The Avant-Garde Football Association

Apparently, art history courses fail to recognize Picasso's obsession with American rules football. I pulled this label off a FedEx Package yesterday. It looks like a poster for a cubist football team!

Yes, I have some idle time.

I don't necessarily 'have cable'

I don’t exactly ‘have cable’ television, in that I don’t subscribe to cable service provider… which means I don’t ‘have cable.’ I guess I could have just said that. I don’t have cable.

Anyway, last evening’s episode of The Colbert Report was one of the best I can recall in recent memory. Full episodes of The Colbert Report are available the day after they air on Colbertnation.com which is terribly convenient for those of us 9-5 ‘keyless piano players.' Watch it.

Columbus Day

516 years ago today Christopher Columbus discovered not only the 'new world,' but an entirely new hemisphere. Today, over 5 centuries later, I not only had to go to work but I was assailed by a prostitute over my lunch break.

I suppose it is true that no one gets Columbus Day off anymore.

(If you can find a better joke in there somewhere, please feel free to share)

Do The Right Thing

Whilst wandering through Amoeba’s endless array of audio/visual confectioneries, I stumbled upon this simple bumper sticker. Now I’m not especially a bumper-sticker man (thank you mid-late 90s novelty ‘gift’ shops), but something about this sticker stood out to me. The message, “VOTE!” is self-explanatory and not especially exceptional, but it was the raised hands that caught my attention. To me, this sticker calls back to the idea of the American opportunity. Voting isn’t just a piece of paper with darkened ovals and #2 pencil smudges. Voting is the opportunity to have your turn, it is your chance to speak, your moment to be a part of how a system works.

It is easy to get sucked into the belief that your vote doesn’t matter. Such is the status of our culture to complain about the system, complain about the results, and complain about the future, all without offering a solution. The ‘hip’ concept of government dissatisfaction without a better alternative is especially ironic in America. Our government is designed to offer everyone an equal opportunity to change the way the system operates, but is only beneficial when the people make the effort to create that change.

Voting is the American ideal that we’re all equal. Voting is what makes this country the most sought after real estate on earth, it is what your grandparents worked so hard for, and it is what millions have died for.

Get educated, get involved, get out there and vote.

An evening with Eric Wareheim

Last Friday night, in a fashion that can only be described as forgettable, I met Eric Wareheim. For those of you devoid of a hip lifestyle, Eric Wareheim. makes up the Eric of Adult Swim’s Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job.
I wish I could say we met over humorous circumstances or amidst a turbulent dance-off, but alas, I met Eric Wareheim the same way I’ve met other comedy icons nice enough to stop and shake my hand; I was awkward.
I saw him while perusing through downtown LA’s Bar 107. My brain said to do the cool thing, which was to act indifferent while my insides twisted themselves into star-struck knots. Normally, I would have listened to my brain; he is the brains of this whole operation, but it was Eric Wareheim's company that made me act foolishly. Mr. Wareheim was with someone I ‘knew,’ someone I had performed with not more than 5 days prior. I figured I could say hi to DJ Dougg Pound, whom I performed with, which would naturally carry-over to an introduction and possibly a laugh. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was all I could come up with in the 5 seconds it took me to approach DJ Dougg Pound (a proper game plan would have been advisable, but thinking isn’t usually part of meeting someone you admire [see dating]).
I marched up to DJ Dougg Pound expecting him to remember me from the less than stellar performance we shared, which he did after roughly 3 seconds of awkward quizzical expressions. Upon realizing ‘who I was,’ he said hello and without any hesitation turned to Eric Wareheim and said, “I performed with this guy, he’s okay.”
My brain should have identified this introduction as a good opportunity to say something cool like, “how are you guys doing tonight or are they [girls] with you,” but instead my brain came up with “Your show is awesome.” Awesome. I chose awesome, the word that is used in the show’s title to convey humor. Yes, I am a complete and total idiot.
Eric Wertheim was as polite as one can be when a stranger says something stupid and hangs onto your hand for far too long; he smiled and walked away.
Moore, you still got it.

