His Building's Cafeteria

Almost every day, I eat in my 50-something-floor office building’s 8th floor cafeteria. For the first couple months at my job, I didn’t know that my building had a cafeteria, so I would always walk five or six blocks to a row of restaurants and pay $7-8 for some mediocre NY-fast-food (Burritoville, Dunlop & McMullen’s Soup and Sandwich Bar or whatever, etc.). Then one day, my co-worker introduced me to our building’s cafeteria, supplied by our landlord and business partner, JP Morgan Chase. I was both excited to finally make this discovery and annoyed that no one had told me earlier. To get there, although I work on the 5th floor, I have to take an elevator down to the lobby, walk half a block down the hall, and take a separate elevator up to the 8th floor. For some reason, my elevator only goes up to the 6th floor. Sometimes, though, if you’re lucky, it’ll go up to the 7th floor, stop but not open, and then take you down to whatever floor you requested. I think if it opened, you would probably see the face of God and die. Yesterday, on my way up to the 5th floor, the elevator went up to 4, then went back down to the lobby, paused, and then went up to the 5th floor. That kind of stuff is often the highlight of my day.
The cafeteria overall is not a bad guy. The food’s okay and reasonably priced, and the ambience is all you could hope from a large banker-filled room flanked on one side by a wall of windows overlooking Park Ave and on the other by library-shelf-print wallpaper. Definitely a step up from my college’s dining hall, which wasn’t a bad dining hall, but only one step.
I’d like to give a well-rounded review of the cuisine, but unfortunately, I only ever eat two dishes there. If it’s not salmon day, then I have an order of onion rings and a soda. The salmon is almost always delish. Tender and juicy. Yummy in my tummy. It comes with either rice or noodles, and some kind of vegetables. The vegetables are usually not very good, a little undercooked and a little bland for my tastes, which kind of pisses me off. Since salmon day only happens once a week, I usually eat onion rings. To be completely honest, I sometimes get an order of fries instead. The onion rings are really hit or miss at this joint (as is the soda, weirdly), so the fries would be a safer bet, cause they’ve got less variation, but when the rings’re good, and you never know when that’ll be until you sit down at your table and open the Styrofoam gift-box, they totally blow away the fries. It’s Happy Time. Sometimes, though, and almost an equal amount of the time, the rings are pretty bad, overcooked and kind of crunchy/chewy. They often seem like they’ve been sitting under the heat lamp for a few days. Also, the Styrofoam box is usually partially melted on the inside from the searing-hot onion ring grease, which is fairly worrisome but which doesn’t really correlate with the quality of the ring. I choose to trust that Corporate America has carefully determined that melted Styrofoam cannot harmfully infect my food. Regardless of the day’s onion ring quality, I proceed with abandon to souse my rings in a mixture of 5 parts ketchup and 1 part mayo, a trick that tastefully compliments a superb onion ring while effectively compensating for a disastrous one, not to mention the added nutrients it provides.

L.A.'s weather

Don’t ever let anyone tell you that Los Angeles is not the absolute *center* of “cool.” Check this out: unwilling to let something as ludicrous as an indoor smoking ban keep them from always looking hip and smooth, Angelinos have contrived a means of ensuring that they always appear to have a freshly fired-up Marlboro going. Their secret? Sweet smog! I don’t know how they do it – the essense of true cool is always fleeting, n’est pas? – but they’ve managed to infuse their available air supply with a thick, lustrous smog that allows even the most anemic geek to come off as a regular Bogart, constantly ingesting and expiring a visible cloud of suave, lady-killing exhaust. The best part: “smoking” the L.A. atmosphere requires no hands, so that once you’ve been spotted shooting out smoke circles by the man or woman of your desire, you can dive right into the heavy petting, unencumbered. Also, the risk of setting one’s bed on fire during a post-coital smoke is now a concern for only our most incompetent citizens – in L.A., you need only push your unconscious partner away and breath deep the sweet, creosote-tinged air, worrying about the possibility of having contracted crabs at some other, less respiratorily-satisyfing time.

