By the way, I was half expecting to see Johnny Knoxville eating spinach. Must say, I’m a bit disappointed.

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

Share/Save/Bookmark

NEW-phemism ALERT

Tuesday, September 19th, 2006

Welcome to new feature here at Dr. Blogstein. Every so often I encounter or learn a new euphemism and I think its only fair that I share it with my readers. This way, when you hear it on the street you’ll know what people are referring to.

First, though, I suppose I should define euphemism because if I’ve learned one thing about my readers its that 37% of them are idiots.

euphemism
eu·phe·mism (’yü-f&-”mi-z&m)

noun


the substitution of an agreeable or inoffensive expression for one that may offend or suggest something unpleasant; also : the expression so substituted

Today’s NEW-phemism is brought to you by TYPING POOL

Tic Tacs
Commonly known as the tiny, white, fresh breath mints you see to the right.

But did you know, “Tic Tacs” also refer to the “phenomenon of one’s nipples poking out of one’s shirt, most often observed during cold weather”?

You’ve heard them called “head lights” and “high beams”–now you have another hard nipple euphemism: “Must be chilly in here cuz check out Sarah’s Tic Tacs!”

, , , , , ,

UPDATE! 9-20-06 A hat tip to the lovely “Goddess of Kentucky”, Miss Cellania, for alerting me of the ultimate database for “Boob-phemisms !!

Share/Save/Bookmark

Jihaddabe Kidding Me!

Sunday, September 17th, 2006

For the love of Allah, GROW THE HELL UP!

I have never seen a bigger bunch of babies than these Islamic Radicals! For all their bluster and all their tough talk, they are extremely sensitive. Why must they fly off the handle and throw a temper tantrum in the form of a violent protest at the littlest of things?!? If they would only grow a backbone or perhaps a thicker skin then maybe they could put the “fun” back into fundamentalism.

As far as I can tell, this all started in 1948 when the UN let the Jews share the Arab’s sandbox. Those poor spoiled brats haven’t stopped crying since! Israel is barely the size of New Jersey, so what the hell are you whining about?!?

Nowadays, all that has to happen is a newspaper to draw a cartoon about their prophet or a funny looking guy with a German accent to quote some 14th Century Byzantine Emperor and all hell breaks loose.

GOOD LORD! Get over yourselves! Stop taking yourselves so seriously. Can’t you see how immature you look?

And who doesn’t see the irony that they are protesting being called a violent religion by bombing churches!?

And they want to be my latex salesmen?

, , , , , ,

UPDATE! An interesting post from the point of view of one Muslim. Please read it–Its the exact reason why we must make a distinction between the insane radical fundamentalists and normal Muslims.


Share/Save/Bookmark

Shlameel, Shlamazel and the Lost Art of Television Theme Songs

Saturday, September 16th, 2006

They just don’t make em like they used to.

Back in the day (in this case, “the day” is referring to the very late 60’s to the very early 90’s) the television entertainment industry put some effort into the opening credits of TV shows, especially sitcoms. Now, I suppose to save some extra time for more commercials for the viewers to “TiVo” their way through, the opening credits rarely include an original theme song playing over a cheesy montage of highlights from past episodes. And how sad is that?

Before there was MTV, this was the closest thing the world had to a music video:

Its a shame TV theme songs are all but extinct. They’ve burned more of a place in our mind and culture than I bet you even realize. Who among us can’t finish the following line? “You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and then you have ____________________”

And is there anyone out there that can’t identify the place where “everybody knows your name“? How about the place where “the kisses are hers and hers and his“?

These theme songs were important. They told a story.

If you had never seen Gilligan’s Island, by the time you’ve seen the opening credits you knew how the SS Minnow ended up taking “ground on the shore of this uncharted desert isle” and you knew who was on that ship.