Thanks Jesus

Los Angeles. The name itself instills a myriad of images from palm trees to party girls, but rarely does anyone initially descend upon the city’s Spanish origin without a little guidance. Despite 3.5 years of LA living under my belt, I too am often times surprised when a facet of Spanish culture appears in my day-to-day. I was reminded of this fact upon viewing a Subway restaurant receipt and noticing the man who rang up my order went by the name of ‘Jesus.’ Now I’m not going to make the obvious ‘joke’ by claiming that Jesus of Nazareth exchanged money with me; not really my style. I grew up in the Bible belt, I know the ‘good book,’ and though I have some questions I don’t believe mocking Christ is appropriate. Say what you will.

That being said, it was still strange to see Jesus’ name on my submarine sandwich receipt. For whatever reason, I find it odd that the Hispanic culture tends to use the name of Christ (and his mother) frequently when naming children. I believe having a biblical, non-savior name (Matthew) is difficult enough but I can’t imagine the pressure of living up to a name like Jesus. Those are large sandals to fill (sorry).
In any event, this situation made me stop in my tracks for a moment. I know I’m just supposed to shrug it off and say, “it’s just the culture, man” but seeing ‘Jesus’ on my receipt got me to chuckle on amidst a rough day. For that I say, “Thanks Jesus.”

The Return of the King

Today I decided to usher in a new era of blog posts by drooling all over my down comforter. I know my many loyal readers have patiently wondered how I would return to the world of e-based autobiographical updates. You probably believed my return would resemble the awe and raw spectacle of a written Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and it is more than obvious my drool-soaked bedding surpassed every expectation. I’m sure this information is a gift on par with the printing press or aviation, but please refrain from offering your accolades. I am a man of the people, and I’m happy to drool all over a down comforter halfway through a Chargers game.

I'm going to try to write more.

This Week In Junk Mail (3/1-3/7)

This week in junk mail I received this scantily clad Victoria’s Secret gift card.

I must admit the tri-fold advertisement wasn’t directly addressed to me (… or current resident), but as the current resident it thusly became my possession. As a simple mailing from Victoria’s Secret marketing department, I automatically excused the envelope as a contender for this week’s best piece of junk mail. As I went to discard it among the rest of my recyclables, I took notice as to the gift card’s wording and was pleasantly confused;
“FREE VS COTTON PANTY.”

Now, as a male non-pervert, I don’t know much about Victoria’s Secret. I don’t casually thumb through its pages or order catalogues under a false name (see Kuhns). I especially don’t know that Victoria’s Secret itself casually abbreviates its name to “VS.” Thus, I read the gift card as “FREE VERSES COTTON PANTY.”

Whoa! What a total mind blow. For a brief second it appeared to me that Victoria’s Secret was giving women everywhere the choice of ‘Freedom’ or the ‘Cotton Panty.’ Again, I know very little about women’s undergarments but I can’t even imagine a pair of underpants so desirable that one would be willing to sacrifice your freedoms (whatever they might be) to posses them. Perhaps that is why the woman on the gift card is wearing only said ‘Cotton Panty’ while looking wistfully away in her barren cell; at the cost of ‘Freedom,’ she chose the ‘Cotton Panty.’

Jon Moore's Fwd. of the Week (2/29- 3/6)

Blame it on Nebraska's ice or the snow, but it was a slow week for forwards. Nevertheless, my father managed to send a gem. The forward simply contained clever marketing illusions from around the world. Here are my favorites:
These two items are merchandise bags. The gun bag is for 'ASPE CRIME STORIES.' It is pretty cool how real it looks, however ironic in that the bag itself probably aids in creating more 'Crimes Stories.' The other bag has a gentleman's image, but the bag's drawstrings create a 'noose' around his neck. Apparently BTK opened a clothing store.
These are advertisements for the sides of buses. The first features two people's faces on either side door creating the illusion of a kiss whenever the doors open and close. The second is a European ad for to convince you to stop smoking (the man's mouth is directly over the exhaust pipe). The final image is for National Geographic Channel's "Shark Week," and it creates the illusion that an entering rider is being 'eaten' by the shark. Its actually kind of scary.
This last one is pretty clever. Someone finally figured out a way to make America's obsession with fast-food cute without being too pretentious.

Thanks Dad.

