MTV (Baby) Cribs

Three months old and already at the top of the charts, Lil’ Billy, gangsta strut already perfected, strolls into the crib; his Swarovski-studded G-Unit diaper glittering by the light of his bedazzled dollar sign mobile. His presence is impressive, as well as his hospitality as non-alcoholic Colt 45 malt beverage is flowing for the whole crew.

“Yo, yo, yo! People let me holla atcha! My name is Lil’ Billy and this is MTV Cribs!” Lil’ Billy grins and then excuses his lack of a glittering grill, “I asked for one for my birfday,” he explains, “but I would probably swallow it in my sleep and choke to death. I can’t help it man! I’m a mutha-effin baby! My moms says I have to wait a couple of years…or at least until I stop trying to swallow her earrings.”

All of a sudden Lil’ Billy’s posse pulls up on pimped out Big Wheels with 22” rims, each one customized for every irreplaceable member of the crew. Johnny Suckers, for example, who loves to suck his thumbs, has a Big Wheel which features a massive bedazzled thumb with a diamond ring on it along the side. He proudly displays his bike like a peacock splays his feathers, by doing wheelies through the crib. It is clear from this magnificent display of gang loyalty and closeness that Lil’ Billy is the macaroni with the cheese.

The crib is a stunning reflection of Lil’ Billy’s own short life. It is constructed and lined with platinum bars to commemorate his first and most successful record, “You Kitty Cats Better Stop Peein’ in My Sandbox”, and a solid gold statuette of his Uncle, Master D, stands erect among the platinum bars to honor his current lengthy stay in the slammer. He wears a Scooby Doo band-aid under his left eye until the day he can see his Uncle free again, at which point they are going to go to Sea World to see the dolphins.

“Uncle Master D is a good guy. He always stirred up my Gerber’s Beef and Peas real good. And he didn’t mind when I vomited allover his brand new Air Force Ones. You should see that man burp a baby. It’s burping art.” Lil’ Billy quietly pondered to himself for a second over Uncle Master D, or so we thought. Incidentally it was just time for a diaper change.

After his wardrobe change, Lil’ Billy returned in a diaper so covered in bling that it was difficult to capture it on film. He proceeded to show us his beautiful, personalized bumper pads, which, quite honestly, took my breath away. The pads were expertly airbrushed depictions of Tupac in heaven, enjoying all of the perks described in his posthumous hit, Thugz Mansion. True to the game of his predecessors, Lil’ Billy has taken swiftly to the practice of airbrushing deceased artists onto personal belongings; t-shirts, jackets, and now, bumper pads.

Lil’ Billy showed us a wall of Tiffany baby rattles, a Playstation 3 built into his headboard and as well as a wide screen TV equipped with a DVD player and a library featuring every episode of Dora the Explorer. So it’s been a big day for young Lil’ Billy. We can see the sleep rolling in as his eyes begin to droop and his demeanor becomes a tad cranky, “I’m a baby mutha-effer!” He bellows in his defense.

Lil’ Billy’s ever present crew ushers us out quietly and I hear Lil’ Billy holler a request to his mother, “I’ll take my non-alcoholic Cristal sparkling apple juice warmed and in a bottle, not a sippy cup. I don’t want any spilling in my crib Ma.”

What a magnificent crib! I thought to myself as I stood outside of Lil’ Billy’s Connecticut palace. Where can one acquire a crib of that size and quality? Where does one find such a masterfully crafted, yet comfortably padded baby crib? Of course one would have to hire Xzibit and the Pimp my Crib crew to accessorize it so handsomely, but the actual crib was a beauty on its own! I went home and googled it long and hard and came across a wonderful website called BabyCribStation.com. They had the greatest selection of every size, kind and style of baby cribs. Cribs to nurture your Lil’ Billys and cribs to help foster and grow with them from toddler-hood to their first platinum record.

They Mostly Come at Night…Mostly

It was the third time this week that I had left my freshly baked bread on the floor to cool and the third time something tremendously devastating had happened to it. Something shocking; something destructive; something permanent and disturbing. Things that I didn’t know could happen in good bread baking homes like mine. All I wanted was some delicious bread to go with my recently acquired pound of store bought liver pâté, but these terrible happenings were holding me back significantly.

