g u s t funnel

Awkward and upward

This post is dedicated to an amazing group of 5 friends (they know who they are) who helped me brainstorm the idea over brunch.  You guys are gourdgeous.

I'm talkin' elevators today...as in, those surreal moments experienced after one pushes that round button and steps into Otis' world.  Otis must be incredibly wealthy...he probably has his own glass elevator like Willy Wonka...flying all over the galaxy, connecting floors from here to Saturn.  What an incredible man.

I typically try to be a cheerful elevator passenger...giving the occasional smile or half-grin to the strangers who are sharing my elevatory experience.  Most rides are pretty un-noteworthy...you get on, press the button, rock out to some piano jingle and then go your merry way.  In most cases, these "smooth" rides generally only include one or maybe two other passengers.  When passenger numbers increase, however, things get weird. 

I'm talking about that awkward moment when you get on and everybody's secured their space along the compartment walls, leaving you only room in the center.  You glance nervously left and right, maybe do an awkward shuffle before being forced to settle into your uncomfortable fate of standing center-stage while the other passengers menacingly flank you...creating an almost pit-fight-like atmosphere.  You're vulnerable...a dismounted bull rider searching for refuge from the impending gorge.  But there's nowhere to hide, you gaze nervously ahead while the floors beep away and the others plan your violent demise.  What're they thinking?  What will I do when someone wants to get off?  Do I get out completely or just move to the side?  Did that guy have vampire teeth? 

If you're lucky, you get one of those elevators with the TV...you know, the ones with the Captivate network?  I wonder if Otis runs that, as well.  It's kind of a sinister name, "Captivate".  It's like, hey we've got you now...watch our factoids for 30 seconds while we implant your brain with subliminal persuasions:

altitudinous: (adj.) being at a high level.  "The altitudonous structure could only be scaled by the Otis X1500."

They should just change the name from Captivate to "Mind Worm."  Tell it like it is, Mr. Otis...like it is. 

May the wind be always at your back,

   

    

 

Them weakly

So, a couple of things first.  I've been getting some great compliments from you guys and I appreciate it...its nice to know that you're enjoying it and it simultaneously motivates me not to disappoint.  Kudos, I'm yours.   Also, please pass on to other like-minded people.

Also, as I write this, I'm descending into a paint-fume-induced hallucinatory state.  My abode is currently bathing itself in Benjamin Moore and I get a headache and a naked Indian shaman as an added bonus...not to mention life-defining colors like "Tawny Port", "Oat Straw" and "Egyptian Nile".  My apologies if things go off the rails.

Alright, well this week I'm snarking against what I believe to be an incredibly sad reflection of our society: the popularity of US Weekly and other mags of that ilk.  I'm not really sure who to be mad at, here.  The publishers? The celebrities?  Their whore mongers?  Given that I can't decide, I'm going to dissect all three.

The publishers:  Its hard for me to get too self-righteous about journalistic integrity with these guys...I mean they're exploiting a market need so god bless the US of A and all that shite.  However, I can make fun of them.  Can you imagine your job being to decide whose dress is the tackiest or which celebrity slut had the biggest night out?  Week in and week out?  They must be some of the biggest alcoholic, drug-addled train wrecks out there...I can't imagine anyone else who would take such passion in chronicling the hollywood starlet shit-show.  The thought of a young, rice-cake eating PA-type running around getting coffee at one of these places is enough for me to want to start a non-profit:  The Save the Rail Foundation. 

The celebrities:  This is not a tirade against all acclaimed purveyors of entertainment.  Obviously, I think entertainment adds a lot to our societal well-being.  While Wes Anderson's latest movie, The Darjeeling Limited, is a positive example (despite lackluster reviews...who do you trust, them or me?), the 100th Britney crotch-shot is not.  I'd be wasting my time if I tried to appeal to these girls senses...they ain't got none.  I can only hope that they get with L. Ron Hubbard soon and vanquish from the grocery check-out so I don't have to see how their bodyweight see-sawed since the last time I bought beans.  However, even if this current group does find Zoltan, there'll probably be a whole new batch to take their place.  Somewhere, in the mountains of Appalachia, Charlie Sheen and the "Cory's" are breeding militias of celebrity malcontents with Tara Reid and an army of what's-her-names...US Weekly's probably paying handsomely in eight-balls.         

