As is the custom now in the age of immediate information and instant response, viewers found the restaurant’s Facebook page and posted mostly negative comments. Most business owners choose – wisely – not to respond to haters and trolls online. They know if you just go about your merry way and leave it alone, it will pass.
But guess what these two knuckleheads did? That’s right: They picked a fight with the Internet. She and her hubby melted down on Facebook, Reddit, and everywhere else something bad was said about themselves and/or their restaurant. Now they’re Internet celebs for all the wrong reasons; famous not for their food, business acumen, or sparkling personalities, but for their delusions of grandeur.
I have to thank them for the laughs, though. No, I didn’t do any of the trolling, I just didn’t think anyone could bring the crazy more than that Xtian lady on Wife Swap a few years ago.
Kudos to Gordon Ramsey for getting as far as he did with the borderline personality disorder lady and her cuckhold husband.
Best part? It’s Republican (so-called) fiscal conservatives pushing for the money to be spent.
Next time someone bitches to you about the national debt, or how Obama is outspending any other previous President (another favorite lie of the right), please send them to this video from The Colbert Report.
Then make them explain why even fiscal conservatives can’t manage to help us save a few BILLION dollars here and there. And if their argument is “We had to save those jobs,” tell them they’re full of it. All the jobs put together on this project are not worth a product the Army has stated, loudly and clearly, it does not want and does not need. To push it through anyway means it’s a welfare program for workers who would otherwise be unemployed.
Welfare is something conservatives are vehemently against. I mean they keep calling such programs “entitlements” and “handouts” and generally ensuring we all know sucking from the government teat, no matter how dire our straits, is wrong, Wrong, WRONG.
I realize I’m railing against something that happens all the time in Washington and has for decades, but dammit, when does it stop?
The Birthday Boys
Amy Schumer (would have seen her this past weekend, but show was canceled)
Kumail Nanjiani Rory Scovel Kyle Kinane (three times)
June Diane Raphael Matt Jones
Issa Rae Jason Mantzoukas (at taping of The Jeselnik Offensive)
Jonah Ray Hannibal Buress Garfunkel and Oates (twice)
Chris Gethard Pete Holmes
That’s 35 of 50 … shit, it may have been easier to list the ones I don’t know. But now that I’ve discovered them, I’ve got research to do.
I’ve watched from a distance as she’s fought the cancer for the past few years. I received word just today that the disease has spread and will, most likely, be terminal.
Another friend – someone who, to the best of my knowledge, doesn’t know the ill one – posted the following to Google+ not long after I read the news:
You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.
And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.
And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.
And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly. Amen.
~ Aaron Freeman
These thoughts are not specifically for my friend who is ill; if they provide any comfort to her at all, I’m happy for it, but I’m sharing them here and now mostly for myself.
This is my comfort – science, not G-d.
This is my way – write, don’t speak.
These are my memories – photons bounced and neurons fired.
These are my tears – measurable particles added to the energy of the cosmos.
I had a disagreement with someone recently about rape culture. I believe many incidents, from cat-calling to women on the street to outright verbal harassment on public transit, a) contribute to the idea women are less-than in our society and b) help create an atmosphere where women become afraid of every man they encounter. His point was that when a woman judges a man without knowing him, it’s bigotry, plain and simple.
Funny thing is, I agree with his point completely; women are bigots when it comes to men. The problem is we HAVE to be, because our safety – maybe even our lives – may be at stake if we’re not at least somewhat prejudiced in our actions.
Since my discussion with this person several weeks ago, I’ve taken note of my own so-ingrained-as-to-be-innate behaviors in every situation that involves being alone and around men I don’t know. I’ve discovered it’s simply staggering how many times I think to myself, “Is this a situation I need to worry about?” followed closely by, “What is my escape plan if it is?”
This happens every time I’m alone, without fail, no matter my destination and whenever I encounter a male or group of males of any age and any description. At one point, as I approached the entrance to the parking garage at the gym, I sighed internal relief when I realized one of the group of three having a conversation near the door was a woman. If it were three men, I would have stuck around outside the doors and loitered until they dispersed.
