Shyzer.com

When American Idol first burst onto the scene four years ago, “thrilled and excited” was not an expression best used to describe my feelings towards it. “Yippee,” I thought to myself, “Another reality based show where teenagers get to sing out of tune! I sure can’t wait for the next version where my local high school drama department is cast for next summer’s alien blockbuster movie!” Sure, I eventually became a fan of Kelly Clarkson, but that wasn’t until about a year ago after she’d graduated from the pony leagues and released some decent stuff. Other than that, the show and I managed to maintain an amicable relationship and all was well.

And then last month, the trap was laid. It started sometime during the trial audition episodes where people sing their hearts and souls out only to be ridiculed, embarrassed, and flee from the building with only a trail of crushed dreams following them. Oh, and the FOX cameramen are there too, because talk about good television! But then this rocker dude sporting some cool facial hair and a wicked cowboy hat walked into the room and caught my attention. And then the little girl named London or Moscow or whatever walked in the room and belted out a Dixie Chicks song that brought back heaps of memories. Before I knew it, some guy with gray hair who looked old enough to be my dad was staring at me through the screen and while he looked to be having a seizure while singing, some wonderful southern soul music was flowing from him and before I knew it, I was watching the Hollywood finals cheering for the few favorites I had.

The Hollywood finals should have been the end of it. I should have seen what was going on and solved the problem right then and there. I should have realized that my arm had been caught in whatever trap had been laid and therefore chewed the limb off in order to save the rest of my body, but that’s not quite what happened. Instead, I figured I was smarter than your average wild animal and that I could use my other free arm to save myself!

Don’t ever let anybody tell you again that animals are stupid.

Yes, thanks to Katharine McPhee’s performance on Tuesday night and Taylor Hicks’ last night, I’ve officially been fully sucked into the vortex of hell that is otherwise called American Idol. [Quick aside, if Katharine ever wants to change her name to Hotty McHot, I fully endorse her decision and will pay the cost of filing the proper paperwork with the courts. Dear Christ, the looks she gives the camera while singing could make the entire gay population of Philadelphia switch sides. Also the fact that Hicks gave three shout outs to his "Soul Patrol" fans on the Internet makes him that much more awesome.] I’d never really listened to Elton John’s Levon before hearing Hicks sing it last night, but let’s just say my iPod has already grown tired of playing it since I stuck it on there about a day ago. The real kicker to proving there’s no turning back for me now is that if you were to look at the outgoing call list on my cell phone, it wouldn’t be a proud moment for me.

Remember back in December where I said Shyzer was looking to bring on a few contributors to help cover the slack during my mandatory 18-day monthly vacations from posting? Well, I would like to introduce our first victim lucky donor: Andy. Andy and I met on the Internet about a year and a half ago through a mutual friend and ever since then, I’ve had approximately 872 abdominal muscle cramps from laughing at some of the hilarious random comments he consistently makes. But even though the question as to his hilarity was never an issue, I felt it necessary to take the time to get to know him, to find out who the true Andy was, before I officially tapped him as a Shyzer contributor. Because as it stood, all I really knew about him was A) He studies rocks or something, B) He helped introduce me to the term VALIDATION, and C) Um…its rocks that he studies, right? However, after extensive and intensive questioning, four hours of torture that would make Rumsfeld proud, and a stool test, the only thing I learned was this:

shyzerDOTcom: I’m typing up a short introduction about you for Shyzer - anything in particular you want it to say?
Andy: The first and last time I chewed tobacco was a nice sized load of Red Man that I partly swallowed.
Andy: I then had to dig a 2 foot wide by 3 foot deep hole that I nearly vomited into in front of my PhD adviser.
Andy: that’s really all they need to know

That’s Andy for ya, folks. But, without further ado, I give you Andy’s first posting here on Shyzer, which can be found on the post below.

Ideally the unwritten directive for this blog is to make one post a month and have it be somehow worthwhile to the reader; interesting, irreverent, profound (doubtful coming from me), etc. and at all times completely honest. [Sidenote: Why else would someone write in a blog? Well, a wiser person than me once said that America is a nation of voyeurs and I completely agree.] Luckily tonight I have a good excuse to exceed my mandate and report that absurdity levels have reached a new high. Around a priceless IM excerpt from an otherwise mundane conversation I will build the story of why Jen Roskowsky is such an interesting case study.

