tellhimfred.com

Ah, free stuff. The cornerstone of any good economy.

Last night, I marshalled my shit at the end of a long day of work and dragged a blanket and a thermos full of screwdrivers down to the Prudential’s South Lawn for an obnoxiously-sponsored, but ultimately free and enjoyable outdoor screening of “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off”.

Granted, the “entertainment” which preceded the movie was a nauseating MC who conducted a “trivia” contest (sample questions include “What animal makes this sound?” <<mooooo>>>) but with a good loud mp3 player and a magazine, you can ignore almost anything. Especially with a thermos full of screwdrivers.

Once the sun went down, I enjoyed a burrito, delivered to my lazy ass on my blanket, and a big-ass screen showing one of my favorite 80s movies of all time.

Of course, right now I’m making this a win for the obnoxious radio station by giving them free press, as well as having delivered some coin into the coffer of Qdoba, but hey - you have to eat, and in one man’s opinion, you have to go see Ferris Bueller when it’s being shown for free on a lawn.

Next week: The Wedding Singer. See you there, Fredders.

Hey folks. JH back in the house.  Sorry for my long, unexcused absence, loyal reader, but I did have a couple of reasons for laying off…the broken ankle which developed blood clots which became pulmonary emboli chief among them.  But I’m back, and I have a few things on my mind these days.

Some of the most interesting things I’ve seen on TV (and with recent events I have been watching a lot of TV) have come from commercials. Think of it: there are whole companies full of people who craft 30 to 60 second morality plays, designed to get us to buy stuff. And some of them…well, some of them just don’t make a lot of sense. Let’s look at a few, shall we?

Cialis:

Now, at first glance, when we’re not really thinking about it – and let’s face it, when are we ever really thinking about a Cialis commercial – what the hell is going on here? They’re pitching boner pills, and we’re supposed to buy the fact that two senior citizens, who presumably have some private stretch of beach, have the foresight to purchase two semi-antique ceramic bathtubs, and the spinal fortitude to haul the things down there, okay fine. Let’s suspend disbelief. Are they filling them up with salt water? I mean, what’s the point? I could see one big hot tub, but two separate individual bathtubs? How are you going to get it on? Whatever. Nice job, commercial inventors.

Chips Ahoy:

I do not want to think about the ramifications of eating an anthropomorphic cookie that has self-motivation, hopes, fears and dreams. Certainly not one who is in a Wizard of Oz cosplay fantasy.

The Minivan Commercial Where the Kids End Up Watching TV in the Driveway Inside the Minivan:

Your family is sundered, and your children would rather sit in the car than endure the smell of their great uncle’s cigar, which, for your information, smells like a goddamn burning shoe. Oh, and the great-aunt who wears her underwear on the outside and smells like baby powder and urine – the dollar that she gives them every thanksgiving is clearly not enough to offset the horrible torment of them having to deal with the smell. Yep, you’re just going to have to buy a Ford Escape and hope you die before your kids’ therapy bills come due.

Tanqueray:

Don’t you just want to punch that overdressed, semi-ambiguously gay club fop in the sack? I know I do. I would love to see that guy walk into J.J. Foley’s on East Berkeley on a Saturday night and try to peddle his crappy British accent. The bartender would vault out from behind the bar with his sawed-off baseball bat and throw him bodily into the alley. Green silk vest and all.  Man, I would pay to see someone fuck up that guy.

Priceline:

Is there anything that Shatner won’t sell? If money is a dick, then Shatner will give it a rub and a tug, slobber all over it, and let it blow all over him till the camera fades out. I’ve met Shatner, and he’s an asshole. He cheats at paintball and he won’t sit up to shake the hand of someone who gives him a kind word. Every time I see him pitching low prices on undersold hotel rooms, I want to shoot him in the dangle-bobs with my Tippmann.