The whore mongers:  Here's where I have to watch myself.  I know what most readers (educated females age 18 to 40 is my guess) say: "I know it's trash but it's just cheap entertainment...it's nice to read on a plane...I don't take it seriously...etc..."  Once upon a time that might've worked on me, but not anymore.  I understand that people need some cheap diversions in their life, but enough is enough.  When I go abroad and see Britney and Lindsay's latest exploits blared over some foreign language news station, I realize that these days, America's biggest export is celebrity gossip.  This makes me deeply, physically embarrassed.  We need to stop this ugliness from spreading.  By supporting this crapaganda the reader acts as a new kind of polluter, unknowingly littering pop-trash into the world's social environment.  I'm not particularly proud that the US is leading the charge and I think we need to stop this nonsense now.  If there's no demand, there's no supply.  Allow me to step up onto a really big horse and proclaim that the world has other things to deal with at the moment...there are people dying in the streets of Yangon, Baghdad and Western Sudan for chrissake...let's educate ourselves on that.

Alright, breathe funnel, breathe...fumes...hey there, Tawny Port...can you see the fire dancer?  Is that a talking corn dog? 

May the wind be always at your back,

   

Bonus post: Top 5

In the spirit of one of my Top 5 movies, High Fidelity, I will periodically post Top 5 lists.  If you glance to the right, you will see my all-time favorite Indie albums.  These albums were selected on the basis of longevity.  Meaning that, in 20 years, when I'm driving some future-age version of a volvo or minivan, my genetically purified offspring along with their adopted sibling, will be belting out these tunes to the chagrin of my spouse while we're on our way to some puke-tastic amusement park.  That was my only criteria and this list is what I came up with.

I know what you're thinking, there's two Wilco albums on there.  They're both very different so deal with it.  Also, many will say that "The Moon and Antarctica" is not MM's best, but I highly disagree.  I think that, as an album, it is head and shoulders above the rest.  I love it and I want my kids to sing me "Wild Pack of Family Dogs" while I throw grapes at them.  That's all, enjoy.

May the wind be always at your back,

Running with the wind

I'm back...I know that originally I said that I was going to post every 2 to 3 days, but I think in reality that's going to be more like twice a week.  My tentative plan is to post once on the weekend and once mid-week (Wed or Thurs.) I hope that satiates your embarrassing appetite for nonsense.  Really.

I, like many of my fellow humans, enjoy running.  I'm not very good at it however.  Due to ancestral traits passed down from my gunslinging, bull-riding, whiskey-swilling, Indian plundering forefathers, I have some bowed-ass legs.  This is not the prototypical runner's body.  While my upper-body is an exquisite picture of efficiency (think Drago on the treadmill in Rocky IV), my lower half looks a lot like an egg-beater, whirling and frothing the terrain into a scrumptious asphalt meringue (think Emeril on the Food Channel).  That said, I do my fair share of running and I have some unnecessary observations on how we entertain ourselves while pounding the mf-ing pavement.

The iPod is great, but it doesn't completely fulfill my entertainment needs while running.  The playlist only serves as a soft soundtrack to my short cinematic feature about physical exertion.  Fortunately, the amazing ability of the mind to overcome boredom pushes me into a realm of entertainment creation.  This run-entertainment can be classified into two categories; 1) personal and 2) interactive.

Personal entertainment is really that known only to you.  One of my favorite personal entertainment moments is the errant fart.  You know the drill...running along and digestion kicks in and belts forth a by-product of the metabolic process, taking with it a small bit of body fat (I'm not a scientist, but this is how I envision it.)  I always chuckle a little bit and look around to see if anyone heard...all the while maintaining my Drago-on-an-egg beater form.  It's funny the embarrassment that ensues because nobody ever hears those little guys...hell, I hardly hear them, but I know they're there because I feel them, and that is part of the fun...at least 1 to 2 minutes of it, anyway.  Don't judge me.

The other form of personal entertainment is really dorky and only really applies to the treadmill (and probably only to my nerdy ass).  I calculate percentages while I run.  I know, sign me up for Math Camp with all the other Mathletes.  But hey, the treadmill can be a pretty dull experience (unless you're drunk).  It goes like this, say I'm running 30 minutes...after 3 minutes, I say in my best internal robot voice, "You have run 10%" and this entertains me.  That's an easy one, though.  It gets tricker when you're at, say 11 minutes.  By the time you figure it out, you're already at 12 minutes.  Incredible.