The first night that I left my piping hot loaf of bread to cool on the kitchen floor, (I didn’t really have very much available counter space you see), I woke up the next morning to discover it completely vanished! Not a single crumb, nor a tiny morsel – it was as though I hadn’t baked it at all. Its trace was so completely undetectable that I began to actually suspect that I hadn’t made the bread; that maybe my intense craving for fresh bread, coupled with my overactive imagination caused me to create a whole delusion in which I had baked bread and left it to cool on my kitchen floor. That must be it, I thought to myself, not entirely convinced. So I proceeded to make another loaf of bread and leave it to cool in the place which I had thought I had left my previous loaf.

The next morning I suffered a similar ordeal. Not a scrap in sight, nor a speck in view. No hint whatsoever of my laborious loaf, nor any clue as to what had happened to it. I was devastated. I wasn’t sure if I could stomach another disappointment like this. And on top of it all, I was running low on flour, my liver pâté was about to turn and I hadn’t eaten in two days.

I weakly prepared another warm, delicious loaf of bread and left it to cool in the same place as before and ambled to bed with a strange combination of gloom and hope growling in my empty belly.

I woke up the next morning to what I had been dreading…an empty floor with nothing on it but the wet oval of condensation from what had once been a delicious loaf of bread. But wait…there was something there! A clue; a hint! Some friendly evidence from which I could begin my intense investigation. I was starving and someone would have to pay…

Large, critter-like footprints peppered the big, wet mark left by the bread and moist claw prints had been scattered around the kitchen…big splayed feet with tiny, sharp little toes. And what was this?! A note! A tiny little note! I scooped up the note and read it greedily. It was written in sharp red scrawl and it said,

“Thanks for the grub, sucker.

Love,

The Tenants”

I was horrified. Simply horrified. Those scoundrels! Those rascally villains! Those free-loading, no good doing rogues!

I felt used, exploited…abused…

I was furious with myself for allowing this to happen…again. I began to recall a high instance of food thievery taking place in my home, oftentimes followed by similar notes, such as,

“Thanks for the cookies, chump” or “Thanks for the cinnamon buns, sucker”

Now…I am no detective. Nor do I have any logical skills to speak of (unless you consider a proficiency my own made-up style of Kung-Fu a skill), but I definitely detected some similarities between the notes I had received over the years and the note I was reading now. I couldn’t be 100% sure of course without a handwriting expert to consult with, but my inkling was strong and I was determined to end these insults.

I devised a very careful plan. I would bake another delicious loaf of bread and leave it to scroll its thick, delicious vapor throughout the house…in the hopes that it would coax my enemies once again.

Oh freshly baked bread…you mouthwatering temptress…work your aromatic magic…

I hid in my pantry, carefully concealed by an assortment of aprons and cooking smocks and patiently waited for something to happen.

I was starting to doze off when all of a sudden I heard the pitter patter of claw like feet on my black and white tiled floor. I was shaken so suddenly that my heart immediately began beating at a tremendous speed and my eyes were as wide as urinal cakes.

I spied them through the crack I had left in my pantry door.

I spied their small black eyes and their wretched, graceful claws.

I spied their furiously quick feet and strong, skeletal tails.

I spied the family of giant rats that had come to feast on my bread; come to greedily consume every last bit of starch that I had slaved over the evening before.

I didn’t know what to do!

Should I confront them?

Should I continue to hide and then, once they have finished, subsequently move out of the house? The country?

How did they get in? Where are they hiding?

I couldn’t be bullied any longer.

I emerged from the pantry, laden with various colors and styles of aprons and howled a terrible howl! Then I stomped a terrible stomp and the rats were frightened away, leaving half a loaf of nibbled, ransacked bread still steaming on the floor. I couldn’t believe it! I had to do something about this right away. I immediately got on the internet in search of something that might protect my bread from these massive, disgusting rodents.

I stumbled across bakersrackscollection.com and discovered a whole world of strategies to protect my bread! Bakers racks of all sorts designed especially for cooling bread and buns and cookies! Never again would my baked goods fall prey to the wall dwellers…those night walking, baked good stalking crooks!

Not only would I be able to protect my delicious food with these marvelous bakers racks but they also offered superior storage options.

Bakersrackscollection.com was about to save my life!