Women’s underwear:

Well…okay. I honestly have nothing in particular against these commercials. Although, honestly, when one shows up on ABC, are you really ready for it? Maybe you’re sitting there on the couch with your wife, the two of you watching Jeopardy, all of a sudden Playtex throws a “plus-size” bra ad in there, it’s like what the fuck, I wasn’t ready for this, I don’t have my game face on! I mean, you’re watching Spike TV and your wife is in the room, at least you know enough to start a conversation about florists, or salad, or poor Michael J. Fox’s Parkinson’s charity when the phone sex ads come on. But you’re not expecting double Ds to be flopping into your living room in prime time, are you? Come on, Playtex – have a heart!

The Olive Garden:

Nobody believes that mom and dad take their collegiate daughter and her roommates here for dinner. Unless mom works for the MBTA, dad is a disabled factory worker and “college” is Mass Bay. Their food is fucking disgusting, and you’re not at the Olive Garden unless:

- you’re a 17 year old high school guy and this is what you can afford for date night (free refills)

- you’re a fat chick whose angry boyfriend is at least willing to accompany you to dinner with the two ill-behaved kids you had by two other guys

- you’re 40+ female office worker sitting in the bar looking to pick up a college kid

- you’re a college kid looking to get head in the parking lot in a ‘96 Taurus from someone’s mom

Bob’s (for local Massholes only)

Point of interest: That man with the beard? That is not Bob. That is a man that Bob paid to act in his commercials. The real Bob is apparently so unphotogenic that this cob-crusher is an upgrade. Go figure.

The Home Depot:

“You can do it. We can help.” Except we won’t. Because we don’t give a shit. Go find it yourself.

Wow. This is almost as good as the 9/11 Commemorative junk. I saw this on TV and thought I must have been dreaming. The DND Global Marketing Company saw an opportunity and damn it, they jumped on it. I think the reasoning went somethng like this:

1. People seem to like Barack Obama
2. When people like something, they tend to buy products associated with their likes
3. People wear shoes
______________________

The answer: Obama Shoes

Now that is pretty solid logic, my friends. Here’s the commercial:

I really enjoy the web site set up to facilitate a purchase. From the FAQ:

Q. Why does the shoes look like Nike Air Force Ones (AF1) and the Jordan Brand?

A. These design is been proven to be commonly preferred by most Adults & Children (black or white)

Huh?

I mean, sure, it’s easy to pick on the language (these design is been), but what I can’t figure out is the black or white comment. Are they saying that the design is preferred by adults and children regardless of their race? Or are they talking about the color of the shoes? I thought they were talking about the shoe color, but that can’t be it because they’re available in pink and blue as well.

That’s awesome.

Ouch. Last night hurt. All three Boston sports teams lost, and for one of them it was the end of their season. But why do I care?

See, fredders, I’m not from Boston. In fact, I’m not even from Massachusetts. I’m from New York. Now before you start pelting me with lids from steel garbage cans, let me tell you something: upstate New York is not the New York you loathe. It’s New York in name only.

Growing up I was a Mets fan (still am), a Buffalo Bills fan (not anymore), and a Red Wings and Toronto Maple Leafs fan. I never cared about basketball. But since moving to the Bay State in 1997, my loyalties have changed. While I still am a Mets fan, I find myself watching the Sox and even listening to them on the radio. I am a Patriots fanatic. I would now consider myself a Bruins fan, as I found myself arguing in a comment thread on Boston.com with Carolina fans over whether Walker is a cheap shot artist. By the way, he is. And almost inconceivably I find myself paying attention to the Celtics. I never saw that one coming.

So now I’m wondering why. As someone that derives massive enjoyment from bringing up 1986 to any Sox fan previously, I’m now finding myself checking the score on my phone, making sure to get a table next to a TV at a restaurant, and knowing the pitching matchup for the next game. When 2/3 of THF.com went camping two weekends ago, I almost was lynched for checking the score of the Celtics game. [Listening to the Kentucky Derby on the radio was a different story entirely] All of these bizarre Boston homer behaviors I’m exhibiting beg the question: what happened to me, and why do I care about these teams?