Jon Moore’s Forward of the Week (2/21-2/28)

My father is a Midwestern inventor, designer, knife maker and all-around tough guy. When he’s not building something or tearing something apart, he sends me forwards. A lot. Every Thursday I sort through his forwards and present you with the ‘best’ forward from the pile. Enjoy what makes Jon Moore laugh (or he’ll punch you in your dreams).

Welcome to the preliminary run of “Jon Moore’s Forward of the Week.” This week, dad sent a video of various office people ‘loosing it’ at work. I’m not entirely certain if my father finds their actions humorous, or if he simply laughs at the concept of being trapped in an office all day. Either way, if you can get past the song, the video is worth the 4 minutes:

http://glumbert.com/wii/view.php?name=baddayoffice

Thanks dad.

Hollywood BULL!

What’s worse than going to the most romantic place in the world? Going without your girlfriend. That is the exact sensation the Hollywood Bowl gave me not more than 2 hours ago. Think of it; outdoors, beautiful music, the night sky framed by the mountain tree line… your boss and some drunk girl. Horrible.

The evening wasn’t designed to be horrible, and outside of my pathetic “where’s my girlfriend” mentality, the night was a complete success. My freelance boss/friend supplied me with a birthday-ticket to the evening’s performance drawing my attention with the prospect of the incredibly talented Andrew Bird. Only later did the pre-drunk girl inform me The Decemberists were headlining with the LA Philharmonic.

This information (to anyone familiar with the concept of ‘good music’) should be enough to make anyone happy, and in all honesty, the performances were wonderful. Certainly the opening act Band of Horses should change their name to Band of Boring, but Andrew Bird marveled audiences, yet again, with his interesting mix of folk rock and electrico-esque samplings. The Decemberists too, were all I’d hoped them to be blending their 19th century story telling sound with the grace only the LA Phil can bring, but all of these wonderful things added up to be sitting there without anyone to really share it with.

I suppose I am just being pathetic. Yeah, I would have liked to shimmy through the crowds finger locked with a girl like the droves that moved all about me, and yes I would have enjoyed sharing a drink under the stars with a special lady, but hey, my ticket was free. I got to see Andrew Bird, The Decemberists, and some drunk bird we brought almost fell down a concrete hill. I might not have gotten a kiss tonight, but I did almost get to see a wasted girl ‘kiss it.’ Life has a way of always evening out.

The Secret's Out.

Many people are familiar with the phenomena known as the Victoria’s Secret catalogue. A tantalizing publication featuring a wide array of women’s clothing and undergarments which are almost guaranteed to make the wearer the desire of almost anyone’s heart. As a man, I’ve stumbled upon the VS catalogue, and I’m aware of the wonder which lies within its cover. Though I don’t know where to get said publication nor have I ever owned one myself, through television ads and pop-culture hearsay, I’m more than aware of what I might find within its pages… women. Beautiful women wearing next to nothing.

The Victoria’s Secret catalogue is not of this world. It is perfection. It is pure wonder. It is completely perverted to own one if you’re a guy. There’s no way around it, the VS catalogue is incredibly alluring, but if you’re a man hoping to put off the ‘not creepy’ vibe, the VS cataloged is the first thing to avoid. Though I don’t condone the ownership of pornography, it would be far more attractive to be caught with a Playboy, than to explain to a lady why you’re looking at women’s underpants. Face it guys; its creepy.

The only thing worse than a man with a VS catalogue is a man who needs not explain where he got it. Case in point: my old roommate. Not more than 2 days ago while retrieving the day’s parcels from the mail, I opened the box to discover the VS ‘Semi-annual SALE’ catalogue. As I attempted to understand how such a publication could find its way into my mailbox, I flipped the ‘wonder document’ over to reveal


Granted, before I begin crying wolf and calling Kuhns a perv, let it be known that he has an attractive girlfriend who is, indeed, the owner of VS track pants which were purchased by Mr. Kuhns during the holiday season. It is entirely possible that Kuhns entered his mailing information at the time of the purchase to enable a discount of some sort which then allows VS to mail him publications for future purchases… but it’s much more enjoyable to believe he’s a sick-o.

If you’d like to personally confirm or disconfirm my assumptions, please do so here.