Technology

Technology, all in all, is a good thing. People will tell you the opposite; they’ll say, “Technology killed my rabbits,” or, “Technology is so dumb that I hate it,” or, in one case I personally witnessed, “Technology fucking killed my six cats, man.” You’ll find without fail, if you care to inquire, that these people are veritable morasses of resentment, resentment of their own inability to effectively interact with technology. “Take a class,” I usually tell them. “You killed your rabbits, not technology, when you put them in the ‘Rabbit Merry-go-round’, which is in fact nothing of the kind.” It was a Microwave, this so-called ‘Rabbit Merry-go-round’, and that person has to live with what she did forever.
Technology’s coolest development of recent years is inarguably The Innernet. The question has become, “What can’t you find on The Infranet?” Check this out. And this. And this, for chrissakes!! One of my favorite things in the world is taking a lazy stroll through the verdant, efflorescent, naked-pussy-laden fields of The Iggernet. So much to see!! So much to learn!!
Those who would blame Technology for the planet’s woes (I’m talking to you, Luddites! And you, Animalia!) would do well to imagine their world without Technology. Let’s have a look: You wake up in the morning, roll out of bed, and have a nice, big stretch. Aaaaaarrrrrggh — that feels nice! A peak out the window reveals a perfectly lovely, smog-free morning (Smog? What’s that?) and — OH SHIT!! Oh shiiiiiiit! Judging by the position of the sun, you should have been at work two hours ago! And worse, this is the twentieth time this month you’ve been late, because ALARM CLOCKS DON’T EXIST. You throw on some crooked, handwoven, scratchy-wool clothes and run to the kitchen to grab a little something to eat. Options for breakfast this morning: smoked meat; two-day old, preservative-free, rock-hard bread; other, older smoked meat. Looks like smoked meat! And you might as well pack a lunch — a rock-hard smoked meat sandwich sounds delish! Now out the door OF YOUR CAVE and off to find the rest of your work crew who, like you, are hunter-gatherers that wander the unspoiled countryside picking berries and occasionally slaying a rabbit with callused-past-all-sensation hands or a well-cast stone. Ahh, sweet life! Sweet life absent Technology!
Not for me, thanks. I like Technology. I love what it’s done with the place. I like a digital watch on my wrist, treasure chest-shaped purple marshmallows in my cereal, concert tickets that vanish of embarassment when exposed to a photocopier’s fascistic inspection. I like space blankets (and I use them all the time). I think the George Foreman Grill has been a big help. In terms of Chemistry, as a field, I laud the following technological advancements: acetone, shampoo, Excedrin, Mountain Dew, penicillin, Sunkist, Dr. Pepper, the various colas and their cherry isotopes. And I salute Physics for bringing us black holes, supernovae, the moon, lightspeed space travel, “beaming” as a viable and cheap alternative to commercial airlines. I admit to not knowing what Geology does nor why we continue to fund it.
Technology receives high marks from this reviewer, and I can only hope that some of you will start to come around to its numerous merits.

Hey, everybody. This guy wrote a script

Yeah, and he sent it to us hoping that we’d produce it. We’re considering it. It’s pretty good. We’d like to see what you people think. Take a look at this chunk from early on in the story and give us your sincere opinion.

Weirdly, he didn’t give us his name, just his picture. So, uh, without further ado, we offer you a chunk of an untitled screenplay by this guy:

RAY’S SALOON, early evening. Sunlight whispers in through wooden slats in the windows. Men play pool. Other men drink at the bar or at tables. The jukebox plays Willie Nelson. DAPHNE, mid-20s, lovely, a sheen of sweat on her forehead and upper chest where the shirt opens, enters. A CREATURE like DAPHNE doesn’t go unnoticed at RAY’S. All eyes politely acknowledge her beauty-queen figure. She leans on the bar, giving the BARTENDER a lucky angle that reminds him of sweaty clean-shaven midgets moving against each other under flannel sheets.

BARTENDER: Help you, missy?

DAPHNE: You can start by quit’n starin’ at these titties.

BARTENDER: Reckon you oughtn’t bring them things in here if and you don’t want ’em stared at.

DAPHNE: Oh, I guess. Where’s Jimmy.

BARTENDER: Over yonder.

JIMMY, cowboy handsome, sits alone at a table near the back of the bar. DAPHNE walks over and sits down across from JIMMY. JIMMY looks up from his beer.

JIMMY: Hell you doin’ here, D?

DAPHNE: Might ask you the same thing, Jimmy. Ray finds you here you know he’ll leave ya worse off than he did last time, and there ain’t a whole lotta room between what happened last time and dead.

JIMMY: Ray ain’t gonna find me here.

DAPHNE: Why not, Jimmy.

JIMMY: Know how come?

DAPHNE: How come, Jimmy.

JIMMY: Ray’s dead, that’s how come.

DAPHNE, whispering: He what! You mean to tell me you killed Ray!

JIMMY: I did or I didn’t, it don’t matter. Fact is Ray’s dead.

DAPHNE: I’m not sure that’s the way the law reads, Jimmy!

JIMMY: Look, D, I’m sorry ’bout what happened with you and me, ’bout as sorry’s I’ve ever been, I guess. Hell, you know I never meant what I said to your sister.

DAPHNE, choking up: It ain’t what you said, Jimmy, it’s what you did. An’ with my kid sister!

JIMMY: Hell, she’s legal, D.

