Chocolate-vanilla mixing is verboten

As I’ve harassed Cold Stone Creamery for their tip song, perhaps some of you have thought, That’s all fine and good, but what do white supremacists think about Cold Stone? Good question. It appears the reviews are mixed, at least among the movement’s most nubile members. Lynx and Lamb, the dynamic duo behind Prussian Blue, may share a similar distaste for Jews and black people, but they’re more divided on Cold Stone. Here’s Lynx from their official message board:

Its not fair because I am the only one in my family who likes Cold Stone ice cream. So if I ask can we get Cold Stones?” I always her “ No Lynx” because nobody else likes it!!!! Everybody else likes Rosemary’s, the LOCAL ice cream parlor.

I LOVE Cold Stones because you can pick out your ice cream and they have these tubs full of candy that you can have mushed into your ice cream and they mush it right in front of you. Which is SO nice. I always like French vanilla with Reeses Peanut Butter Cup with a little gummy bears….I only get the gummy bears sometimes. But it is really neat. And they sing you songs sometimes too!!! Its really funny.

A little later down in the thread, April Gaede, the girls’ mother, sets Lynx straight:

Look Lynxy , Rosemary’s is so much better for a variety of reasons.

first of all it is a local company that is owned by a nice Italian family. By buying local we support their family and not some corporation that might be owned by the ususal suspects.

second, the ice cream is a lot better since it is made right there, I have never tasted ice cream so good and since I had Rosemary’s ice cream no other can compare. Cold Stones is a gimmick and I think the ice cream has no flavor.

third, when you get gummi bears too cold they lose all the flavor.

That’s tellin’ her, April. Don’t let your daughters get fooled into eating Jew ice cream. Today it's french vanilla and gummi bears, tomorrow it's Zionism.

Lest you think I’m so obsessed with Cold Stone as to have gone searching for this ridiculousness, let me assure you: This came about for more vain reasons. I Googled my name tonight, and found it appearing on page 23 of this white-power ice cream showdown; someone named “HappyAryan” had posted a snippet from the WSJ story I was quoted in. At the bottom of the page, “proud2be” puts it all in perspective:

I’m not really big on ice cream, but I like Edy’s whole fruit bars. So much flavor and so few calories, yum!

Stay white and stay thin, proud2be!

Permalink: 08:51 PM | Comments (1)

Could it be? Jason v. Ice Cream Singers, round 4?

Well, hey, it's been a few months, and that can only mean one thing: It's time to harass Cold Stone Creamery again! Hooray! As you might recall, first there was the blog post, then the Weekly Dig story, then I was quoted in a Wall Street Journal article. And today, we go multimedia: I was in a story this morning on Marketplace, public radio's chatty business show.

The piece was done by Sean Cole, easily one of the best guys on public radio. I've enjoyed his stuff for years, and so was ultra-tickled when he e-mailed me earlier this month, asking if I'd talk with him for this story. He came over -- turns out he lives about 20 minutes away -- and spent 2.5 hours interviewing me about Cold Stone and whatever else came to mind. (It was good fun, and neither of us had much to do that morning.) I'm guessing about 20 seconds of that actually made it on air, which I suppose ain't bad, considering how achingly short Marketplace pieces are. My first thought, of course, was, "Aww, it didn't totally get my point across. It just sounds like I'm needlessly bitching." But that was quickly replaced by, "Wait a second. I am just needlessly bitching. Yeah! Go Marketplace!"

(Sad-face image via.)

Permalink: 08:05 AM | Comments (1)

Danger dialing

While at work, have you ever tried dialing an outside number but forgot to dial 9, and therefore accidentally called one of your co-workers? And then you realized your mistake, and hung up? Turns out, your co-worker gets that crap all the time. I wrote about it in February's Boston Magazine.

Permalink: 07:45 AM | Comments (0)

If anything, it was worth the $2 admission

“Here it is. I’ve finally seen it,” said our new friend, an inebriated 30-something guy. “I’ve been living in New York for seven years, and I’ve always heard about stuff like this. Now, I’ve seen it.”