Hypothesis One: The Radio

I believe this to be the weaker of the two potential explanations, but we’ll go with it anyway. Since taking the new job in the Watch City, I find myself in the car a lot (at least 2 and a half hours each day). In the morning I listen to the Toucher and Rich show on WBCN, and they talk about sports a bit. They have drunken Red Sox recaps, drunken Celtics recaps, and they talk to Aaron Ward from the Bruins each week during the season. On my way home, I listen to WEEI, the local sports talk radio station. So each day I’m getting a lot of information about Boston sports teams, thus increasing my affinity for them. Because I know when each game is taking place, who the callers hate on the other teams, etc., it makes me want to pay attention.

Hypothesis Two: The Culture

After writig that last paragraph, I’m calling myself out as a bullshit artist. I think it’s the people. Yep, Boston is a sports town. The people here aren’t like most people in the country who have a passing interest in their teams. Ask 10 people who won the game last night (regardless of which sport), and I’m pretty sure 8 of them would know immediately and would also know the score, and they’d give you an opinion about it. Ask someone today in Boston who won the Sox game, and I’d bet they’ll say “The fahkin’ Sox lost in extra innings because Big Papi can’t fahkin’ hit no more. Left like a dozen stranded.”

Anyway, with all that babble aside, let me finally get to my question: Do I qualify as a Boston sports fan? What’s the statute of limitations? How many years do you have to live in a new city before you can consider yourself a true fan? I realize that because I still like the Mets, I’ll never really be considered a Sox fan. That’s fine. But what about the other teams?

Well?

Final Plug: Come to the Cask ‘N Flagon tonight to support Hoffa’s band, Red Square in the Battle of the Cover Bands. Find me there and I’ll buy you a beer.

All right, all right. I know. We haven’t written much in a while. For that we apologize. Here at THF headquarters we’ve taken a break from posting, but we’re back. I’ve been sitting on a couple of posts, but won’t post them until this weekend. And with that out of the way……

Our own Jimmy Hoffa and his band Red Square will be competing at the BMS Battle of the Cover Bands on Friday night, at Oliver’s Nightclub (at Cask N Flagon).

We strongly encourage everyone to come out to scream their lungs out to make red square the winner. The winner is selected based on how many people come in support of each band, so make sure you tell them you’re there to see Red Square.

Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.

And if anyone sees this post and comes to the show because of it, come find me, Barry Freed, and I’ll buy you a beer.

So as the world economy spirals into nightmarish chaos, we here at THF are pondering the big issues.

I, like many stupid Americans, am fascinated by countdowns. I think it’s our competitive spirit that draws us to this pappy trash – more than any other culture, I think Americans just want to see something beat something else in a contest of something. Even when it’s not really a contest - take the WWE for example. All but the rootinest, tootinest, gun-rack-havingest of us know that this shit is more heavily scripted than a Heidi and Spencer photo shoot, but that doesn’t stop record numbers of zipperheads from tuning in every week.

So it is with heavy heart that I, too must cast my lot in with the rest of the plebian hordes. No, I haven’t become a John Cena fan, but almost as bad. I sat through 5 hours of VH1’s “Top 100 One-Hit-Wonders of the 80s Countdown”. Not all in a row, but close enough – spaced out over the course of two days. I came away with several reflections.

1. Having a single charting hit in the 1980s is nothing to be proud of. There is absolutely no discernable reason why any one band had a lone hit single and any other given band did not have one. Almost every song on this countdown proves this fact.

2. Frank Stallone is the king of sad motherfuckers. His loyal subjects are all the 80s one-hitters who are still trying for success. Seriously Kajagoogoo? If it hasn’t happened by now…

3. Mark McGrath has reached epic levels of annoying douchery. If there were a chance I would ever encounter him on the street (which is well-nigh impossible because I’m relatively certain that AOL-TimeWarner stores him in the same vat of preservative jelly they keep Ryan Seacrest in) I would keep an ill-tempered monkey as a pet so as to maximize the chances that I could see him splattered with feces.