DAPHNE: The hell she is, Jimmy! She turns fourteen this spring!

JIMMY: Kate’s a beatiful woman, just like you, D. Ain’t no way a man as whiskey-soaked as I was coulda turned down what she was purveyin’.

DAPHNE makes to smack JIMMY’S face, but JIMMY catches her hand by the wrist.

JIMMY, angrily: You oughtn’t to hit a man who just done what I come from doin’, D. He’s liable to lose his cool.

JIMMY farts, loudly.

DAPHNE, scoldingly: Oh, Jimmy.

SCENE.

Petco

Petco is a great, great place to get rabbit and cat supplies. I’ve got rabbits and cats, and everything I ever need to buy for them so that they enjoy comfortable living I buy at Petco. I’ve got a lot of friends who have rabbits and cats, and they feel exactly the same way.
By focusing on cat supplies and supplies for rabbits, Petco is able to outdo competing pet shops on every level. Where your pet store might have ten different cat foods to choose from, Petco will have fifteen; where your store has ten different saltlicks for rabbits, Petco will have eleven or twelve. The catnip aisle at Petco is great: catnip-scented toys, catnip flavored litter, catnip infused holy water, catnip salad dressing — Petco goes above and beyond. They have all different sizes of rabbit ear-socks.
I’ve got six cats and six rabbits, and they love to come with me to Petco. If this isn’t a sign that Petco runs a nice, high-quality store, then what is. I used to try to take all the fellas to PetSmart when I shopped there, and they hated it there. They went fucking crazy the moment we entered the place; I felt like I had my arms full of crazy snakes instead of gentleman mammals.

Cabin Fever

“He asked for our help; we lit him on fire.”

Robert Rodriguez Presents Presents Johnny Depp

Johnny Depp is always a hoot to watch in a feature film, but never moreso than when a director scraps his original intentions for a movie, rolls film on Depp for an afternoon, and cuts the results together into a two hour highlight reel. The new Rodriguez movie does exactly that, and the results are amazing. At one point Johnny Depp claws out his own eyes or something. He changes clothes like thirty times–an unnecessary but appreciated perk.
The one downside of the movie is that Rodriguez occasionally splices in footage from Desperado; this he does for reasons I can’t guess at — I’m no Hollywood insider. But if you love Johnny Depp, hate not-Johnny Depp, and Pirates of the Carribean has left theaters in your town and is not yet out on video, definitely see Robert Rodriguez Presents Johnny Depp.
Michael reviews The Reviews Page
Oh my word, this page is a mess. I mean, it’s pretty empty but quite a mess no less. First of all, there’re typos everywhere. Well, they aren’t exactly typos, I guess, but it shouldn’t say (Movie Reviews) at the top of the page because we decided that we’re going to review more than just movies, if movies at all. Which explains the erroneousness of the first post, “movie postage coming so soon”. In my defense, I merely posted that as a test and under the assumption that this page would contain movie reviews. Still, at this point, it’s as good as a lie. A lie that has seeped into the very physical being of the page itself – in the HTML file’s name on our server! What sloppy planning!
And poor execution: the current title of this page is “the location station,” which the observant sci-cave-peruser will immediately recognize as the title of our shows page. Whant? The reason, of course, is that the template of this page was copied directly from the template of our shows page. An efficient maneuver, sure, but one with no excuse for half-assedness, given its simplicity.
Content-wise, there’re an astounding number of errors for a page with only 33 words (title included) and no complete sentences.
Aesthetically, it’s pretty boring. White background and Garamond text of varying sizes and boldnesses. And it’s got the link to the hit-counter right there in the middle of the page. How tacky. The only possibly exciting characteristic of the page, in this reviewer’s opinion, is rendered powerless by the very lack of content mentioned in the the previous paragraph. The viewer cannot scroll down and watch the floating sidebar float! Travesty upon sloppy travesty! The only possibly redeeming quality of the page nixed by the sheer laziness of its creators. Hence, this review.
If I were to review the page immediately after this review was posted, the content alone wouldn’t earn it a more favorable rating (if, also, the review contained a rating), but the floating sidebar, people. It’s in the sidebar, where the magic resides. (I mean, like: Where does the magic reside? In the sidebar.) Its beauty is like that of the doomed fly buzzing happily toward the dung lying just beyond the spider’s web, of the disinterested breeze sailing through sails torn by looting pirates, of the plumber’s crack blushing as its proprietor unwittingly exposes the privacy of a strange family’s kitchen to its hungry yet modest eyes. By which I mean the sidebar’s beauty is not readily apparent to some people. Like, for instance, Keith and Chris don’t think it’s all that, which I take to mean that it has a nuanced greatness, imperceptible to the ignorant hordes and the hardened of heart.

Willie "Cobra" Halfmeat