This is second nature and it is deep. Sometimes I’m aware of it and sometimes it’s completely subconscious, but it is consistent.
I should note that not once, never in my life, have I ever been attacked, molested, or raped, by anyone of any gender. Yet I fear for my person all the time, every day – first because I was taught to do so by caring parents, second because many, many victims have shared their stories with me, and third because I watch the news and understand the statistics.
I know how lucky I am. I want to keep it that way.
My experience with rape culture seems innocuous compared to others. I’ve heard cat-calls and there is the occasional jackass in a club who won’t take for an answer, but I’ve always removed myself from the situation successfully.
When I turned 8, a neighbor, who was then 15, gave me a birthday spanking in his parent’s basement. I didn’t think much of it. He invited me back twice after that, but I never went.
When I was 15, my BFF and I were asked for directions, and when we approached the car the dude was jacking off. She had the best reaction ever, though: She pointed at his dick and laughed and he sped away, humiliated. Her mom had taught her to do just that.
At age 16, I had hours and hours of phone sex with a man I’d never seen and would never meet, who did no more than pay attention to me. He knew that was all teenage girls crave and he certainly knew who I was, because I received flowers after a high school musical performance. At my home address.*shiver*
Once on the way home from school, a gent with a thick accent approached me, told me I was beautiful, then grabbed me up in his arms and kissed me full on the lips. I was 17 and shocked, but I didn’t fight back. Instead I acted as if I was interested, waited for the right moment, and calmly turned and walked quickly away toward a busy street with lots of traffic. He started to follow, then thought better of it I guess.
I attended classes at night in the Los Angeles area in the 80s. My keychain had a thick, wooden stick on it and I always carried it in a “ready-to-strike” position. I never needed to use it.
In college, I once felt a hand on my ass on a bus, which I immediately grabbed, raised up in the air along with my own, and yelled, “WHAT IS *THIS* DOING ON MY ASS?!”
I punched a guy off a barstool back in the day for (seems to be a pattern here) grabbing my ass.
I wonder sometimes how I escaped real harm. Scratch that – I’m amazed I’ve gotten away mostly unscathed. So many don’t.
But here’s the thing: I befriend men in large numbers. I count more than a few very close friends. I’m not a man hater, by any stretch of the imagination. What I am is a smart woman who understands the society in which I live and I act accordingly. I wish I didn’t have to worry about whether my heels are too high to run if I need to, if my skirt is too short for the event I’m attending, or who I can get to walk me out to my car after dark, but I do. I am constantly at risk. All women are.
Unlike some women, though, I refuse to allow rape culture to give me boundaries. I still go places alone, sometimes even after dark. Last week, I walked a few miles up and down Hollywood Blvd., in broad daylight no less, and got harassed about every two blocks. I ignored it and moved on, but I’m still wondering why other men didn’t call out the perpetrators. A simple, “Dude, that’s not cool,” goes a long way.
I understand why some women – especially those who are prettier than I am and/or have been victimized – just give up and never leave the safety of their homes or neighborhoods.
So if you’re a good guy and you feel you’re being judged by women, trust me, you are. If you’re in my vicinity and I’m alone, then I’m judging you, period. Until I know you, you are Schrödinger’s Rapist. Hell, even after I know you, I may still question your motives and/or capabilities.
As much as I don’t relish the idea my love is headed to South Korea on business tomorrow – unless you live under a rock, you’ve probably heard about all the sabre-rattling from North Korea the past two weeks – I am looking forward to having the house to myself for a few days.
Granted, there’s not much I couldn’t do around here even when he’s home. I can still make coffee naked; I may, whenever I please, change the channel on the TV to something I deem more interesting; I run errands when I feel like it; I’m able to clean over and around him if necessary.
What I can’t do when he’s here is guess what time of day we’ll have to put out some fire that crops up with work; business phone calls and e-mails are best tended to during business hours, after all. I also can’t stay up until the very wee hours of the next morning writing, which is the schedule my circadian rhythms and writer’s zone tend to prefer. (Oh, I still do it occasionally, but it makes the early alarm the next morning harder to respond to.)