But, first:

I spent Friday night having drinks at the Four Seasons in Manhattan, because a friend was staying there on business and some of us went to meet him. At 1 a.m., we all departed, and my friend Kevin and I went to the nearby subway station, at Lexington and 57th. While waiting on the platform, a befuddled, middle-aged man walked over to us and said, “Do either of you have a cell phone? There’s a man without any pants on, lying down on the platform, and I think I should call the police.”

This sounded dubious. And anyway, it was 1 a.m., and we were in a subway. Neither of us were offering cell phones to a stranger, regardless of situation. So, we stared at him. He continued: “Or, if you have 50 cents, I could use the payphone to call 911.”

“I think 911 is free on a payphone,” I said.

“Oh, ok. Thanks,” he said, and walked off.

Then our train came. We debated whether or not to check out this supposed naked man, but decided, at the last minute, to get on the train instead. It was late, and we were a little tired. As the doors closed, though, Kevin realized we had just boarded the wrong train. For 10 seconds, we fought with the closing doors -- very insistent bastards, they are -- and managed to get out. We walked to the other side of the station, where the trains were heading in the opposite direction, and then went downstairs to catch the express train. That’s where we met our new friend, the 30-something drunk.

“I’ve been here a half hour, and there’s no train, man,” he said.

This wasn’t good. We asked if the train would come, although clearly he didn’t know. Instead, he said, “Hey, there’s a naked guy down there, lying on the floor.”

“We know!” we said. “We heard about that.”

“You want to see?” he said.

Yes. Absolutely. We wanted to see. He led us down the platform, to a place where we could clearly see across to the other side. And indeed, there was the guy. He wore a ski mask and a puffy jacket, and his hands were in the jacket pockets. His legs were crossed at the ankles, feet (with shoes) resting comfortably atop what looked like a pile of neatly folded clothing. And then, of course, he had no pants. He was naked, very naked, his penis flopped over to one side.

“I’ve been here for half an hour,” 30-Something Guy reminded us. “This guy hasn’t moved at all. Hasn’t flinched. Hasn’t re-crossed his legs. Nothing.” Then, he reminisced about living in New York for seven years -- a city where this kind of stuff supposedly always happens, and yet it took him all this time, up until now, to finally bear witness. We were having a New York moment, apparently. It’s up to you, New York. New York.

I took a few photos, although they all turned out blurry. Then, a guy on the other side of the tracks walked past Naked Guy and yelled: “Hey!” It echoed through the station. Naked Guy didn’t budge. Naked Guy, it occurred to us, might be dead.

But was he? It was hard to tell. Surely, if he was in some other position -- a less deliberate one, less careful about his limbs -- I would have thought so. Or, at the very least, I would have thought he was really, really drunk. But this? What was this? He appeared to be there intentionally, lying still, feet up, relaxed, naked. Maybe dead, but probably not.

There’s only so much you can see of a naked guy, and so we eventually shrugged and went back upstairs, where we learned that there were no express trains and we’d have to take a local one. As we waited, we saw a cop across the tracks. “Hey, there’s a naked guy downstairs,” we yelled.

“I know,” the cop said. “That’s why I’m here.”

He may have said something else, but I’m not sure. Our train arrived, and drowned him out. 30-Something Guy got on the train, but Kevin and I stood on the platform, for the second time this evening, wondering whether we should ride the train or check out Naked Guy. By now, the cop was halfway down the stairs. He’d see Naked Guy soon. There’d be some interaction. We’d learn if Naked Guy is dead.

“Guys,” 30-Something Guy said to us, a bit sternly. “You want to get on this train.”

In retrospect, 30-Something Guy probably just thought we were confused. But in his tone, I read two different, equally bad things: One, that maybe this is the last train of the evening, and it’s in our best interests to take it. (Hey, I’m used to Boston. We have to worry about last trains here.) Or two, that it was too tasteless, too classless, to go downstairs and watch. That was probably true, but we had already crossed that line. We gawked. I took pictures. Dignity was not a factor. But because we were so indecisive, and here was a guy -- a drunk guy, sure, but someone with direction -- telling us what to do, we followed orders and stepped onto the train.

As soon as the doors closed, I knew it was a mistake.

