Phillies fans are marbles

[EDIT - way, way outdone by this dude]

Myself included

Dudes on news stand

Dude on streetlight and dudes on subway entrance

Dudes on firetruck

Dudes

Dudes

Scare mongering to sell batteries is marbles

From our Main Line correspondent:

now, i've seen this commercial before, but it pisses me off every time and was wondering if you noticed...that duracell commercial where the mom loses her kid in the park and they pan around and there's a glimpse of a van going down the road....and because of the batteries working in some fake looking transmitter, she finds her kid and he's okay....that whole thing pisses me off. scare mongering to sell batteries.

In case you haven't seen it:

Major league baseball hipster managers are marbles

Very simply, why does the [Devil] Ray's coach have hipster glasses? I don't get it. Why not get yourself some age-appropriate Joe Paterno glasses? And then as you go gentle into that good night, you can still do the whole Weekend at Bernie's routine that JoePa has going, being carted around in golf carts and propped up in press boxes during games. Dead hipsters just don't warrant that kind of attention. Get with the program.

Impressions are marbles

I don't get why impressions of famous people are funny. Impressive yes, but funny no. I got to thinking of this a few weeks ago when I saw the guy from Frank TV at a random campus bar on a random Saturday afternoon. He was a cool guy and let us take a picture (dude on the right) and even did a quick W impression. He does one hell of an impression, and I laughed, but I don't know why.
I have the same problem with SNL. Their better known sketches over the years seem to have centered around direct imitations of famous people, doing what they normally do, the same way they normally do it. Sure, there's some exaggeration, and that is of course necessary in order to "make fun," but it seems like a lot of audience's appreciation gets bound up in how spot-on the impression is. And I just don't see what it is about direct imitation that is funny (even though I laugh more often than not).

Take the Tina Fey-Sarah Palin thing. First, it was clear from the beginning that the bitch just looked like Tina Fey (and Tina Fey gets first dibs on looking like Tina Fey). And when Tina Fey did her now-famous impression, the likeness was uncanny. But it was seen as especially remarkable because she was able to quote the would-be-VP-disaster verbatim and still get huge laughs. That probably says more about her subject than anything else, but why don't we all just laugh directly at Sarah Palin? That shit is funny out of anybody's mouth, if you ask me.

Living down the street from Big Butter Jesus is marbles

Slightly north of Cinci resides Big Butter Jesus (nee Touchdown Jesus, or Quicksand Jesus), reportedly the largest Christ statue in the world. I also reside slightly north of Cinci. Besides constantly reminding me of where the last presidential election was decided, living a couple miles from BBJ is marbles for one important reason. It's not because I'm anti-religion (I'm not). It's not because I'm personally against Jesus (he seemed like a friendly guy). It's not the moderate hypocrisy of false idols and mega-church millionaires. It's not that it makes for a good terrorist target (that's just overreacting). It's marbles because if they happen to be right, and armageddon is a'comin, then if I'm Lucifer I know where Phase 1 of Operation Shitstorm will occur. Well, it's either here or Wisconsin. Heathens.

Fringe cable station advertising products are marbles, probably.

While the lawyers amongst us are busy getting bottle service and living it up with the 'man', the rest of us are resigned to watching VH1 Classic and subjecting ourselves to the bottom of the infomercial barrel.

Behold, the Snuggie:


Basically what we have here is a blanket with sleeves. Definitely different than a robe on backwards, definitely.

Here is my issue. While I'm laying on the couch I could use something like this. I, too, hate when my blankets get in the way of my activities. But, it needs one more access hole. The wang hole. If they add a wang hole they have a instant sale. Then I'd have the comfort of a soft blanket, with the convenience to have easy access for all my 'activities'.

I suppose I could just order one and cut a hole in it... hmmmm.

Hiding the face of a WWII Japanese soldier in a painting of the LIberty Bell is marbles

I swear I see the face of a WWII-era Japanese soldier in this portion of a painting of the Liberty Bell at the 5th Street subway station. It freaked me out one day while waiting for the train. My mom thinks I'm nuts.

