“You’re the right kind of sinner to release my inner fantasies…”

So I was about to get on the treadmill at Curves, the gym I go to, when Pat Benatar, 80s rock-mama, belted out this seminal lyric.

“The invincible winner, and you know that you were born to be…”

I’ve heard the song on many occasions in my life. Only now it felt like I was hearing the words for the first time, and they brought in a totally new and unexpected level of stupid. But that’s what the early 80s were about, right? Given the context of the era, it’s seems okay to appreciate and rock out to songs like Heartbreaker.

I appreciate this song because it summons a mood like only an old song can do. It makes me think of a different era, when I was someone else. It remindes me of crappy music, of sleeveless mesh shirts, of Fast Times and Billy Jean and Valley Girl, of giant mullets feathered to perfection, of legwarmers, of the Solid Gold TV show, of Vans sneakers, of enjoying an Arby roast beef sandwich with Ar-B-Q sauce, of riding my BMX bike all around town without a helmet.

Thinking about all of these things as I strolled on the treadmill, I imagined myself as I were then: scrawny, ignorant, hyper, full of breakdancing fury. When the song hit its rockin’ chorus, I gave the air in front of me a one-two punch.

The lady on the abductor machine next to me let out a gasp, but there was no stopping me. I began to walk the treadmill like a robot, even making little sound effects for each movement.

The exercise machines in the gym are situated in a circuit, and I fantasized that they were actually a bustling crowd of breakdancers egging me on, popping to one another on the sidelines.

I began to moonwalk, a style of dance that seemed perfectly suited for the treadmill. However, the rubber walkway and my shoes created too much friction, so I hopped up on the tips of my toes and glided to the back of the treadmill*. Just before I would have fallen off of the edge, I leaped up towards the front of the machine and dropped into a forward caterpillar, rippling my body just fast enough to keep myself centered on the walkway.

I finished frozen in a float and rode the treadmill all the way to the end. It dumped me off in the middle of the circuit, where I was met with a gracious round of imaginary applause.

I looked around and saw that all of the ladies had stopped exercising and were staring at me. Pat Benatar’s song finished up and a soft voice called out that it was time to change stations.

Rather than complete the circuit under the scornful watch of the workout women, I backflipped out of the gym and into my car.

*In fact, I cannot get up on my toes. The only person I know who can (or could) is Ivan.

VIDEO REMOVED BY YOUTUBE

My wife noticed that the kid mentions Halo and Halo 2 as his favorite games in this Xbox 360 commercial from Sears. Both of these games are rated M for Mature, a rating that suggests the player be 17+ years of age.

The kid in this commercial is clearly not 17+ years old, so it does seem that the nervous nellies who have been accusing the video game industry of selling Mature games to youngsters just scored a victory.

As a parent and a gamer, I’m pretty bummed about this commercial. I still believe parents should monitor what games they allow their kids to play, but the corporations pushing the games should also be more responsible in their marketing campaigns.

Remember the Nutty Buddy?

Well, they have a site now complete with a demonstration video.

~El Jefe

I’ve been web-coding like a monster lately, pummeling the keys with such force and velocity that my fingertips have started to thicken. For some reason, I must be particularly fond of the J, H, N, U and Y keys, as my right index finger now has a significant callus. I would call it a “query callus” for all of the database queries I write, if not for the following dream I had last night…

I was riding an escalator down to the lower floor of some gigantic mall. It was one of those malls you’d see anywhere, with the requisite GAP and Spenser’s Gifts and Hot Dog on a Stick. The marble floor glimmered under the light of the morning sun emanating through the high, arched, glass roof.

As I was gliding down to the main floor, the handrail of the escalator, once made of supple rubber, turned into a long motionless cheese grater with intermittent slicers. I thought it odd, but only the way you might find a two-headed kitten with boxing gloves odd. It just seemed okay in the dream because I didn’t immediately remove my hand from the railing.

SLICE!

Off came the callus on my right pointer finger in one silent swipe, like you might see on a Ginsu knife infomercial.

“Dammit,” I thought, lifting my hand from the railing.

My callus fell to the ground on the side of the escalator, so I finished my ride and went to get it. It lay skin-side up, as if someone pushed through the floor enough for me to see the tip of their finger. I couldn’t see any blood on the callus, nor was any flowing from my newly plateaued fingertip.

I tried to pick up the callus, but I found it impossible to get a grip on it. I only pushed it along on the floor trying to scoop it up.

A hand touched my shoulder. I turned and saw a tall man with a full, luxurious beard. He wore an apron and little else.

“Excuse me, sir” he said. Out of the apron he produced a tiny spatula, no longer than a half-used pencil. I accepted the gift and turned it over with my hand, admiring its diminutive nature.

“It’s for quail eggs,” he told me. He reached back into his apron, pulled out a glass of water and set it on a nearby table. Then he clapped his hands and turned into a bowl of tortilla chips.

I slipped the spatula under my severed callus, flipped it up into the air and caught it with my left hand. Turning over the thick skin with my healthy fingers, I noticed some dirt and lint on it. I walked over to the table and dropped the callus into the glass of water to rinse it off.

The skin fell to the bottom of the glass like a leaf in the wind. Moments later it started to fizz and bubble. The glass began to quiver and a head gathered at the top. The foam kept expanding until if finally flowed over the rim of the glass and onto the table.

It didn’t stop there. The glass kept producing more and more foam and an increasing rate. It poured off of the table top and onto the floor around my feet. I picked up the bowl of tortilla chips and stood on a chair.

After a few minutes past, the floor was covered with a six inch layer of foam.

It suddenly stopped. I picked up the glass and looked for my callus. All of the water and skin were gone. However, the foam did not dissipate. Instead, it settled into a creamy texture with a light golden hue. I dabbed my finger into it and sniffed. The goo possessed an aroma not unlike aged cheddar cheese.

I selected a chip from the bowl and scooped up a little of the stuff. I closed my eyes and took a bite.

And then I woke up.

This is the picture that accompanied CNN’s coverage today of the mounting tensions between North Korea and the Planet Earth. I find it mildly comforting that the North Korean soldier is armed only with a rock and knife.

The world is gearing up to issue more harsh words at North Korea. At least no one will accuse the Bush administration of using war with North Korea as a pretext for securing oil reserves.