Permalink: 09:18 PM | Comments (0)

At least the camera worked

Well hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I just completed reading comments through the didge, as I pledged to do in a previous post. The video is below. First, though, let me tell you how much of a disaster this was:

1. Turns out my camera (which is really for digital pics, not video) only takes about a minute's worth of video. So, sorry, some comments had to be edited for length.

2. I brought Stella, my girlfriend's puppy, into the room for this, because she's usually fascinated by the didge. Instead, she attacked my feet the entire time, which seriously diminished my already very low didge-speaking abilities. I promise, I'm not lifting my leg just to give you a good crotch shot.

3. I think I forgot what I was saying about half the time.

Clearly, I'm not cut out for this. But hey, here's the video, perhaps amusing for its pure train-wreck quality. (And apologies to Studebaker, the final commenter, who I never got to. But hey, dude, you were way past the deadline anyway. And Adam: I have no idea how to pronounce your comment. Not like it matters, I guess.)

Permalink: 12:54 PM | Comments (8)

This is not for a grade

Since I've been doing art reviews for Boston's Weekly Dig, I've anticipated, with some apprehension, the moment when I walk into a museum opening and see paintings by a former college professor of mine. We didn't quite hit it off, but now she's taking off in the art world. Surely, I figured, she'll be in some show I'm sent to review, and I'll have to figure out a way to write about it. And now, well, that time has come.

Permalink: 09:02 AM | Comments (0)

What, did he catch a prosecutor with his mistress?

Last summer, a bitchy post of mine about disgraced gossip writer Jared Paul Stern made its way to Gawker, and Stern replied by sending me a three-word e-mail: “Hey – fuck you.” I promptly printed it out and hung it on the door to my computer room, and it’s been there ever since.

Today, word comes that Stern won’t be charged for extortion after all. Fuck me, indeed! What a shame. That ruins all the fun. It reminds me of when that Bill O’Reilly suit was settled out of court.

Ah well. The e-mail print-out stays.

Permalink: 11:28 PM | Comments (0)

Speak to me! I'll gurgle you right back to you.

I routinely check who's linking to this site, and a few days ago I saw that the blog Luke and His Dad had linked my ass-kicking "24" graphic. I went to check it out. Luke and his dad have a regular podcast in which they discuss pop culture and politics. It's a fun concept -- except when it's a guy and his dad talking pop culture and politics, it's hard to avoid the inevitable pitfall that, you know, it's like listening to a guy and his dad talk pop culture and politics. But nevermind that. I listened, heard them diss my beloved "24," and responded with a comment. They quickly one-upped me. Here's a teaser from the latest podcast:

We also touch quickly on a bunch of current events, and use our patent-pending robo-voice technology to find out what commenter Jason would sound like if he were a cyborg.

We’re going to try to use the robo-voice to respond to comments live on the show from now on, so get commenting!

This is a brilliant idea. What better way to encourage comments than to promise hot robo-action? It makes me want to comment again. I love being a cyborg. Where's my laser eye? I better get a laser eye.

In honor of such fine thoughtfulness from Luke and his dad, I will now commence in stealing this idea. Except, I don't have a cyborg voice. But I do have a didgeridoo, which I just started learning how to play. And I'll only do this once. So, here's what you get: Leave a comment on this post today, and tomorrow I'll read them through the didge and post the results. (Don't get smart with me, though. Essay-length comments get killed by my laser eye.) You'll barely understand what I'm saying through the didge, but that's ok. This is all pretty pointless anyway.

Oh, and Luke? Luke's dad? "24" was awesome last night. You're really missing out.

Permalink: 12:01 AM | Comments (5)

Go Lions! Or, uh, Tigers? Bears, maybe?

Elected officials like to pretend they're part of the crowd by making friendly, sports-related bets among each other. But, uh, it kind of backfires when one of them doesn't know where the Super Bowl is.

My heckling, now available at the Weekly Dig's blog.

