Will Blog for Food But Preferably Money

My one hundred closest friends that also
have blogs and we talk on the phone at night
and text each other, plus we have blogs.

There's been a major misunderstanding - turns out I'm not getting paid for the johnatron™. When I conceived of and birthed the 'tron, I guess I sped through the Terms of Service. I fully misinterpreted this seemingly innocuous passage:

"You also agree that you will not use any robot, spider, other automated device, or manual process to monitor or copy any content from the Service." - Blogger Terms of Service, Clause 6, 'Intellectual Property Rights'

As this:

"What would you think of a stipend of, say, $650 per week? We'll front you $12,000 for various blogging-related expenditures (such as coffee and highly-elastic rubber bands you can shoot all around the room) as well as discretionary spending like maybe the new Amazon Kindle® whenever it comes out and a Roomba® - have you ever thought of getting a Roomba®? Obviously shots at the bar would fall under this -- you know what, it's yours, what are we dictating its use for? Go nuts, kid, go nuts."

Whoa. Talk about a typo. Now when I was fourteen and living in Burma a witch/eye doctor insinuated I could have demons/dyslexia, but as none in my lineage had ever been diagnosed with what's known as backwards brain, off I shrugged it. But here it comes, biting me in the rear like that Coppertone® ad from the '50s - not the one with the girl and the dog; there's a lesser-known one involving a sun-bathing priest in nothing but his clerical collar who wakes to an unfortunate burn and laments, "Jesus Christ, I wish I used that godforsaken Coppertone® crap". Poignant.

So here I am, penniless save my checking and savings accounts, some money-market investments, a 401(k), a number of still-maturing treasury bonds, equity in a single-family residence and an actual piggy-bank twelve years in development. But other than that - straight broke. But do I want to be viewed as a martyr? Yeah. Yes. Now.

Thanks, Blogger. And so we're clear, that was sarcasm.

The good news is I'm now selling banner ads at $9 per thousand impressions. Act now and I throw in a ShamWow®. So.

Breaking News - Someone Robbed a Bank! Part II

Moore's Law shat the bed on this one.

WHERE: TD Bank (formerly Commerce Bank) on Rt. 130 at Levitt Parkway in Willingboro

WHEN: Monday, 2/3/09, at 1:30 PM

WHAT: Undetermined amount of cash

HOW: Dude walked in, passed a note that presumably read "gimme valuable stuff" to the teller, who complied, then he left and drove off in his two-door silver Pontiac Grand-Am, like a punk.

WHY: Because he's a bad guy?

Joseph C. Bankrobber is in his mid-thirties to fifties, wears leather like he killed the cow and sports a thin mustache because his boyfriend likes it. He's just like you and me (white), except he wears pedophile glasses so he can see the kids better. We gotta catch this guy - he's too lame to be on our streets. My composite sketch shows just how creepy some people can look when you try to draw them that way. In full disclosure, I should say I added the pom-pom, cigarette and shifty eyes.

This is the first bank robbery in Burlington County in 2009. In 2007 there were three; 2008 - twenty-four. Even I with my degree in Multiples of Three know that's a bad trend. Call the Willingboro police at (609) 877-3003 if you're familiar with this kook. No questions will be asked except "wait, why are you familiar with this kook?"

It Appears I've Perfected Movie-Making

Mine's just out of frame to the left.

I couldn't sleep last night. I was overpowered by a vision: it was suddenly clear to me how to make the most legendary cinematic experience known to man. And it's surprisingly simple - I have it all mapped out in my head.

• CREATE AN EXCELLENT PLOT All the best movies have really good plots. I'll just put together a story that has a likable main character that the audience roots for. Oh, but there's a catch - he's deeply flawed. Then there are other characters - one's a girl, and the main character has this crazy crush on her. Then, various things happen - some you expect, some you don't. But here's the twist - at the end, there's a twist. All M. Night-like, but far twistier. Basically Citizen Kane's "Rosebud" and Rookie of the Year's "underhanded lob pitch", combined.
  