4. Anyone’s schtick, when heaped upon viewers in large enough quantities, becomes irritating. Even Judah Friedlander’s.

PS, I’m fairly certain Jaime Oliver is secretly the lead singer of The Streets.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have often thought I was above the “As Seen On TV” craze. I watch the late night infomercials and think: who would buy that junk? Well, I’ve fallen victim to Cutlery Corner. Cutlery Corner is all about selling ridiculous knives. And whenever I get a chance I watch, as the host, Tom O’Dell of the Tom O’Dell insanity hour is just amazing. And he got me.

The other night I was watching when I heard about the “Wake Up! Special”. It involved 9 knives for under $40. So I bought it. And after that, I saw the most beautiful family heirloom of all time, the hoof knive. Here they are:

Three weird blue knives that apparently I need.

The My First Sony of knives.

Dude, a knife with wolves on it. Who can say no?

Two “sure grip” knives.

The big dog. This is a survival knife. Like you didn’t know.

Now here we go, ladies and gentlemen. A piece that will be given from generation to generation. The deer hoof knife.

Yep, it’s a dagger with imitation deer fur on the shaft.

Just look at the detail.

And that’s the most beautiful part…the end. It’s shaped like a hoof. So this is just about the most intimidating thing you could ever show a deer before stabbing it in the brain….deer fur, a picture of a deer running, and something that imitates its own feet. It would just look amazing above any mantle.

Hey Fredders!

Well, it’s been an exciting week at THF studios. One of our chance readers, a gentleman by the name of Mike Hannus, happened across our old pal “The President”, in Boston Cab #9 - you know, the esteemed fellow who likes to educate his passengers about “Jubilee Status”?  You may remember reading about him about a year ago, when Hoffa happened to take a ride to crazy town in his taxi.  Well, so did Mike Hannus, except he managed to snag a recording of the President himself, giving his familiar schpiel. We managed to process it here in the THF labs, and it’s here for you to enjoy. Remember, the next time you get into a taxi in Boston…this could be the wheelman.

If this doesn’t play, just click here.

Folks, if you’re one of the lucky ones to have run across this guy - why not wear it with pride?  The custom tailors over at THF t-shirtery have created the Jubilee Status T-shirt for y’all to enjoy.  Get some!

It’ll do strange things to a body.  For instance, I voluntarily watched half an episode of “ America’s Next Top Model.”  I don’t know why I did it, only that I needed something to break the monotony of eating pepper, onion and mushroom pizza from Mangia and playing Resident Evil 5.   Seriously, that’s pretty much it.  No, wait that’s not true. I did watch about 23 episodes of “30 Rock”, which I am convinced is the funniest show on TV, whereas “America’s Next Top Model” is to television programming what Popeye’s is to food:  prolonged consumption will make you both sick and stupid.  But yeah, it’s pathetic. No, I’m not a morbidly obese shut-in who’s likely to die facedown in a bowl of spaghetti with my feet tied together with barbed wire, nor am I an agoraphobic curtain-peeker who thinks the men at the bus stop are listening to his conversations.  I’m pretty much just a wuss, and I don’t want to deal with going down the stairs on crutches.
 
 Besides, where would I go once I got downstairs?  The only places within walking distance are Papa John’s, Subway and the liquor store.

 OK, well…question answered.  But as Calista Flockhart said while despondently staring at the Craft Services table:  “what’s my motivation?”

 Society has gotten to the place where a person can live a relatively socially acceptable life completely indoors, and not be deemed the neighborhood crazy (unless of course they want that.)  People work from their homes all the time.  According to the TV people, I can make a perfectly good living buying and selling on Ebay.  I have foodler to bring me chicken parm subs and Michelob, Peapod if I want to pretend to be a little more healthy and active.  Plus you have to get TP every now and then. But is that what I want?  After this weekend, I can firmly say the answer is No Thank You.  What I want is the cheerleader’s goddamn power so I can take this stupid cast off and go jump off some more scaffolding.