If you wanted to start watching The Brady Bunch in season two, you could, because the theme song explained to confused viewers how “this group would somehow form a family” and forever be known as “The Brady Bunch–the Brady Bunch–That’s the way- we became the Brady Bunch

We need to bring back the TV theme songs. Afterall, “those were the days…

, , , ,

Share/Save/Bookmark

Exclusive Excerpt from THE SOUND OF MEAT

Tuesday, September 12th, 2006

On Friday I sent out my plea to get “Father Felony” Randall Radic a literary agent to help get his memoir, The Sound of Meat, published. Since then, quite a few people have commented how they wish they could read an excerpt of his book.

Ask, and Dr. Blogstein will make it happen for you.

Courtesy of Randall Radic, I’m proud to be the web’s exclusive home to the first chapter of The Sound of Meat.

Enjoy…


THE SOUND OF MEAT

by Randall Radic

Chapter One

I wonder in thirty-two words…

Why my life seems so absurd.

10010010011001001001. Just call me the binary man.

Roger Daltry sang, “Can you see the real me, Doctor?”

I’ve been seeing a shrink, a psychotherapist, because I’ve had seven fiancees and two wives.

I can’t sustain a relationship.

Or try it this way: who can confuse disappointment with success?

Not I, said the boy with a twinkle in his eye.

So I go; and I tell her about my life; I give her the negative reciprocal of entropy, information. The theory is that by thus doing, the elements will coalesce into nobler forms. We will discover why I can’t love or be loved by another human being. Quite frankly, this sort of incoherence, at
once engaging and suggestive of a deeper wisdom, sounds like obfuscation to me. I’m supposed to change by loving my inner child, who it appears, was neglected and not nurtured by my parents when I was young. Argot, catch-phrases, buzzwords. I’m magically bored.

Inside, outside, just leave me alone. Inside, outside, my head is my home.

Inside, outside, I don’t know where I’ve been or why I’m this way. What can I say? I’m out of my head…I might be crazy.

My dad. The source of all my problems, according to the experts. He was a black hole from Hell. The Prince of fucking darkness. He was kind of like one of those coffee enemas my sister used to take — a force which generates its own imperatives. She inserts that little plastic nipple in her ass; then hydraulically forces the coffee from the bag into her bowels. Brown Cola nut goo spurting through her colon to her lower intestines. Talk about hypercaffeinated!

I’m an approval addict because of him, ‘they’ say. Kenneth Virgil Radic. That was his name. ‘Was’ because he died about three years ago. Prostate cancer. Actually, he died of pneumonia, but it was the cancer that left him gasping and immobile. I lived in California at the time. I didn’t go home to Denver to see him when he was dying. I hated him. I didn’t want to see him. I just wanted him to die — and go away.

He spent his last two weeks in a hospice, The Hospice of the order of St. John. Which is stranger than strange, as he had no concourse with God that I know of. But there he was in a religious residence for the terminally ill. My mother was there; my sister, Renee; my brothers, Perry and Cris. But not me.

The annoying pulsation of the portable phone: “Hello.”

“Randy, it’s Cris. I’m at the hospice with Mom and Dad. The doctor says Daddy is really fighting dying. I mean, he’s really fighting.”

“OK. What do you want me to do about it?” A tottering and rachitic image of my Dad flashes into my brain. I behold him dueling, literally, physically, with some dark apparition of death, some drooling, salivating fiend.

“Well…the doctor talked to Mom, and they think he’s waiting to see you before he’ll let go.”

“Well I’m not coming. I don’t want to.” He doesn’t want to die, and it’s my fault. Already my name is synonymous with shame; now this added to it. I feel a weight settle between my shoulders. Suddenly, I’m cold. “I know. The doctor suggested that you call him and talk to him. We’ll hold the phone up to his ear. They want you tell him that it’s alright to let go.”

“What?! You want me to call him and tell him to drop dead? No goddamn way I’m doing that.” Louche!

“I know, I know, it’s kind of morbid….”

‘Kind of?! What the hell!” A wet bubble of nausea rises in my throat.

“Here, Renee wants to talk to you.”