Permalink: 05:16 PM | Comments (1)

I really shouldn't be thinking this much about some girl's video blog

Here's a fun example of how, at least for me, small amounts of information can change the way you view something. First, watch at least a little of this:

Every so often, I randomly click on videos in YouTube's most-viewed list, and on Saturday that's how I found that video. I didn't understand a word, but was intrigued by it. I watched the whole thing, trying to figure out what was interesting. Then, I realized: I had figured she's a white kid born and raised in some Asian country (because, I'll admit, I can't identify what language this is), and so the language she's speaking is probably her native one. And then I started thinking about how interesting it is that, just like there are so many American-born Asian people I know who speak English natively but don't know the language of their ancestors, there are probably a lot of American/Australian/British kids born in Asia who don't know English. And I watched this, thinking she was one of them, and was a bit taken with this idea, and the opportunity to watch this girl casually make a video blog, speaking her native language and directing her words at people who also speak that language, but accidentally instead reaching all these English speakers who will stare perplexed at her, this girl who looks like she should be speaking English but isn’t.

Then, on her YouTube profile, I found a link to her MySpace page. Turns out, she's from Florida. Knowing this, I watched another one of her videos. This time, I saw an English-speaking girl who learned another language, and is using that language to reach out, past the English that surrounds her, to another set of people -- and if the comments on her videos are any indication, somehow still reaching people who speak English. (Like, I guess, me.) It's a different experience.

And, if you aren't sick of her already, here's another thing to do: Watch one of her videos while her MySpace page is open. It'll play some dreamlike, somber song she has loaded on there, its volume occasionally rising to drown out the words she's speaking on her video. It makes the girl in the video feel detached, like in a movie when a character is far away or gone, and only this video remains, speaking from beyond, as evidence instead of immediacy.

Permalink: 01:54 PM | Comments (1)

Maybe they got "inter" and "inner" confused

I recently met a guy who works for InterfaithFamily.com. When I got home and checked out the website, though, I accidentally pluralized the name, and typed InterfaithFamilies.com. Thus, I got redirected to... well, here’s a partial screencap:

Maybe it’s just me, but ChristianCircles.com seems somehow decidedly non-interfaith.

Permalink: 07:34 AM | Comments (2)

My psychic abilities say this prize goes unclaimed

Wired recently ran a great story about a revamped $1 million prize for anyone who can legitimately demonstrate paranormal abilities. All the big-name quacks -- Sylvia Browne, John Edward -- have kept their distance, but plenty of small-time kooks have taken a shot. Most, however, don't make it past round one with the prize's foundation:

A Nevada man legally named "The Prophet Yahweh" planned to seize the prize for charity by summoning two spaceships to a Las Vegas park last year, but negotiations broke down when he announced he was bringing several armed guards to the demonstration in case any "negative personalities" showed up. An inventor who claimed to have built a device that could sense the psychic distress of an egg about to be dropped into a pot of boiling water recently abandoned his application when the foundation suggested the egg be threatened by a hammer instead, in case the invention was really just detecting steam.

A few years ago, as I wandered the University of Minnesota's campus with a friend, we poked our heads into a theater and found a woman doing John Edward's shtick. ("Someone in the room is facing a big life decision. Is that you? You? Yes, yes, your mother-- no, your grandmother-- no, do you have a dead relative whose name starts with J? S? P? P! Yes, Peter. No? Paul? Pierre?") With only a tiny, unimpressed crowd in front of her, and without the benefit of the editing that surely takes place on Edward's show, this lady was outright bombing. It was pretty painful to watch -- but at the same time, rather fulfilling.

(Image: A very real book, of which a publication called School Library Journal apparently wrote, "This is a solid offering for kids interested in honing their paranormal skills.")

Update: Your dream-job awaits! The "hidden animals" beat must be a hot one.

Permalink: 09:22 AM | Comments (2)

What if I was watching two guys have sex, but only rooting for one of them?

Conversation at a bar on Saturday, as a friend and I watched the final moments of the Saints-Eagles game:

Her: I hope New Orleans wins.

Me: I like watching football, but I don’t have a team to root for.

Her: So, you just like watching big, sweaty men run into each other?

Me: Those are your options: root for a team, or you’re gay?

Her: Pretty much.

Permalink: 07:24 AM | Comments (0)

Happy 24 to you, happy 24 to you...

The beginning of a new "24" season is a big happening here. One year, we even made shirts. Today, though, we're toning it down, and only bought a cake at this cutesy bakery down the street. It's a dolce de leche cake, and when we asked an employee to write "Bauer Power" on top, she didn't quite manage to convey the level of ass-kicking that Bauer Power commands. All the same, it looks delightful:

Yum.