Take a trip back in time. It’s August of 2005, and I fancy Jen. I enjoy the fact that she flirts with me non-stop on the Grand Canyon trip. Until a few years ago I didn’t even detect flirtations. Unfortunately they occur about as often as a solar eclipse so any sort of attention from a woman is a major plus. At first glance Jen has an intriguing personality and is fairly attractive. She dresses especially well. She is smart. In short, I am very pleased to be on the receiving end of her interactions. What I selectively choose not to observe is that Jen’s attention to me is not singular.

As the weeks pass I plot strategy and during a night filled with Jim Beam and Johnnie Walker make my move. Classy! And it works! This is only the second time that I plant one on a girl and it goes about as well as one imagines. [Sidenote: I am completely serious; my 20 year absence of a sex drive is something that will be fully explored in a future New England Journal of Medicine article.] A week of blissful spooning ensues until Jen realizes that my interests apparently lie in a real relationship. You know, one where the guy and girl attend ice cream socials and ride a two-person bike with streamers for half a decade and eventually make babies. To deal with our differing visions she drunkenly confesses, “I like you but I don’t heart you.” Who says that? You guessed it folks: Frank Stallone!

Tragically our relationship in its official capacity ends sometime between when she starts crying and when I throw her in the pool. Jen is remarkably upset. So devastated in fact that she pins me into the corner of the pool like it’s about time to feed the eel. Toby, who had been relaxing pool-side, notices this and flees in horror. At the end of the night I am surprisingly not too shaken. This is a pleasant surprise as usually any romantic defeat ends with me poised atop a bell-tower with an automatic rifle. Instead confusion prevails, replaced soon-after by revelations. I learn, and should have noticed, that her brief interlude with me has a prequel (we’ll call him Jerome Smith) and a sequel (Bob Takaichi). All the while as she maintains a relationship with former undergraduate boyfriend Chris, who now lives in California in a community presumably distant enough not to be obliterated by the shockwaves of absurdity that she generates with every action.

Unfortunately I have no self control. Despite concluding that Jen has certain appetites that exceed conventional volumes and social boundaries (this is apparently referred to on the facebook as an “open relationship”) and will still like (but not heart) me almost at will, I engage in two spooning episodes with her over the next month. What can I say? The evenings started by watching Battlestar Galactica. And anyway it’s not like I abhor the experience. I purged that whole Catholic guilt dominated brain pattern 2 years prior. No, the whole episode is actually somewhat enjoyable. However there is something deeply unsettling and distasteful to know that you’re just a means to an end and one of several. Conversely knowing that two of your colleagues are infatuated in, share experiences with, but absolutely do not acknowledge their connection to Jen really brings a smile to my face.

To terminate my involvement I make the conscious choice to cease participation in the chicanery. However given my big mouth and absence of sound judgment I am not afraid to mention the “Love Pentagon” at anytime, especially considering that she has now thoroughly ensnared “Bob” and to a lesser extent “Mr. Smith” in her new invention which I casually refer to as the “Soul Reaper 5000″.

Now patient readers this is finally where I get to the juicy, PG-13, chat log which in final analysis really isn’t that great. Sorry.

jjkowski: hey there
Dr Rocks 1982: howdy
jjkowski1: howre you
Dr Rocks 1982: fine, went home to eat and work some on an excel that works
jjkowski1: ahhh
jjkowski1: good times
Dr Rocks 1982: it’s true
jjkowski1: you missed playing with ross’s kids tonight at stick it to the man
jjkowski1: twas hilarious
Dr Rocks 1982: yeah, ill probably be missing a lot of that in coming weeks
jjkowski1: yeahi houlsn’d have gone
jjkowski1: and had 2 beers
jjkowski1: ooops
Dr Rocks 1982: eh what can ya do
jjkowski1: oooh you can have a good time
jjkowski1: thats what you can do
jjkowski1: andy, i am really horny. i just thought i would share that with you
Dr Rocks 1982: i suggest a large pentagon in your office like the wheel of fortune wheel with pictures of myself, [bob], [mr. smith], chris, and yourself
Dr Rocks 1982: if it lands on you…well you know what to do
Dr Rocks 1982: I dont want to make this conversation R-rated
jjkowski1: hahaha but i’m TIRED of that, andy!
jjkowski1: it grows old
jjkowski1: i like R-rated things
Dr Rocks 1982: oh stop complaining and reap what you sew!
Dr Rocks 1982: the abusrdity of the entire situation still amuses me immensely
Dr Rocks 1982: it’s a shame the others don’t see it
jjkowski1: hahaha thats true. i’m glad that you do andy.
jjkowski1: its too bad you’re not quiteas willing to participate in it as others are tho
Dr Rocks 1982: i know what a shame
jjkowski1: haha
jjkowski1: you seem so sad to miss out
Dr Rocks 1982: oh it just tears me apart inside
Dr Rocks 1982: i vent the rage by kicking a puppy each new moon
jjkowski1: hahaha
Dr Rocks 1982: so let’s change the topic away from your sexual dysfunction…
jjkowski1: haha i do’nt think it’s a dysfunction
jjkowski1: i think its an overfunction
jjkowski1: but ok