Now, I turn to interactive entertainment.  This usually involves other runners, but can also involve other fit-seekers (walkers, rollerbladers, bikers, etc...)  I happen to live in a big city where there are usually a fair amount of active people about...interactions are more common than say, the mean streets of Dubuque, Iowa.  While most runners probably don't make eye contact with every passer-by, there are a select few on any given run that catch your attention for some reason or another.  One type of encounter involves what I call the "validation glance".  The vg occurs when you pass another runner, usually a runner that is not of your gender of sexual preference, and you both kind of give a nod that says, "yeah, man/girl...we're fit...not lazy like those other assholes...right on."  It's particularly entertaining when that run happens to be the first time I've run in awhile.  Despite my accumulating beer layer, with one glance I become Prefontaine or one of those Kenyan guys...f-in A right.

Another encounter whose entertainment potential can last the entire run is what I call the "fleet feet flirt".  While it's fairly self-explanatory, I will explain further.  Running along...some Journey got  you thinking about what might have been...you look up and for a split second, catch eyes with a sweaty, attractive (insert preference here).  You both hold on for a second, maybe even flash a quick smile or the "validation glance" (which, incidentally, kills the romance) and run on by...never to see them again.  You just scored big time because you now have some mysterious stranger to think about the rest of the way home and not your swollen toe.  Not bad brain.  Well-played.  I'm assuming that non-single people indulge in this, as well.  I mean, it's all pretty innocent until someone takes their joggers off, right?

I could go on and on...crack jumping, stutter-step bingo, Eskimo hunting...really, it is endless.  All I can say is this, thank you brain...you've made this whole running thing a reasonable experience.

May the wind be always at your back,

          

Emasculation by exclamation

Ah...the almighty "message".  In these heady days of e-mail, text and IM, the simple message, with its to-the-point conveyance, has become increasingly vital.  Being a fan of simplicity and words, I like this trend...a little bit.  Sometimes a , "Hey, can you buy me some ringworm ointment?" is the perfect message communicated with perfect convenience.  However, the "Hey, I think you should stop using(heroin)...:(." message is probably not the best use of this nifty time-saving way to communicate.  That said, the message is a great thing and I generally condone its use.

However, use of the message is not without its pitfalls.  In particular, there's a silent and deadly assassin within the message world that I hope to expose for all the word to see.  I'm talking about the exclamation point and its homicidal rampage against masculinity.  Ladies, this is not really aimed at you.  You're safe.  Feel free to use this grammatical convention as often and emphatically as you like.  Sprinkle some in your soup or dash behind your ears before going out if you'd like.  It suits you...makes you appear more enthusiastic and excited and that's generally a good thing.  That's not sexist, is it?  Guys, on the other hand?...listen up.

You must be extra judicious with your use of the "point".  Handle with care as its overuse could, over time, erode your masculinity and cause you to subscribe to US Weekly and host Gray's parties.  Now, to be perfectly honest, I'm no model of machismo.  Quite the contrary...I "eat right", I condition (sometimes), I occasionally wear $200 jeans, I own some face moisturizer, I wear lipstick (all the time.)  Hell, I'm a proud and regular practitioner of Yoga...I'm hardly uninfluenced by the emasculation of the American male.  However, the exclamation point is where I draw the line.  It's overuse in messaging portrays an excitability that is the written equivalent of donning pom-poms and giving everybody an "A!".  You might as well take a sharpened scythe to your undercarriage.   

I know, I know...it's not always easy to refrain from it's use.  That is why I've come up with these two easy principles to live by:

Messages to females and children:  You are generally allowed one exclamation point per message or one for every 10 minutes of IM conversation.  The same applies for emoticons, but if you're using emoticons, they'd better be cool ones.  Smiley faces are not allowed...ever.

Messages to other males:  You are generally not allowed to use an exclamation point or emoticon when writing to other males.  The only exceptions are when you are conveying something that is intended to be shouted.  For instance, "Go Bears!" or "You're a douche!" are acceptable.  "See you later!" is not.

So, it's really that simple.  If you follow these two rules, you should be able to make it through this message-crazed world with your cajones intact.

May the wind be always at your back!!!............... : )

The okay corral

I have something unnecessary to say about a small piece of corporate culture.  The "phenomenon", as I like to call it, brings with it a perplexing amount of excitement given its subpar benefit.  I'm talking about casual Friday and I'm here to rally against its fun-ness. 