“Randy, it’s Renee.”

“Hi. What’s going on? Cris says you want me to call Daddy and tell him it’s OK to die.”

“That’s right. The doctor thinks it will help him relax and go easier.”

“Jesus, Renee!”

“We really need you to do this. We’ll get it all set up on this end, and we’ll call you back in about ten or fifteen minutes, OK?”

“I guess…” The chill is absolute.

Ever held your breath for fifteen minutes? Afraid that if you exhale, your soul will exit with it? There was a vice around my heart and my head hurt like hell. Rub the head, rub the temples, rub the neck, rub something –make it go away! I just want to feel good, ya’ know? I want to get laid. I want to ’feel’ like I’m loved for just a few minutes.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Eeeeeeeee! Eeeeeeeee! I suppose I have to answer it.

“Hello.”

“Randy, it’s Renee. Were ready here. Cris is going to hold the phone up to Dad’s ear. Are you ready?”

“Yeah…” a squeak.

“Hey, Dad. It’s Randy. I’m in California and I can’t get away. I’m just too busy and it’s too short of notice — the church and all, ya’ know? But I wanted to tell you that I love you, and it’s OK if you just let go.” The final humiliation: lying to a dying man with tears streaming down my face.
Neither is particularly comely. I can’t see for the tears! They’re blinding me!

Heaven and Hell seem awfully immediate.

“It’s OK if you just let go. Don’t fight it so much. Don’t hold out so you can see me, because I can’t come. But I love you. And…and….and it’s OK if you just let go.”

Silence.

“Randy, it’s Cris. Did you tell him?”

“Yeah, I told him.”

“OK. Bye.”

Korn sang: “Caught in the corners of my mind…taking me over one more time.”

Silence. Tears. Shame. My kitchen, where I am sitting, a black box with sharp edges.

He was a veteran. So they buried him in Fort Logan National Cemetery in Colorado. I didn’t go to the funeral either. I couldn’t.

CLICK HERE TO READ THE COMPLETE FIRST CHAPTER OF THE SOUND OF MEAT.

books, Publishing, Religion, Email, , ,

Share/Save/Bookmark

Boycott of Fear

Monday, September 11th, 2006

On this, the fifth anniversary of Radical Islam’s attack on the free world, I’m calling for the first annual Boycott of Fear.

That’s right, you read that correctly. We’re boycotting fear.

Osama bin Laden and his evil followers are terrorists. Terrorists deal in fear. They rely on us to continue to remember how they snuck up and sucker-punched us in 2001. They expect us to shake in our boots every time they release one of their threatening videos. Well, today, we’re not buying what those assholes are selling.

In fact, in order to drive home the point that we don’t fear them, we’re not going to fear anything today!

Today is the day that you should go sky diving for the first time. Today is the day that you face your fear of public speaking by standing up in a meeting or a classroom and sharing your opinion.

You know that hot chick in the office that you’ve been afraid to approach? Today, you’re asking her out.

Ride that rollercoaster! Stand up to that bully! Have unprotected sex with Paris Hilton!

Whatever it is you fear, today you look it in the face and say “Eff You.”

Today we honor those who were murdered on September 11, 2001 by boycotting the sole purpose of their murderers’ actions.

Today we boycott fear.

, , , ,

Share/Save/Bookmark

Tennis Update aka An Excuse to Post Pics of Hot Blonde

Sunday, September 10th, 2006

Maria Sharapova of Russia just won her match against Justine Henin-Hardenne of Belgium at the US Open tennis tournament championship in New York.

You gotta hand it to Sharapova, who, unlike her fellow country woman Anna Kournikova, is smoking hot and can play tennis.

She plays in what looks like a cocktail dress, has bling hanging from her ears and exaggerates a bit with her “tennis grunt” but the hottie is one helluva player. I don’t know all that much about tennis, but I do know that I owe Sharapova (and myself) this photo tribute.

, , , , ,

Share/Save/Bookmark