As for the catalogue itself, which is now in my possession… I intend to do the right thing: I’m going to go to an elementary school and try to sell it to some 6th graders.

The Greatest Day of My Life

Not every day is a good day. In fact, unless you wake up watching/thinking about your favorite episodes of Romper Room, most days aren’t that great. These days can be the result of poor luck, poor planning, or sheer exhaustion due to staying out too late for absolutely no reason. Said bad days are only ‘enhanced’ further when one is subjected to a stuffy office performing a task a pigeon could endure if a nutritional pellet system could be implemented. Needless to say, my Saturday fell short of the ‘pursuit of happiness’ (Jefferson’s words, not Will Smith’s resume), until I stumbled upon man’s greatest discovery since Uranium.

While running a menial errand in the Burbank area, my vision became skewed by what appeared to be a fire raging from a building. Smoke bellowed across the open street in a manner that cared not for man, nor the Sabbath. From three blocks away, I became quite alarmed as my mind rushed to the previous week’s scenes of firemen engulfed in Griffith Park fires, but as I approached closer, I discovered I was the only one alarmed. This sensation was only further supported when I saw t-shirt clad people heading toward the mouth of the flames.

Though the odds were slim I would have stopped my car in the event of an actual fire, I began to slow down to look concerned. I craned my neck awkwardly around in my automobile so I might catch a glimpse of whatever pagan ritual was being so openly honored, when I discovered the goat they were sacrificing wasn’t a goat at all, but beef. Sweet, sweet beef. Racks upon racks of beef, but they didn’t stop there. I saw pork, chicken, fish, and basically everything than can/should be cooked and drown in BBQ sauce. Upon a further investigation, I realized I had stumbled upon a Saturday tradition known as the Handy Market BBQ.

This holiday I dubbed ‘Christmas Jr.’ happens every Saturday in Burbank, at the Handy Market on Magnolia Blvd. The BBQ offers a wide selection of delicious meats mixed with an eclectic dialogue and subtle puns involving the word ‘meat.’

I, of course, asked for half a chicken drenched so heavily in BBQ, you’d thought it owed money to the mob, which I completely destroyed upon reaching my apartment. The BBQ was incredibly delicious, but more than that, it allowed me to feel at home in a place so far from anything ‘normal,’ that I couldn’t help but smile. That smile was short lived, however, as I became reminded that one shouldn’t eat an entire ½ chicken by him/herself without bracing for the consequences (Rolaids).

Though I’ve learned my lesson this week, anyone free for lunch on Saturday?

Never-Never Heard From Again

I generally consider myself quite cunning. I’m fairly proficient in evaluating adverse conditions and selecting a plan in which to best achieve my goals. I can take care of myself (all previous points exclude female-related situations), and I’m aware of it. The problem with this over-confidence in my ability, is my tendency to ignore possible scenarios in which I might be in peril, simply because I believe I’m smarter than the situation. In many ways, despite my self-proclaimed genius, I’m an idiot.
A fine example of my skill in ‘blowing it’ came not more than three weeks ago as America was in the height of the Peter Pan peanut butter recall. If you remember correctly, Peter Pan peanut butter was recalled due to a salmonella scare. Well, my life was moving at its normal relentless pace and all was well until I fell quite ill for all but no reason. Not only was I feeling less than frisky, but for the first time since moving out here from the Midwest, my seasonal asthma was taking a serious toll on my breathing. Of course, I thought nothing of it and continued to work feverishly while clinging to never-used nerd-defining inhaler.
As the week progressed and I became more and more irate with my failing immune system and lung capacity, I received a letter in the mail. It was from a beautiful girl who had taken to clipping interesting/humorous articles out of newspapers. Though she more than likely had romantic notions in mind, the newspaper clippings were both a way to indicate her creative merit while giving my busy life an opportunity to receive the newspaper “Cliff’s notes” on the day. On this occasion as I was riffling through her clippings and kind words, I came across an article for the tainted peanut butter. Though I’d heard of the recall, I cared little for the information until this clipping found my fingertips. Not only did the article describe the problem, but it listed a product code which identified the tainted stock as beginning with the numbers “2111”. Without saying anything, I walked to the kitchen, opened my cupboard and removed my container of Peter Pan peanut butter, which I had been eating from at least once a day during that week. I jokingly noted the irony as I peered upon the lid only to find the numbers “2111” staring back at me. Yes, I had been eating tainted peanut butter.