I don’t think I need to explain why the above bolded statement is so incredibly ridiculous. At least she acknowledges the absurdity. Beyond that there isn’t much else to say. Or maybe there is plenty more but just not tonight. There are some people in this world who are different, vastly different, from me and probably some of you more normal people too. Try not to judge, but try to laugh.

Ok, judge too.

I’ve had this as my away message for a day or two and I figured I might as well post it here and see if I can get any more good answers from you people.

Here is what I need: I need y’all to think of actors, singers, athletes, politicians - basically ANYBODY famous that you associate with a specific religion. For instance, Mel Gibson = Hollywood’s poster child Christian. Tom Cruise = Crazy Scientology Dude. Richard Gere = Buddhist. You get the point. Also, the person can be associated with a religion I’ve already named. Mel Gibson doesn’t get to be the only Christian on my list and while I’d love for there to be as few Scientology people on it as possible, if you can think of any other person you immediately associate with the wacko “religion”, then fire away.

So make yourselves useful and contribute to a Shyzer post I’m working on!

Somebody from Pakistan just came here via MSN while searching for “breast orgies.”

Don’t worry dude, I won’t rat you out to the Pakistani authorities, even though I’m pretty sure you can be put to death for searching for that in your country. But I need to warn you, despite my best efforts and what MSN might tell you, there ain’t many breast orgies going on here at Shyzer.

I do think it’s high time we change that, though.

Ever since I first discovered The Daily Show back in 2002 or so, I’ve always thought it would be cool if I could do something that would enable me to be a guest on the show. And while I haven’t quite reached that level yet, I managed to wrangle my way on the show last night without even knowing it.

In college, on an average weekday, my mornings usually consisted of A) Sleeping in bed, B) Sleeping on the couch, or C) Sleeping on the kitchen floor. In the rare occasion that I awoke before pre-noon, I usually wrapped myself in a comforter and spread out on the couch to indulge in some West Wing, Price is Right, or if Kelly Ripa was looking especially hot, Regis & Kelly. One such morning as I was making my way to President Bartlett’s second election, I stumbled across a funny comedian on Comedy Central named Demetri Martin. He had a little 30 minute special and after laughing hysterically at the few minutes of it I was able to catch, I was hooked. His comedy was pure gold and when his special ended, I immediately wanted more. I jumped on the Internet to find some clips or to visit his site, but after an hour of constant searching, I was empty handed. Demetri must have been the most reclusive comedian at the time and while it helped enhance his mystique and aura, it pissed me off since I wanted to laugh at him.

I kept a video tape ready to record in the VCR for over a year before I saw him on Comedy Central again. This time, I managed to capture his entire skit and for the next few weeks, I was in heaven. I must have watched that thing 400 times before finally retiring it and after that, I kinda forgot about him.

Then this past December, Jon Stewart handed over an episode to a new Daily Correspondent who had a new segment and for the past few months, Demetri Martin has humored us with bits on wine drinkers and the new XBOX 360, among other things. He mentioned in one segment that he had a Myspace account and within minutes, we were friends. So what trend did Demetri talk about last night? As luck would have it, Myspace, and in case you missed it, go check out the latest addition to the media section, the Demetri Martin Myspace Video.