Unfortunately before I could take advantage of their massive selection and zero shipping costs I passed out from hunger and exhaustion.

The Writer's Strike : And the winner is..... Television!

About three and a half months ago, the Writer’s Guild of America (WGA) went on strike. All the popular television shows, even the unpopular shows, were instantly halted, leaving poor viewers at home, jaws wide open in horror. “How could they . . . ?” “Why did they . . .?” Everyone felt like the cartoon Lorne Michaels at the end of TV Funhouse on SNL shouting “Give me back my show!”

What did people do? We are so notoriously set in our ways that watching TV is no longer something we do for occasional fun; it’s what we do every single day for hours to use up the time between eating dinner and going to bed. Is it so bad? Depends who you ask. Health professionals will shout “Get off your ass!”, and hipsters who claim to not own a television or who feign wonder when a famous personality is brought up in conversation will of course say there are better and more creative outlets for human beings. And, to be truthful, there are. You could have, say painted a picture or visited your old bookshelf . . .but what’s wrong with loving watching TV?

There are some really great shows out there today. Intelligently written dialogue paired with brilliantly timed acting equals straight up entertainment; it was the formula that used to bring audiences to their knees on Vaudeville stages. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who doesn’t think that Dwight (Rainn Wilson) and Michael (Steve Carell) have the funniest and most outrageous interactions as a comedy duo on The Office. ER has been around for 14 years and CSI and Law & Order (in all varieties) have made nearly every seventeen year old explore police work as a career at least once. There are hundreds of TV shows – old ones (Friends, Seinfeld) and new ones (Grey’s Anatomy, Heroes) that create dialogue in most workplaces, restaurants and homes in North America. Any talking is better than no talking, right families?

If people love television so much, why is it that a writer’s strike was even necessary? I applaud the actors and actresses who marched diligently with the writers trying to get better contracts. It looks as though they achieved what they wanted as well, by receiving a percentage of distribution income rather than a flat fee in the third year of their contract. Good for them! If you (and your team) are responsible for putting the words, quite literally, into the mouths of actors, why shouldn’t you be receiving a similar amount to those who act, direct and edit? It just makes sense.

What didn’t make sense was trying to fool intelligent TV watchers into staying tuned to reality shows, which saw a huge growth these past months. Reality TV is nothing more than fame-seeking beautiful people trying to get dates – no matter the show. Even the ones that used to be good, like Survivor or The Amazing Race, focus more on personal relationships than they do the actual game. Last night I wasted ten minutes watching some frat boy on Big Brother call a bimbo every name – and I mean every name - in the book, all for a few hundred thousand dollars that are sure to be wasted on beer t-shirts and trips to Vegas, baby. How can people watch this drivel and something brilliant like Arrested Development (still have sour grapes over that one) can get pulled off the air?

Thank God for movies these past few months. This year saw some truly amazing stuff. Who didn’t tear up when Daniel Day-Lewis shouted “I’ve abandoned my son!” in There Will Be Blood? Juno, starring Ellen Page and Michael Cera (who I wish would get married in real life), had one of the greatest teen romantic gestures - Tic Tacs in the mailbox, sniff - that, dare I say, rivals John Cusak’s moment in Say Anything. And, even though he’s quite handsome in real life and has lost that Darth Vader haircut, I will never be able to look at Javier Bardem again after No country For Old Men. Ever. It was a fabulous throw back to simple, character-driven movies that relied more on acting than a huge budget of explosions and car chases . . . not that we didn’t all love Transformers.

The Oscars are this Sunday and thanks to the hard-working folks at the WGA, they won’t be replaced with some knucklehead reality show. Jon Stewart just may be the best Oscar host ever; his presence alone guarantees a hilarious, clever four hours of celebrity pestering and political roasting. Beyond the clothes and the theater stuffed full of fabulous, seeing all involved in the film industry celebrating each other and what they do is an amazing thing. Not every vocation has this, you know. Has there ever been an awards ceremony for data entry people or insurance adjusters?

So, after losing anywhere from 2 to 3.5 billion (depends on what news source you trust), the 2,500 members of the WGA are back at it, sitting behind their writer’s desks, penning the next great catch phrase. Come mid-April, I will return from work, kiss my lovely boyfriend, and settle in on the sofa for two hours to unwind, relax, laugh, and wonder. And I don’t have to worry that my favorite actors in the world will be replaced with Neanderthals selling their souls (and their dignity) for a few bucks when it should have just gone to the writers in the first place.