• GET THE BEST ACTOR This part's important - make sure to get the best actor. See if Tom Hanks is available, otherwise, Duchovny. Might have to first tell him that other big names are involved - which is okay, because once Hanks is on board, those other names will follow. May want to check with legal on this - when you get home, google "the law".
• GET THE HOTTEST AND BEST ACTRESS Sad to say, but in this day and age you'll need a really pretty actress. But she should also be the best at acting. Obvious person - Scarlett Johansson (backup - Diane Lane).
• USE A RENOWNED DIRECTOR I'd do it, but I should be in more of a production capacity. Probably Tarant -- wait wait wait. Duh - Kubrick! That guy made movies people still don't get. Settled. Kubrick. Plus he hasn't made anything in a while - he's probably dying to get back in the game.
  
• UNUSUAL CINEMATOGRAPHY If this movie's going to go down in history, it needs to be shot in some retro-futuristic arthouse style. Look on youtube to see what's considered the grittiest, rawest shooting techniques around. Possible tactics (and this is off the cuff): the whole thing shot in a mirror, or maybe everything's black-and-white except minorities? Or - if Kubrick greenlights it - all the scenes have the boom mic in frame. Sometimes an amateurish look works - maybe have a kid hold the camera? Google "child + behind + camera"; something should pop up right away.
  
• EXCESSIVE BUDGET The biggest-grossing movies have the biggest budgets. Seems overly simple, but no movie with a really ridiculously large budget has ever failed. We could probably get a quarter-billion. Hanks might even throw half in himself, and we'll tie his compensation to total gross sales (this happens all the time).
  
• TOP-SHELF MARKETING Whichever distributor picks it up needs to market it in a way that makes the movie very successful. It's worth spending a lot of money on promotions - this way, more people will know about and then see the movie. It's called "buzzing".
• GET CRITICAL ACCLAIM Hollywood's best movies over the years have one thing in common: they're all well-received by critics. My movie is no exception. Try to get a 98% or higher on Rotten Tomatoes; perfect 100 on Metacritic. This will help ensure the movie's success.
• WIN ALL THE AWARDS The easiest way to be remembered for making a great movie is for that movie to have won the Academy Award for Best Picture. Is a full sweep possible? You have Kubrick directing Hanks with a quarter-billion dollar budget - anything less than a sweep is a failure.
  

Oh my God, this is really going to happen. I can't believe no one's thought of this before. And I'm not even from the industry!

Brevity - Easier Said Than Done. What I Mean is, Sometimes It's Fine to Be Brief, Other Times It's More Appropriate to Use a Lot of Words.

When I was getting my doctorate in Doctoral Studies at doctordegrees123.com (it's actually not as prestigious as it sounds), the credits we earned were tied more to quantity than quality. I recall some of my classmates copying and pasting entire scripts of Who's the Boss? episodes solely for the purpose of meeting the 5,000 word minimum. As I tried to take my education a little more seriously, I kept my copy-paste plagiarism to medical shows like E.R. or Who's the Boss? (the later seasons when the storylines were on life-support - rimshot! Gotta get a rimshot guy on staff.)

So it's no wonder that my training in prolificity has spilled over into my leisure writing. I'll give you an example: one of my regular readers - for the time being let's call her 'mom' as she's married to my dad - broke the news that I could get the same point across in a tenth of the words. I rebutted her for nearly twenty minutes straight, emphasizing and re-emphasizing the virtues of a well-composed if loquacious diatribe. She later told me the call dropped two minutes in. Subsequently I emailed her my stance on the matter. She said her internet's been spotty and not to bother resending it for fear of "clogging up the cables".

The longest English-language novel is a work of the notorious late sci-fi writer and philosopher L. Ron Hubbard, now intergalactically known as "that creepy Earthling". It's called Mission Earth and it tips the scales at 1.2 million words. That might be an airy novella in the thin atmosphere of Uranus, but it's a weighty tome here on Earth. Of course, in today's world of inexpensive self-publishing, anyone can write a novel (seriously - they let anyone write these days), no matter how verbose. Hubbard's Earth looks like a pamphlet on childhood bulemia compared to Mark Leach's Marienbad My Love - 17 million words in sum. I bet Marienbad didn't even make it all the way through.

[You know, on second thought, the pamphlet could really be about any topic; childhood bulemia just took on the quality of 'littleness' to me and seemed contextually appropriate. Offended readers can call (877) SEAN-930 to express their contempt.]

I guess my point is this: tough cookies. If you're looking for a breezy stroll through the literary park, try Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist. You know what, try The Alchemist anyway, it's actually a pretty moving piece of literature. Plus it's wicked short so you can take it in in like one sit--

Eph.

Sans Screen, SPF 1366 x 768, Part I

I'm the cute one.