But you might be saying to yourself, “Goob, I thought you said you were on The Daily Show. Don’t tease us like that.” My bad, folks. I not usually a tease, honest. If you go and watch the video, you’ll see a shot where Demetri shows how many friends he has and the number stands at 9,000.

And guess who is part of that 9,000.

I can feel the celebrity status already going to my head.

As you can see from the new cam image, I’ve begun slowly shaving my beard piece by piece. I’ve been shaving certain areas off a few days at a time and have been taking pictures along the way, so once I’m finally finished, I’ll have some new photos for the Shaved Gallery.

In other Shyzer news, my mysterious Romanian visitor has stopped coming to Shyzer. For about two weeks there, I had some dude in Romania checking Shyzer literally six or seven times a day. I’m not sure what happened to him, but hopefully he didn’t succumb to Bird Flu or anything. It was cool seeing him pop up on my stats list for a while though.

And finally, I have a great story that I’d like to share, but can’t publicly for at least a few months. I did, however, tell Stan about it and his direct response was, “hahahahaha. That’s the funniest story you have told in the last year Goob! Awesome to the max!”
Needless to say, it’s pretty funny.

Other than those stellar news bulletins, my life has been full of snow, HTML, and the Olympics. Sorry for the lack of posts within the last week or so, but I promise to pick the pace back up soon.

Snow isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I’ve got over a gig of commercials on my hard drive, so you might call me something of a Commercial Aficionado. Everybody makes a big deal over the Superbowl commercials and how expensive / awesomely amazing they are. I’ll concede the expensive aspect of them, but awesomely amazing? I don’t think so. With exception to Apple’s 1984 commercial, most Super Bowl commercials are good only for a few chuckles before being forgotten. Maybe companies try to hard, maybe the expectations for Super Bowl commercials are too high, or maybe advertisers think the average American’s intelligence level is too low to “get” anything above a fart or crotch joke. Luckily for me, however, the Winter Olympics start tonight and with them, some decent commercials.

Yes, for me, I’ll take the commercials during the Olympics over the Super Bowl any day. NIKE and Gatorade always come through with an extraordinary commercial of their own and in fact, my all time favorite commercial was made by NIKE back during the 2002 Winter Olympics. The Super Bowl may be prime real-estate for brainless, crude commercials, but the Olympics are where you can find the poetic and inspirational commercials. Oh yeah, and in-between them there’s usually some weird sporting events you can watch, if that’s what tickles your fancy.

Of course, the ultimate commercial gift for me this month would be another Wintery dose of Kerri Walsh and Misty May. Oh yeah.

When I woke up this morning around 0200 (yes, woke up. Don’t even begin to ask how f-ed up my sleeping patterns are right now), I decided to stay in bed and watch Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind. And all I can say is, Wow.

I can see why this movie is ranked #35 over on IMDB. It’s one of those movies which is so good, you start breaking words apart simply so you can lengthen the time you spend praising it. For instance, when the movie ended, I didn’t just say out loud to Koral and Casper, “That was beautiful,” oh no, I broke it down into syllables. “That…..was….beau-ti-ful.” It’s basically Memento with a love story and I honestly don’t even think The Birthday Syndrome had anything to do with how awesome I thought the move was.

I’m a strong believer in The Birthday Syndrome. For those unenlightened souls out there who have yet to ever hear about the syndrome I made up in my head, it goes a little something like this: On your birthday, everything seems a little better than it really is. It’s almost like an extension of the childhood Stay Home From School Syndrome, where trashy soap operas and Price As Right episodes seem heavenly, simply because you appreciate the fact that you’re not sitting through math or science at that very moment. But The Birthday Syndrome extends to the entire day and goes far beyond the realm of daytime television. TBS unexplainably enhances your daily activities from morning till night. You’ll wake up feeling more refreshed, you’ll have an extra dose of energy throughout the day, and your pillow will feel softer when you finally plop your head down. The sugar in your birthday cake will taste sweeter, your rum & cokes will be, um, more rum & cokier, and suffice to say everything else will be more everything elseier.

So to all you people out there who bitch and whine about how old you are when your birthday comes around, stop wasting your only Birthday Syndrome of the year and enjoy it. And if that doesn’t work, go watch Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind and stop raining on my parade. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to watch a funnier episode of The Daily Show and eat some of that sickly sweet birthday cake upstairs.