Report: Wibble Syndrome from Squeaky AV Carts Causes Psychological Harm

Wibble Syndrome or Wibble Disorder was officially recognized as a medical condition in 2002 by world renowned biological anthropologist and long-time nerd, Marcus Wibble. Wibble Syndrome is the name for the vastly ignored occurrence of sudden incurable insanity as a result of extreme embarrassment or unrelenting dread or fear. The most commonly documented cases of Wibble Syndrome transpire during the delivery of an old, squealing AV cart or TV cart from one classroom to another by a humiliated and begrudging student. It is a cruel combination of the sheer embarrassment of having to wheel a cart in front of a whole classroom of students coupled with the fact that most TV or AV carts are incredibly old and useless; featuring difficult to maneuver wobbly wheels and a loud and horrific squealing noise.

“It took a ridiculous amount of convincing on my part and that of my team at that time,” Marcus explained as he filled his stout, wood pipe with tobacco. “Most teachers didn’t want to believe that they had sentenced some poor kid to their doom, while others didn’t want to have to accept the responsibility of heaving that terrible cart from room to room themselves. It was really a struggle in the beginning.”

Wibble Syndrome is characterized by a number of symptoms and can take as few as one or as many as ten prehistoric television cart deliveries to really surface. It usually starts with sudden cold sweats and flushed skin, generally worse on the palms and forehead. This is often followed by an extreme lack of saliva and abrupt bursts of nervous laughter. Shifty eyes and an overactive mouth are also characteristic of someone suffering from an advanced state of Wibble Syndrome. Unfortunately, these visible symptoms, and the sufferers’ awareness of them, only seem to exacerbate the embarrassment which eventually results in terminal psychosis.

“It’s a vicious cycle,” Wibble mused, betraying a certain respect for the tragic condition. “The embarrassment is so severe; so ruthless. And it seems that these teachers, they always manage to pick the kids who are most susceptible to W.S. The kids who try to look inconspicuous when it’s choosing time…it’s disgusting really.”

I asked Mr. Wibble what kinds of precautions he and his team were taking to avoid W.S. “How,” I asked, “are you going to keep it from destroying our youth?” It was hard to steady my trembling voice in light of all I had learned.

He tells me about a potent tool he has developed in order to avoid the condition altogether. They are called, ‘AV kids’, he tells me. Special students who actually enjoy wheeling the ancient, squeaking cart down the hall and relish in their own tiny degree of power as they awkwardly heave the loud pile of squealing scrap through a class room in front of another group of kids.

“We conduct school-wide interviews and investigations in order to choose the ideal AV kid. One who truly won’t buckle under the immense weight of Wibble Syndrome. They are usually sickies…real sickies. They really like wheeling the cart from room to room. They even…love it.” Wibble began to turn a pale shade of green, “excuse me,” he managed to blurt out before running to the bathroom between retches.

After a few moments alone, he seemed to recover and came back outside. With a new spring in his step, he began, “This is just the first step. Hopefully one day we will be able to cure the world of Wibble Syndrome, but until then, we are going to have to continue to employ these foul, irritating children – let them do what they want with the AV carts and TV carts; the teachers have to tolerate their constant brown-nosing and incessant offers to take the attendance to the office. We are all suffering here. I know a few teachers on the front line who can’t even stomach their lunches anymore.”

I considered this problem for a second and was suddenly struck by a fantastic idea!

“Well, why don’t you just go to MoreAVCarts.com?” I asked excitedly.

“What is that?” Wibble asked, his eyebrows raised a hair.

“It is by far, the greatest place to get top quality, brand name AV carts, TV carts, laptop carts and more! You name it; they have something to wheel it around.”

“So you are saying that we can buy chic new AV carts so the kids don’t have to be so ashamed to wheel them around? Carts which are free from the relentless squeaks and squeals that hammer into the children’s brains? I can’t believe it…MoreAVCarts.com is the answer…finally!” Marcus Wibble was ecstatic. He could now rest easily knowing that Wibble Syndrome had a cure at MoreAVCarts.com.