I once bought-in to its promises of a new-fangled, laid back workplace.  When I was a younger, less-bearded professional, I oddly looked forward to wearing jeans on Friday...I saw it as a small victory against The Man.  "Hey cube mate, we're all wearing jeans.  Isn't that awesome?!"  Today, I sing a different tune.  I sing the tune that says, "who the f&^k cares?!" 

Jeans represent rebelliousness, they represent the cowboy, the bad-ass motorcycle gang-guy...not corporate America.    And are we really that much more comfortable given the fact that we still have to wear a starchy tucked-in shirt?  Personally, I'm a purist...I wear my jeans with a t-shirt.  Preferably a t-shirt that displays how clever I am.  Granted, I think women have an easier time with casual Friday than men because they don't have to tuck...or at least I don't think they tuck.  I don't really know how women dress but they look more comfortable.  Anyway, there's nothing I hate more than tucking a shirt into jeans.  It makes me feel like the biggest dork on the planet. 

There are those who choose to go with the untucked-dress-shirt look. I don't think this is a good idea...it usually makes them look like they got roughed up and wedgied by the janitor in the bathroom, which is not very good for your professional aspirations.  Thus, you pretty much have to tuck and that's what really tans my hide.  Some, totally imaginary people say, "yeah, but cowboys tuck in their shirt, funnelhead...and you like cowboys, right?"  True, but cowboys also wear bad-ass belt buckles and smell like whiskey and prostitutes.  Besides, they have to tuck in their shirts in order to comfortably cradle their Smith & Wesson.  This makes sense to me.  There's really no corollary to the six-shooter in corporate America...unless you're a postal worker (insert clown horn or cymbal crash here).  Perhaps a Black Berry?  Shooting off e-mails at corporate rascally sheriffs?  Maybe...but there's no way I would "cradle" that thing down my pants.  I want to have kids someday.  Not have them, really, but sire them.  And they will be cool kids with rad t-shirts on and mohawks. 

But I digress...back to my point, which is...my discomfort with the dichotomy of the jean/nice shirt ensemble.  From behind my desk, I'm  Mr. Professional.  When I get up, I'm a cutting edge innovator who doesn't give a rat's ass about your corporate perspective, man.  I'm not buying it.  The hard, completely unnecessary truth is that I need to be in a t-shirt to feel comfortable and thus innovate.  That's just the way it is.  Corporate gods, if you want some Apple-like innovation up in this piece, let me wear a t-shirt with my jeans or cancel these ridiculous casual Fridays.  We'll call it iCasual Friday.  Get it?

May the wind be always at your back.

    

Windbreaker

So here it is...the first gustfunnel entry.  I'm going to start by laying out a few objectives.  Actually, I'm only going to "lay out" two.  One: to take all that wind, which is to say all those random thoughts and events that surface over the course of the day, and distill them into readable entertainment.  Two: to force a personal gust of creativity that will keep me from talking to myself and out of the psychiatrist's office.  You know, a thought exercise for the orphaned right brain.  I'd like to think that really what we have here, dear reader, is the truest of symbiotic relationships...I breathe out and you breathe in.  It's kind of like literary CPR, or, if you prefer fish analogies, the classic pilot fish and shark example.  Fortunately, I get to be the shark.  That's how it works.  If you create the blog, then you get to be the shark.

For mystery's sake, I'm keeping an anonymous identity ..although many of you, at least in these first few months, know exactly who I am.  That's okay...I'm not overly concerned about anonymity.  I just think that that the content will be better more fruitful under my alter ego, funnelhead.  I really dig the name...I think it sounds like an 80's horror movie antagonist.  "Jesus!  I think funnelhead ate her brain, dood."  In all honesty, though, it keeps with the theme of the blog and references the excellent Archers of Loaf song by same title...so there.

As far as logistics are concerned, I'm hoping to update the blog as often as possible, which realistically means every 2 to 3 days.  Stay tuned and I hope you enjoy.  Feel free to post comments.

As I leave you, I'd like to thank my good friend Scooter for providing the inspiration for this blog.  He's been getting after me for awhile and I wouldn't have given it a shot without his encouragement.  You can check out his blog here.

Alrighty...that's it - I promise that future posts will be more...interesting.  Just had to lay the groundwork and the rules.

May the wind be always at your back.