Using Q&A time as your personal conspiracy theory soapbox is marbles

So I'm at a talk this afternoon being given by Secretary Chertoff (big time, I know) on risk management (big stuff, I know) and at the conclusion they did one of those question and answer sessions where a few kids line up in the aisles and take turns at the mic. After a few normal-ish questions from normal-ish kids comes the classic jackass that I've only encountered on college campuses (or witnessed on TV during the Q&A portions of these kinds of talks). He grabs the mic, announces that he's a sociology major, and launches into a five minute recitation of the history of the anthrax attacks since 2001, detailing the number of available anthrax strains, the specific military base the particular strain in question was traced to, the initial speculation of terrorist involvement, and finally the "convenience" of the most likely suspect committing suicide. He was a conspiracy theory nut, of course, and we all got to bear witness to his wild accusations of government misdeeds. Not that these questions aren't generally worth asking, they're just better directed toward crazy homeless guys or the internet. And as he finally trailed off amid the annoyed murmurs of the crowd, the secret service guy next to him looked like he was a few seconds from putting the hammer down. Now that would have been entertainment.

Children not having to confront their mortality is marbles

When I was 8 years old the neighborhood kids and I would ride our bikes to go swimming* at a local rock quarry that had been filled with water and equipped with rafts and such. It was awesome. The next year, however, it closed, leaving us with no swimming hole - an intolerable situation. Fortunately for us, a similar quarry was available a few towns over. Fortunately for our parents, they got to drive us to it.

I have one memory of this new quarry that has really stuck with me - its frightening and deadly floating playground equipment (sorry, best category I could come up with). It had its share of high dives and such, which were of course normal and reasonable. But what really stood out were two huge metal devices, one called "The Bobber" and the other "The Rocker,"** -- instruments of death the likes of which have long since been banned or litigated into obscurity.

The Bobber, shown here in full engineering detail, was a single person device that floated upright on a hollow metal ball several feet in diameter, with the rider perched about 8-10 feet in the air in a little crow's nest type thing. There must have been a counterweight underwater, too. The purpose of The Bobber was to stand in the nest and shift your weight from side to side to make the thing increasingly rock back and forth. After a few cycles, fat kids could regularly get the nest (and themselves) to partially submerge. It looked like fun, until you got up there and realized that you were barefoot on painted metal, many feet in the air, clinging to few widely spaced metal bars, and trying to keep your balance as the momentum of the thing built and tried to throw you off. And you had to rock until you touched water, lest you be chided by your fat friends. But all along it was clear that death was a real possibility. Among the possible outcomes of this exercise were slipping mid-rock and hitting your head and dying, slipping at peak-rock (causing the Bobber to whip back) and hitting your head and dying, or - after the Bobber had come back to rest - attempting to jump off (causing the Bobber to move equally and oppositely to your jump) and hitting your head and dying. All the while with Don Henley blaring from the shore.

Suburban children these days just aren't afforded the same opportunity to confront their own mortality as we were. I'm sure our parents had an even greater opportunity to do so during their youths. The evolution of dry land playground equipment bears this out as well, with rickety monkey bars, splintering treehouses, and slides that burned your ass having been replaced by smooth plastic versions with safety nets. A trip to the quarry might provide a valuable life lesson for these kids.

*Note that this was the beginning of the water-in-the-brain problem
**The Rocker was a two person, teeter-totter-like apparatus that was marginally safer, being much shorter and equipped with a carpeted surface to stand on (though when wet it was just as slippery as metal)

Not having a yard to bury your money in is marbles

Over the years I've complained about various aspects of apartment living, but as the market continues to tank I'm becoming convinced that the worst aspect of apartment life is not having a yard of my own in which I can safely bury my money. As it stands, I'm forced to choose between hiding my money under my mattress (and finding another place to hide my pornography) and hiding it in several hundred of those fake shaving cream cans (and finding another place to hide several hundred cans worth of shaving cream). There's just no good solution. The subprime housing market is down, but what about the subprime yard market? That's all I need, really.