The following moments unfolded much like the plot twist in the Usual Suspects. I recalled how I became ill shortly after purchasing the peanut butter, and how it was strange that my dormant asthma came upon me so suddenly. Though I should have felt relieved, I only felt irritated/silly that a humorous letter from far away could have feasibly saved my life while my ‘brilliance’ was busy taking cat-naps and vitamin pills.
Does this mean I’m going to pay more attention when they announce a recall on a product I currently use? Probably not. I just hope I don’t say something stupid so a pretty girl stops writing letters.

Common Scents: Shower-Free Day 2

This morning began just like any other until my attempt at stepping into the shower was followed by a series of swear words. As the ice cold water struck my skin, my body instantly went into a state of shock. Like a freshman girl at a frat party, I had made an irreversible mistake and began gasping uncontrollably as I sought refuge in my towel. My lack of sleep and lingering sickness caused me to entirely forget that we are still without hot water, and we’ll continue to be in this position for another 5 days. My frustration was only further invigorated when I realized the three eggs I had whipped for the frying pan had only the rubbish bin for a destination instead of my empty stomach. I didn’t like the alternative, but desperate times call for desperate measures and I loaded my shower shoes, and headed off to work.

No one likes to shower at work, but even more so, no one likes to be ‘the guy’ who showers at work. This was my exact thought as I sauntered into the NBC Universal elevator. I wanted to hide the fact I hadn’t showered in nearly 2 days, and thought if I played it cool maybe I could fly under the radar. The only problem with my plan was the three ‘firsts’ my office coworkers would have to overlook if I was to harbor any pride as I walked into the office: 1) I was wearing a hat over horribly weaselie hair 2) my Burberry Touch wasn’t masking my unkempt odor, but it was breeding with it to create one invincible stench 3) I was carrying a huge gym bag.

The hair went unnoticed, the smell was blamed on lunch remnants in the rubbish bin, but the gym bag led quips from traveling, to trying out with Beckham. We all had a good laugh at my unfortunate misfortunes and after several hours of ‘work,’ I mustered up my courage, waved good-bye to all I knew, and braved the stairwell two flights to the 3rd floor locker room.

There’s no way to hide that you’re going to use the shower. They’re always tucked away in the back of the locker room forcing you to walk past clads of judging eyes. Half way through the endless mile as I waited to hear “Dead man walking,” I made it to the shower only to discover it wasn’t nearly as bad as I assumed. In fact, aside from the fear that the stainless steel door and curtain were the only things keeping me from possibly getting raped, the work-shower was a fairly positive experience. Granted, I’d much rather shower in my apartment where my feet can touch the floor sans a quarter inch of rubber and I’m free from the fear of having to call another man ‘daddy,’ but in my current situation the work shower was more than sufficient. I don’t think I’ll have to use the work shower again but if I do, like a three-legged dog sniffing a lawnmower… I’ll know what to expect.

Common Scents: Shower-Free Day 1

I smell. I’m not stating that I have the capability to sense an aroma; I’m stating that there is a certain aroma about me. Its not the smell of success, nor is it a subtle hint of Drakkar Noir common about me in the 5th grade. It’s the smell of sweat, the smell of man… a lot of it. It’s the smell that is the direct product of not showering. Its not that I’m against bathing, or boycotting cleanliness in the name of a cause, it’s the fact that my gas has been unexpectedly turned off and I have no hot water.

This discovery was made earlier this morning as I stared at my shower like a dog learning physics. After nearly 15 minutes of waiting for the water to change from ice cold to anything bearable, I realized the pilot light must have gone out and I turned off the water to investigate the water heater. Warning: If you don’t deal well with stress, or you still have a desire to remain on earth, don’t attempt to relight a pilot light. It could possibly be the scariest thing done in the home outside of living in matrimony.