Permalink: 11:29 AM | Comments (4)

Somewhere, off the coast of Leper Island...

That's from the New England Boat Show website, promoting what's expected to be the largest boat show in New England ever. But take a look at the water in the top of the right photo. Someone clearly took a strip of water and replicated it; it's a hack Photoshop job. You'd think the New England Boat Show would have plenty of pictures of boats, so they don't have to go hiding something in one of them. I wonder what they Photoshopped out. A boat full of nudists? A dead whale? I can't imagine.

Permalink: 12:10 AM | Comments (0)

Table scraps:

♣TWO MEN GET into an argument about how tall James Brown was. One resolves the fight by shooting the other twice in the abdomen. Sad? Yes. But more importantly, who was right? How tall was James Brown? The final line of the story about the shooting is, "Accounts of his height vary."

♣IT'S LIKE WATCHING Animal Planet, but fun: A giant squid caught on film (with info here), spiders on drugs, and government employees on an escalator.

♣IN THE UNLIKELY event that you live in America and yet have no idea what sort of American accent you have, this quiz can help you out. Amusingly, if you don't fill out the quiz but hit the submit button, it decides you have a northeastern accent. I'm not sure if that's good or bad.

♣IT'S A TOILET... and a fishbowl.

♣LIKE YEAR-END lists? I don't. But if you do, here's heaven. (Well, ok, I sorta take that back: The Onion's list of least-essential albums of 2006 is pretty amusing.) Or, OK fine, you can just check out the top ten celebrity nipple slips.

♣BEST REASON EVER not to ban drinking in public: It could discriminate against the homeless. Because, you know, where else can they drink?

♣IF MY ENDORSEMENT means anything -- and I don't know why it would -- then here's what I say: Dave Eggers, who I adore, has a new book out called "What is the What," and I implore you to read it. His other books and great fun, but this one, about a Sudanese refugee, is great and moving and, well, important. On the less important, more campy side, I've recently blitzed through all the episodes of "Heroes," convienently available online. And, of course, 24 is coming back this Sunday, and I'm giddy.

♣AND THEN, THERE'S this.

Permalink: 12:01 AM | Comments (3)

You say potato, I say crazy Jew-hating Jew

The Associated Press issued an interesting correction this morning:

In a Dec. 12 story about an Iranian-sponsored conference on the Holocaust, The Associated Press erroneously attributed a claim that Zionists have exaggerated the number of Jews killed by the Nazis.

Rabbi Yisroel Dovid Weiss, who attended the conference with members of the group Neturei Karta, denied making such a statement. He said the claim, reported by Iran's state news agency and television, does not reflect his group's position. He opposes the state of Israel, and believes Israelis have used the Holocaust to gain sympathy and advantage but doesn't believe the Holocaust toll is exaggerated.

Actually, that makes him a little crazier. At least the Iranians are being consistant: If there was no Holocaust, the Jews don't deserve anyone's sympathy. But what exactly is Rabbi Weiss's group's position -- Take it like a man, Jews?

Permalink: 10:00 AM | Comments (1)

It's like beer for your eyes, but less wet

Buried inside the Boston Herald’s food section last week was an item about a new consumer beer magazine called BeerAdvocate, which is a print spin-off of a popular website. It wasn’t long, but did note:

The magazine will contain original content from many of the nation’s best beer writers, but vows to continue BeerAdvocate.com’s effort to change the way the world thinks about beer.

Correction: Original content from many of the nation’s best beer writers... and me, a guy who spent a year fearing anything but a Bud Light. The mag’s inaugural issue went out this month, and I do its news section. I am also, I’m proud to say, slightly more sophisticated as a beer drinker than I used to be. Right now, in fact, I’m on a German import kick. During my swing through Berlin last year, I became convinced that German beers are especially smooth. True? I think so. Then again, I’m not the best judge. This is why I’m doing the news section and not the reviews.

The magazine’s content isn’t online, unfortunately, but I do legitimately think it’s a good read for any beer lover, and worth considering a subscription. (I promise, I’m not being paid a commission for this.) I haven’t seen too many blog posts about it yet, but the ones that are up -- here, here and here -- are promising.