The FDA is marbles

From a good but uncitable source:

The American Red Cross's policies regarding who is able to donate blood, much to many people's surprise, do not allow gay men or transgendered women to donate blood, even if they are HIV negative. Other "high risk" groups may donate, but for any man or transgendered woman who has had sex with a man since 1977, the answer is no. Those individuals are banned from donating blood for life. The problems with this policy are multiple, but one of the most pressing is the urgent need for blood. Indeed, the Red Cross and the American Association of Blood Banks have of late attempted to move toward a non-discriminatory policy, but the ultimate arbiter is the Food and Drug Administration, a governmental administrative agency that has thus far been resistant to change. The FDA's stance is counterintuitive insofar as it excludes hundreds of thousands of healthy individuals, while the organization is in dire need of blood.

Further reading.

BEHIND THE MARBLES: Stealing someone else's made up expletive is marbles

From my first potential litigant:

I love it when my friends put stuff on the internet for me to read all day while I pretend to be working, I just like getting proper attributions. Seems like someone would be getting off on the wrong foot in the fast pace world of published legal documents if they were remiss in their obligations to give credit where it was due. Just don't use my real name, I don't want my good name coming up on Google attached to this filth when people are checking my background for future work (filthy Palin cornfield!). So, how about all due credit to my friend [redacted] for the blog name. I'm watching you.

Okay, so maybe I didn't coin the phrase, but neither did this asshole. He said something boring, and I misheard it as something awesome. I did him a favor. And then the redacted asshole rode our coattails by pointing out that "that's marbles" would make a perfect exclamation/expletive. Nonetheless, under the applicable law of this jurisdiction, the first to blog has priority.

Using tax dollars to feed squirrels is marbles

Walking through the park today I noticed some lovely seasonal decoration, presumably installed by the city. Mostly hay bales and pumpkins, but also some corn stalks, which were tied to lamp posts and, to my startled surprise, teeming with squirrels. The thing is, they put up corn stalks with the corn still attached (Indian corn, so it was especially seasonal), and every squirrel apparently called every other squirrel in a 10 block radius to come and go to town on this stuff.

Note that omitted from the picture are three of four other critters on the ground waiting their turn.

Urban tumble wigs are marbles

It's definitely a Philly phenomenon, and perhaps has wider scope. The urban tumble weave is the random tuft of hair that accumulates on sidewalks outside of nightclubs, probably the result of girl fights, and often in the vicinity of broken Hennessey bottles. Its existence is remarkably well documented. But only on rare occasions is one lucky enough to find an entire wig, i.e., an urban tumble wig. I present said wig here.

Carpal tunnel syndrome is marbles

I've spent most of my life belittling those claiming silly injuries like carpal tunnel syndrome, but I think I'm becoming a believer. Whatever this is, it freaking hurts. It especially hurts when I type. It hurts even more when I type about how much it hurts to type. And the only thing that hurts worse than typing about how much it hurts is typing an inane blog entry about typing about how much it hurts to type.

It's devastating when forces of nature completely beyond my control conspire to make my life marginally more difficult.

Chick fil-A being closed on Sundays is marbles

As long as I live, I will never remember this simple fact. There's something about Sunday that gets me a hankerin' for fried chicken sandwiches and waffle fries, and there's something about Chick fil-A that insists on not being open and not warning me before I get in the car and drive several miles and rediscover its Sunday-closedness. Why must we continually do this dance, Chick fil-A? It should be clear by now that I'm never going to learn.

Your hometown having a Sarah Palin corn maze is marbles

The bailout is marbles

What's wrong with the $700B bailout is that it's such a round number. Maybe it was really 701 billion dollars and they rounded down. Or maybe it was 699 billion dollars and they rounded up. Either way, there's at least a billion dollars unaccounted for or overaccounted for. And either way I'd be more than happy to turn that rounding error into a yacht full of hookers.

Bringing yourself back is marbles

As seen in the greater Cleveland area. I'm fairly certain, or at least would like to believe, that this sign was not made according to the Dunkin Donuts customer service playbook.