What I can do when he’s gone is get to the gym earlier in the day. We like to go together, usually – neither of us slacks off when we’re being watched by the other – but that means going after the work day is over. When he’s out of town, though, I get it out of the way and thereby free up my afternoons/evenings for other shenanigans.
I can also cook fish, which I don’t do often, because he retches at the smell of it. I will be able to play the TV, podcasts, or music at full volume as I work, which is normally impossible because he spends 80% of his day on the phone. Also, since he’ll be in a time zone that’s 1/2 day ahead of me, whatever he needs from me to accomplish various business tasks is automatically pushed into my next day.
So yes, I’m a bit worried about his destination, even though I know most South Koreans were more interested in the release of Psy’s new track today than anything Kim Jong Un said or did. Hell yeah, I’m wary enough I looked up all the embassy/consulate information, printed it, and made him put it in his wallet. And I just know my neuroses will be in full overload until I get the “I arrived and I’m okay” e-mail or phone call.
But damned if I’m not looking forward to some “me” time.
See, they are express toll lanes now, not high-occupancy lanes. What about air quality? What about traffic control? What about the electric or hybrid vehicle exemptions for the HOV lanes that benefit both air quality and traffic control? What about all the other selling points given to install them back in the day?
I guess none of that matters when several cities in your state go broke. L.A. County doesn’t want to end up on the bankruptcy list and this is just one way to make more money, right? So screw the environment. We’d rather make $15 on a one-way trip per vehicle than get cars off the road entirely.
And don’t tell me to take the Metro. You built a subway system in earthquake country – don’t expect me to trust it. Also, it doesn’t run to/from the airport, so it’s pointless to me and other visitors in the first place.
So good job, guys. Kudos. I hope you enjoy returning to 1970s-level air quality. You know, back when my school would cancel phys ed because it was too dangerous to suck outside air into my young, developing lungs.
It’s 70 degrees in L.A. and snowing at home. Word has it our flight may even be delayed due to the high winds.
Don’t care. I want out of this place. I miss Denver, that cold-hearted bitch, and can’t wait to get home to her.
To describe my relationship with SoCal as love/hate misses all the nuances of the place. I love we could sign up for tickets online and see tapings of The Jeselnik Offensive and The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson (via 1iota, if you’re curious); I hate the people sitting next to me at both tapings, who didn’t bother to laugh out loud even when told specifically to do just that. I love how packed Bar Sinister is on a Saturday night and I hate how incredibly superficial those who attend it are. I love seeing Yvonne de Carlo’s star on Hollywood Blvd., but I hate hearing the bouncy blonde standing over it say, “What a cool name!”
For every Lucky Devils on the Blvd. there are seven fly-by-night tourist traps full of t-whirts and kitsch. For every well-read, literate bartender who can hold his end of a conversation, there are three servers who are too busy studying a script for an upcoming audition to give you the time of day. For every leisurely Sunday drive on Sunset Blvd. all the way to the beach, there are 1,000 other drivers who had the exact same idea at the exact same time of day.
I can shop on a particular stretch of Melrose for a couple of hours, but have yet to make the length of it unmolested by the homeless, spanging punks, or other derelicts. I can arise early on a weekday to avoid the crowds at LACMA only to arrive and realize – once again – there is no beating crowds in Los Angeles. I can stop at a chain bar/restaurant for a quick drink and use of their bathroom … for about $25 with tip.
L.A. is a Tourette Syndrome sufferer who yells the possibilities at the top of its lungs and then whispers, in a version of verbal fine print, the problems to be encountered in experiencing those very possibilities. It is genuine superficiality, authentically one-dimensional, and the truest of all lies. Exciting and scary, beautiful and awful, exhilarating and sad. A literal, sometimes simultaneous Tale of Two Cities every time I visit.
And I can’t wait to show it off, in all its schizophrenic glory, to my BFF this summer.