A friend of mine who owes me money was recently lauding me for the near-metronomic rhythm of my posts. She likened me to a bouncing ball, with its steady, dependable cadence, just randomly striking the keyboard until it finally depresses "Publish Post", and in turn, all of my readers. But notable as of late was my six-day absence. "omg wtfru? ru ok? ttyl," read her tersely-lettered text. It was then I realized I'd completely missed her 14th birthday.

But li'l Stacy wasn't the only devotee who felt the void. I received tens* of inquiries into my whereabouts. Did I fake my death to escape scrutiny and ultimately incarceration as a result of my shady dealings with the printer who ruined my business cards by omitting the "h" in "johnatron"? Of course not. I faked his death. Was I kidnapped by a tribe of lost children who broke free from an exploitative Fox reality show called Adolescent Peninsula? Or maybe the stress of the job got to me, and I flew the coop to Australia where I'm now living a life both foreign and exotic - as an Australian blogger.

Most often it's the simplest explanation that is the right one. I was kidnapped by children.

They took me to their hut in the forest where I was ridiculed for my gargantuan stature. Not a teen amongst them, they cackled with glee, encircling and spinning around me in a dizzying array of LOLs and LMFAOs. "Forsooth! The monster hath arms what dangle as a common tree ape!" (I did mention the show aired on Fox-Middle English, no?) The Lilliputians were horrid captors, alternately forcing me to play Nintendo DS and explain what kissing feels like.

The first night was the longest - the Winter Solstice (normally falling on December 21st, it was pushed back a month to coincide with the Presidential Inauguration). They braided my hair, and adorned me in their native garb, mostly Aeropostale. I listened in awe as the girls spoke in admiration of the one they called 'Ryan Gosling'. Meanwhile the boys huddled around an edge-tattered magazine photo of Hayley Duff, about whom one offered, "she's pretty like Mommy." With Capri-Sun heavy on their breath and an air of pants a-wetted, the tiny ones slept.

Morning. We woke to the unmistakable glow of Yo! Gabba Gabba on the 37" Panasonic LCD. We sat Native American-style, mouths agape, backs hunched, and stared. Hours passed. The littlest among them, I called her Carla for it was her name, presented me with a flower she took back, Native American-style, from Dylan, the boy she used to like but who seemed to be ignoring her the past couple days. I thanked her, and patted her head, to which she responded, "ouch, get off." Which is so Carla, by the way. Later, Kyle asked if I wanted to race around the Mushroom Bridge. My spirits were suddenly buoyed! Where was this idyllic bridge? Had I stumbled, hostage-style, upon a utopian cluster of star children? In my head I saw the next half-century of my life, teaching these youths the ways of the world, while steeping myself in their innocence!

As I gazed into the cloudless sky, mind adrift in our Halcyon days to come, Kyle informed me that the Mushroom Bridge was a track in Mario Kart: Double Dash!!

Well that was all I could take. Indignation boiled in my veins. I erupted upwards, breaking from the chains I voluntarily self-styled out of sinewy vines I collected throughout the morning, barking primal growly sounds - all vowels, none of those pesky consonants. As I towered over the now-shaking kidlets, I wondered who is the real monster here? Is it I, grazing the vaulted sky at 180 centimeters, all of my 75 kilograms trembling the earth beneath? Or could it be I was a slave to these digital child-demons?

But then it struck me. I was enslaved with them. We were all lowly subjects of The Screen. As though waking from a dream only to find oneself in a nightmare, I surveyed my landscape. I wasn't in a forest hut at all! I was in nine-year old Jacob McCovey's trailer! My woodland friends, Ashlee, Noah and Shyla were actually "Ashlee", "Noah" and "Shyla" - co-stars of Fox's exploitative reality show Adolescent Peninsula! And the screens - oh, the screens! Sony Bravias® here, 3.5" OLED cellulars there! Oh how we basked in the diodes!

Rather than fight, I fled. I had to toss Cody to the ground to get to the door, for which I fully expect a suit to be filed, but it was barely a blip on the radar of what was really wrong with the scene. I ran for what seemed like days but was only about thirty yards, as a cab was waiting just off the set.

"Take me to Time-Warner Studios. And step on it. I have lives to save."

When he informed me he wouldn't be doing that, I settled for my one-story ranch in Cinnaminson. My google-machine was about to get a work-out.

* 'Zero' is a 'ten', right?