Relighting the pilot light is not a difficult job in theory, but the warnings manufacturers place on the water heaters are enough to question mortality. The instructions for relighting the pilot are there, but they’re sprinkled with warnings about how improper procedure can result in an explosion. This thought of melted flesh left me with a hard decision; call for help and remain filthy or risk it all and get that shower. As I whipped the sweat from my brow and caught a hint of my under-arm, the choice was clear and moments later I was re-reading instructions.

After several failed attempts, and nerves like a bomb technician cranking a jack in the box, my roommate Jeff rediscovered an invoice he found taped to our front door. Sure enough it was a bill from the gas company claiming that our service had been terminated due to insufficient funds (ironically remembered AFTER I had already ‘risked my life’). A phone call to our gas provider resulted in a less than favorable explanation: our former roommate who had been paying the bill online, neglected to mention they only sent notices to him via email, leaving Jeff and I completely unaware of any sort of fee. Without sufficient payment, the gas company had no choice but to terminate our service leaving Jeff and I without hot water or a working oven.

The real thrill came when I made an appointment to have our service turned back on. Of course I was making the call on Friday, the day before the weekend, so I painfully assumed they might not make it over until Monday. As if I was Dominique Wilkins, and the operator a brash Michael Jordan, she picked up the ball and took it to a new level. “Sir, the soonest we can return your service is going to be Thursday afternoon.” Thursday afternoon, literally 6 days away. Like selling Manhattan for a trunk full of treasures, I had gotten screwed. 6 days without a personal shower. 6 days without a working oven. 6 days with little to no dignity. 6 days of awesome stories.

“Who will survive, and what will be left of them?”

Horror on the Hardwood

I rolled back over, closed my eyes, and counted to ten. As my eyes slowly opened like massive castle doors, my brain tried to convince itself that it was just a dream. Slowly, like your grandmother pealing open a sardine can, I removed the blanketed coverings from my quivering body. As my legs swung out to the left and shortly met the carpet, I trembled as I teetered on the edge of my full-sized bed. There my eyes remained forward as I feared to turn back around and look into the eyes of such unwarranted regret. Fear gripped me like the mighty Kong to his white-clad lady, as my shortened breaths craved for reassurance of false alarms. With the precision of a sniper my head rotated to the south, as an unbridled explosion pulsed until my head reached its 156-degree destination. There lying next to me my deepest suspicions were frightfully reaffirmed as I gasped and realized: I slept with my basketball.

I felt so used. Yeah, it was just a basketball, but a basketball belongs in the gym, it belongs in the trunk of your car, in the hallway closet just beneath your winter coats. Basketballs do not belong on your bed. Had it had been a book bag, a raincoat, or even an athletic sneaker, I would have just chuckled and tossed it aside without thinking twice, but not a basketball.

A basketball in your bed is like a Canadian in your home…it seems like just an accident but you KNOW they’re up to something.

Disrespect with an Elastic Band

Several days ago, as I ventured out my front door for my morning constitutional, I was greeted by what I believe to be dirty underpants. As if in an almost ceremonial hazing, like a burning cross in my lawn, there lay these dirty underpants strewn across my ‘Welcome’ mat. Though I didn’t have any at the time of the sighting, had any a.m. guests ventured to my door, I’m sure the last sensation the underpants would have created is a feeling of ‘Welcome.’
Perhaps in a different culture, underpants on your doorstep is viewed as a sign of respect, or maybe like the Jewish slaves of Egypt the underpants kept the angel of death from my first born. Maybe the underpants belonged to a single man who felt he couldn’t handle the underpants or he felt he wasn’t responsible enough to take care of them on his own thusly leaving them on my doorstep.
I don’t understand the method behind this madness, but it appears to be nothing more than a sign of the times. What kind of ‘free’ society exists that one can be allowed to leave dirty underpants, MENS underpants mind you, on another man’s doorstep? Not the free society of my father’s fathers that’s for certain. Had they have been lady underpants, some lacy number, well then I would just assume either my address is incredibly close to that of Tom Jones’, or I had a lady admirer who wants ‘to skip the small talk.’
In any event I’m not taking the situation lightly. If the underpants made it to my doorstep as some sort of ‘mistake’ (a mistake on par with the Hindenburg), I only hope what goes around does not then come around.

For all you dreamers…welcome to Hollywood.