"The Howie" is live! Go to my new site to learn all about it!
There's big news coming regarding the Howie Sandwich!
I'd say "stay tuned," but that cliche has no meaning in internet terms.
Keep checking back!
I am looking for an enterprising restaurant owner who wants to make a name for himself with what may be the greatest sandwich idea ever.
There's just one catch. I don't want a cut of the enormous profits I'm sure you'll make off this idea. I just want to fulfill my lifelong dream of having a sandwich named after me.
Yes. The Howie Special is ready for testing. Will you be the daring young risktaker to bring it to the world?
INTERESTED PARTIES ONLY NEED APPLY.
*** UPDATE! 8:38 PM***
I've just ordered The Howie from Art's Deli! The woman taking my order wasn't clear on the difference between caramelized and grilled onions, but I'm optimistic! Will let you know how it turns out.
In light of America's current discussion this election year, "What's worse about this country, our racism or our sexism?" I thought I'd weigh in with the opinions discussed in what is, for my money, our nation's premiere race and gender relations publication-- The Studio City/Toluca Lake Smart Mailer.
Specifically, the ad for Ultrazone(R) Laser Tag. Of course, at first glance, it might seem that all this coupon can tell us is that people of all races are welcomed at Ultrazone(R). But, once you look closer, the truth is far more disturbing.
Let's take the white woman in the top-left corner. Who would want her on their team? She's too partied-out from appearing on "Girls Gone Wild: Chainsmoking Bicyclists on Spring Break." In an actual laser-battle, no one would want her on their squad. Look at the way she holds her weapon! I don't care if her father commanded the third fleet at The Battle of Charybdis' Maw, she's more likely to shoot her own Medi-Droid than an enemy Starmando.
And don't get me started on Cocky Minority Sidekick beneath her. What, have I never seen a movie? The Cocky Minority Sidekick is always the first to be eaten by the Alien Man-Eating-Who-cares-it's-a-horror-movie-just-fast-forward-to-the-co-ed-shower-scene Monster. Oh, and if you happen to be a Minority Sidekick who is in a high-octane thrill ride-type of situation... DON'T TALK ABOUT YOUR MOM. And if possible, get the scientist-girl to fall in love with you.
Moving on to the half-Thai girl in the bottom left... I got no problem with her. She looks confident and with it. I'd actually want her to answer the red phone at 3AM.
The Latina in the Top Right? She looks a little nervous. I'd argue about taking her on a mission with me. Because being the leader of K'roy Hill, I'd have protective feelings for her and everyone else living in the tunnels with me. I'd argue with her, "No, you're not ready! Think of the horrors you'd never be able to un-see!" But I'd give in, after promising her big sister that I'd look after her. And who knows, maybe her affinity with animals will come in handy when traveling the Wasteland's Undertrains.
The white guy in the middle is totally useless. The only one he's thinking about shooting with his Beamrifle is already on the flier with him.
The woman in the bottom-right is the only one I'd really feel comfortable with as my squad-mate. She just has the look of someone who, though she's employed in a domestic fashion on the outside world, is perfectly capable of defending a hospital against a zombie attack. Not to say she won't have moments where she questions herself. But that old man was already infected-- she did what she had to do to protect the other Survivors of the Jim and Mary-Anne Kiefer Orthopedic Rehabilitative Center. And if we have to split into two teams, with mine driving the Slap-Dash Armored Anti-Zombie vehicle (that used to be an ambulance) and hers laying covering laser-fire from the roof of the Hopital, I'd trust her to have my back. This sister knows her way around a Blast-0 Gun.
So what does this flier tell us about the state of race and gender in America? Are we ready for The First Black Man to be President of the United States? Or do we want to say, "Yes, Mrs. President?"
Perhaps we don't want our next president to be either of these things. Perhaps we want it to be BOTH of these things.
I work nights. It's not so bad once you get used to it. You don't have to deal with rush-hour traffic, you get to sleep in, and you can accomplish a full day's worth of errands before you even get in the shower.
But when it's time to rejoin society, the shift change can be... difficult.
Like catching a flight... a 7:10 AM flight... to Denver, having only 5 hours to get off work, go home, sleep, wake up and stumble to the airport and through security.
So exhausted might you be, in fact, that when you got up and went to the bathroom, you would be biologically unable to pee straight. You would then walk the 19 rows back to your seat without noticing the enormous puddle on the inseam of your pants.
Luckily, once you overcame the initial shock-- the initial “No!… Is it?… Does it smell like it could be…”-- You’d quickly drape your red hoodie over yourself blanket-style, like a 13 year old girl when confronted by her unexpected first period.
Then, of course, the stewardesses might come by with the drink cart. The same drink cart you had to squeeze by on the very long, very visible walk back to your seat (Or, as you worry your fellow passengers have dubbed it, The Saint Urea Day Parade.)
"This is how I'll know," you might think." If they DON'T offer me a drink, them I'll know for sure that they-- and everyone else between First Class and Row 19-- have definitely seen my shame-puddle, and so won’t offer me a drink, considering their new concerns about my bladder control."
The drink cart would rattle down the fuselage. Stopping at every row, taking orders.
15B-- Dr. Pepper, no ice.
17C-- 2 boxes of cookies and a glass of orange juice.
At every herk-and-jerk stop, you would wonder if you can actually feel the cold, wet spot on your lap, and wonder how your ancestors weren’t made extinct in a harsh, Darwinian world of Survival Of The Fittest.
At the aisle to Row 19, it would be understandable if you held your breath as you saw a pair of black nylons. A navy jumper. A red neckerchief.
"Drink, sir?"
It would be perfectly excusable for you to let out a gust of relieved air.
“Water.”
And you’d make yourself go to sleep.