Notes from the armchair

Hey Fredders. Been a few days now, hasn’t it? Barry’s started his new job, so he’s been busier than a one-armed paper-hanger that has to do his job while being attacked by vicious insects, and me, well, I’ve had my hands full with other stuff.

I’ve managed to break my ankle. How did I do that you ask? Good question. I have no idea. How come? The answer, my friends, lies in two areas: human physiology and pure distracted stupidity.

I went out last Thursday, when the fiancée was busy, to do three things: have dinner, drink some beers and read my book. I felt like taking a walk, so I headed out about 10 blocks to my old favorite spot, the Pour House.

I found a seat at the bar and settled in with my book: the third volume in the “His Dark Materials” trilogy by Phillip Pullman, called The Amber Spyglass. For those of you lucky enough to have missed the shitty-ass movie a couple of years ago based on Pullman’s book, The Golden Compass, let me give you a quick run-down: it’s a fantasy trilogy, based in a world where the Catholic Church is the biggest enemy of humanity, and there is no real God, just a pissed off angel who pretends to be God and calls himself “The Authority”. Having been raised Catholic, and being aware of the many evils committed in the name of the church over the years, I find this guy’s blatant hatred of the Church both fascinating, and fairly easy to understand. Add to that the fact that he’s actually a damn good writer, and you get the perfect storm of a book for me to read.

Anyway, when I get into one of those rare, captivatingly good books, I can read it anywhere, in a crowded airport, in a noisy bar, even in the Jiffy Lube waiting area, which everyone knows is the most inhospitable environment in the universe. So there I am at the bar, I order my first beer and my nose is buried.

Now, you’ve been there. You order your first beer when you’re hungry, and you forget that you’re even hungry. It’s happened to everyone. But let’s fast forward several hours. I’m completely lost in Spyglass, and I’m just horking down beers. Totally forgotten about dinner. At some point, I explain the book to a couple at the bar who asks me what I’m reading, and after a short conversation, agree to take a shot of Jameson with them. No biggie.

Around 12, I pay my bill, say goodbye to the people at the bar, and head out.

This is where things start to get a little…hazy.

So picture it, I’ve been sitting on a stool for the last three and a half, four hours, swilling beer, not moving much, and not eating. Now I’m taking a brisk walk in the cold, about 10 blocks.

All the booze in my stomach swirls quickly into my blood, as the booze in my blood swirls quickly into my brain. By the time I get to within a block or two of my house, I can barely see, let alone stand, and that’s when it happens.

*twist, snap!*….

fall over like a chopped-down tree onto the sidewalk…

… break the nose, out like a light.

I awaken to two cops asking me my name and where I live. I’m covered in blood, and I have no memory of where I am or what I’ve been doing. I can’t stand up - every time I try I scream and fall down, which I can’t figure out either.

Eventually the cops figure out who I am, and that I live right *over there* (pointing) but that I can’t walk. They summon the EMTs, who cart me off to Boston Medical, the GSW capitol of the city. Good place for trauma.

Anyway, long story short, I managed to break my ankle somehow, and they wrapped me up in a cast, told me that I drink too much, and sent me on my way. All I can say is thank God (or “The Authority”, whichever) for my fiancée, who came down to trauma central at 4 in the morning to cart my sorry ass home.

So, I get to wear this awesome thing for the next three months or so, with nobody but myself to blame for the whole incident.

Yeesh. And how about another big hand for my fiancée, who now gets to spend the next three months waiting on my slobular ass and carting me around! Yaaaay! If we come out the other side of this, Fredders, and she still wants to marry me? Best. Wife. Ever.

Till next time, folks!