Permalink: 06:01 PM | Comments (0)

Customer service at its finest

Last week, I discussed the benefits to buying condoms online. Today, a reader (who prefers to remain anonymous) wrote me to say that after a recent harrowing experience, he’s taking my advice. Here’s his angry story:

Late night, Honey Farms, the place is filled with three or four thugged-out teens who kindly ask me "Whas Crackin" as I walk in. I walk around the side of the counter, trying to nonchalantly scope out the available varieties of rubbers on the back wall, while pretending to look at Cosmo or XXL or Rolling Stone every time the snaggle-toothed 'sales associate' looks my way.

I eventually walk up to her to order; she makes some comment about "Wha ith dis? Big hat and pants day?!?!?” (I was wearing a hat and pants, as, thankfully, were the others.) I replied, "Uhh...should I not be wearing pants out anymore?" She laughed a snaggle-tooth laugh.

Anyway, I mumble my order for Trojans, [color redacted], to which she, in her snaggle-tooth excited voice, says, "Dat's my boy! If ya can't use the big blacks, use the [color redacted]!" And then she cackled. Cackled. Snaggle-tooth style, of course. I thanked her for her time and went on my way, once again being asked "Whas chillin?" by my hat- and pants-wearing brothas.

Seriously though, the next time I need condom advice from the HoFo bitch working the 3rd shift, I'll ask. Dammit, it was degrading.

Permalink: 10:34 AM | Comments (0)

Who knows what he'll do with the meatloaf

Today's Beetle Bailey

Excited and tingly? Love life? Mashed potatos? Kick it, Beastie Boys:

Shit, if it's going to be that kind of a party
I'm gonna stick my dick in the mashed potatoes

Permalink: 08:24 AM | Comments (3)

Maybe high-fiving the clerk will help

Some stores in Wisconsin are putting condoms behind the counter or in locked cases, ostensibly because they’re too often shoplifted. This has some public health advocates concerned, because it might discourage people from buying condoms at all. Here’s the director of patient services for Planned Parenthood of Wisconsin:

"It's a very sensitive subject buying condoms. . . . Asking for razor blades or Nicorette is one thing, but admitting that you're having sex is another," Coffman said.

At least she’s being more realistic than the Planned Parenthood website, which blithely chirps, “Don't be embarrassed by the thought of going into a store and asking for condoms. Be proud. Buying condoms says that you are responsible and that you accept your sexuality as a normal part of living.” Hooray! Imagine making that little speech during every purchase.

But, really, the embarrassment doesn’t come from “admitting that you’re having sex.” People would gladly do that whether they were buying condoms or wart removers. The issue is that, essentially, you’ll be having sex with the product you’ve just handed to the clerk. It’s like saying, “Here, I’ll be putting this on my penis in an hour.” And, well, that’s not a moment I like to share with store clerks. At least, not most of them.

But then again, I’m surprised that many people are buying condoms in the store at all. I suppose I hadn’t thought much about it, but I’d have expected people to do what I’ve always done: buy ‘em online. Why bother with the store at all? I can only remember buying condoms in a store once, and that was... well, you figure it out. I tried finding a study on condom-buying patterns, but couldn’t. If one’s out there -- and if anyone finds one, please let me know -- my money’s on online sales skyrocketing every year. Join the party, Wisconsinites.

(Wacky nun pic via this NSFW site.)

Permalink: 08:02 AM | Comments (1)

At least the year ended well

I hope you all had a good New Year's Eve. I did. And so, apparently, did someone in Mt. Laurel, New Jersey. I'm guessing he's unemployed, maybe 18 or 19, and had planned on applying for a big job flipping burgers at McDonald's on Tuesday. Last night, though, he went to a hell of a party, got a little smashed, and started hitting on that lonely girl in the corner. She wouldn't have been his first choice, especially with that strange stuff on her lips, but all the other girls were taken and, well, he was pretty drunk. Then this morning -- according to my website tracker, at around 8:30 a.m. -- he sat up in bed with a start, ran to the computer, and Googled a suddenly very important question:

In case you can't read that, somebody found this blog this morning by searching for, "can people with herpes work in foodservice". Happy New Year!

Permalink: 01:36 PM | Comments (4)