I Bet Presidential Speechwriters Abbreviate 'God Bless America' to 'GBA' in Early Drafts

So I got you guys a new President. Please, don't thank me. But you're welcome. Try to give him some time to get acclimated to our ways of governance. If he gets a little rambunctious early on, just know his heart's in the right place. It's our collective mission to guide him procedurally - this is his first time presiding over a sovereign nation - that I know of.

Also, keep your phones charged and on your person. BHO is notorious for calling upon the everyday citizen to serve his common man for the greater good of society at large (or as I interpret it, he's got a case of the you-do-its). It's too early to know exactly how this may manifest itself. I picture a text coming through requesting that you, Gary Kellerman of Allentown, PA, take your neighbor's trash out as she's experiencing an onset of flu symptoms. Or you, Regina Plaus of North Bridge, MI, would you mind shooting this Talibani fellow in a manner that prohibits him from firing that ground-to-air missile at our Boeing CH-47 Chinook utility chopper? It hates missiles.

Regardless of the method of contact and nature of request, do your best to accommodate. America's really busy right now, and excuses like "I just got Super Smash Bros. for Wii" won't exactly resonate with our leaders. Of course if you have a two-player set-up and your screen size exceeds 42", drop a line to johnatronheartswii@prodigy.net with your poor reasoning for why you think that'd be acceptable and turn-by-turn directions to your house.

Public service is the cornerstone of a functioning complex society. Today you may have two operational hands and really enjoy the Azure hue of your '08 Saab 9-3 Convertible. But if on a whim you self-impose a deadline of Friday to go Ivory, and your hands are otherwise engaged in a Guinness record-seeking rocks-paper-scissors-off, it's your fellow citizen whose assistance you'll need. And let's face it, you'd do the same for them, but mostly because you're recklessly enamored with the smell of urethane basecoat.

Will the mere fact that an advocate of voluntarily service is in the highest public office set the land ablaze with a renewed spirit of altruism? Of course not - this isn't an ill-conceived Happy Madison production. But what if it did? What if we felt anew the kinship to our common man, and the inherent duty we'll all charged with to care for one another - a duty not enforced by any institution, but rather our own sense of righteousness?

[at this point in the movie, a motorized-cart-drawn, raggedly-hewn Steve Buscemi would roll across the screen babbling incoherently about his 'Nam flashbacks and endorsing the foolish scheme that will enable the crude but good-hearted protagonist to overcome some gimmicky injustice and win back the deed to the home of the love interest. 'S grandmother. 'S grandmother. Tell me again - how hasn't Sandler won an Oscar®?]

Let's Use Our Inside Voices Today

My shirt. I'll let you decide if fun has been poked at me yet today.

Even Lou Gehrig went 0 for 4 from time to time.

Look, my head hurts. And not in a good way. I celebrated last night after winning the Philadelphia Museum of Art's coveted Van Gogh's Ear, annually awarded to the person who is most conspicuously absent from the Museum. It takes perfect non-attendance to qualify - I've been in the running five years straight now. The event was hosted at City Hall, in the Mayor's private office. That makes two nights in a row I've slept on Nutter's desk. This is getting ridiculous.

This afternoon I was fortunate enough to receive the Lobotomy, a honor bestowed by pharm giant Wyeth. It goes to the person with a headache so malicious it can only be compared to an orchestra of mutes playing kickball with your skull. You thought the orchestra would be emitting something cacaphonous, didn't you? Then ask yourself this: why would they be mutes? Come on, people. Critical thinking skills.

Your stupidity aside, the award was two Advil, and I couldn't be more appreciative. Unlike the Academy Awards, this isn't one of those "it's just an honor to be nominated" competitions. You either win, or you cry in the fetal position for six hours. Nothing honorable about that.

I feel like I'm always the one talking - what's up with you? Family well?

Crickets, huh? Ooookay. Back to me, I guess [rolls eyes].

Let's see, what's happening this week? I usually have fairly interesting things going on. Monday I have a dentist appointment, Tuesday I'm in Nome for the Iditarod prelims, Wednesday night's my adult Microsoft Word for Beginners class. Slow week I guess.

Hey let's take some calls.

Huh. Not a radio program, I just gathered. This whole time I've been reading aloud.

See TV's The Office Thursday? How funny was it when -- you know what, let's cut our losses here. I'll see you Monday. It's team jersey day, so go ahead and wear, you know, a team jersey.