Two officially documented cases of WS in which the symptoms were immediate and incurable:

1992:

Debbie Lalane is woefully chosen to haul the 18 years old TV cart from her classroom to the classroom down the hall after a viewing of a deeply moving episode of Blossom in which Six suffers an eating disorder. She approaches the heavy, closed door of the receiving classroom and knocks lightly, so as not to cause any more intrusion than necessary. Her heart begins beating furiously, her hands trembling uncontrollably, ears hot, sweat dripping; the teacher opens the door.

“Come right in” she instructs Debbie, cheerfully enough.

As Debbie begins her terrifying journey from the open doorway to the corner of the room, heaving this horrid contraption which spews deafening squeals at the slightest touch, she suddenly stops. She begins to tear at her hair furious, pulling out chunks and throwing them to the floor, all the while laughing hysterically; a look of manic emptiness in her brown eyes.

1996:

Chris Mclizzle is asked by his teacher to lug the projector cart from his classroom to the teachers lounge downstairs. This incident was particularly severe as the pressure to see inside the teachers’ lounge intensified the effects dramatically. Chris towed the projector like a 10 ton anvil towards the elevator, his heart beat increasing exponentially the entire way. As he made his way down, watching the third and second floors light up and finally the first, he began to feel nauseous, fighting down the heat of vomit while trying to wipe the sweat from his forehead as fast as it was being produced. He realized that he looked like Chris Farley after a Matt Foley sketch, but could do nothing to stop the profuse perspiration or the fiery red cheeks. He walked towards the teachers’ lounge wondering if this might be the time when he finally sneaks a peek inside when he sees the receiving teacher, Mr. Smith, walking down the hall.

“Just follow me Chris” said Mr. Smith.

Chris obeyed and followed Mr. Smith towards his classroom. Mr. Smith walked in gaily, smiling at his students as he nestled into his chair while Chris hesitated at the door, terror painted allover his face.

“Come on in,” he welcomed.

So Chris stepped forward and as soon as he did, a flood of urine quickly stained his khaki’s. He began muttering nonsense to himself, low, frightening babble interspersed with horrendous screams for help. He pushed the projector cart to the ground and began scratching at the chalkboard repeatedly. We lost him.

Hard Rock, Phone Calls and the Semi-Epiphany of the Stubborn Man

I’m that guy – We’ve all seen the commercials and embraced or disputed the stereotype. Men refuse to stop and ask for directions, would rather drive around stubbornly for hours than admit they’re lost, anything is preferable to the ignominy of their shuffling up to the service station counter, and so on and so forth.

So as much as I’m not one for blanket statements, I have to admit that I am in fact that guy. Strangely, the fact that I can impress my wife with my automotive wherewithal or unequaled parallel parking proficiency means I cannot admit when I don’t know the direction in which I should steer my impeccably maintained and operated vehicle. Fortunately, when I recently came to this realization she wasn’t with me to give me the chastising I surely deserved. (Won’t go into details but let’s just say when you see the same girl’s soccer team both enter and exit the same Pizza Hut you’ve been going around the neighborhood for quite a while..)

So now that I appear to be over this testosterone-fueled manifestation of foolish pride, I’ve decided I can afford a GPS system for my car. (global positioning system for the acronym challenged out there) There are a wide variety of GPS navigation systems at MoreGPSSystems.com, another one of Cymax Solutions’ online stores and, so far it would seem, the best place to acquaint myself with gps tracking technology. I admittedly had thought of acquiring one before the aforementioned run-around, but assumed that GPS technology would carry a price tag too hefty for me. I was pleasantly surprised to see moregpssystems.com offers a number of discount Garmin GPS systems.

What’s more, during the course of my online perusal, I learned of handheld GPS technology and might recommend one of these handheld gps units to my aunt as a birthday gift for my uncle. He has a tendency to “get back to nature” with a little too much zeal if you get my drift. I’m sure she’d agree the value of her piece of mind knowing a portable gps is in his hands is one you couldn’t put a price on.

While on the subject of driving, I prefer a manual transmission and the more thorough driving experience it provides. I drive a 5-speed and always will. Accordingly, I don’t have the free hand to safely take a phone call when I’m on the road and I’m considering purchasing a headset so I can in fact take the “what’s taking you so long, are you lost?” call. (see above)

Cymax and their HeadsetSelect.com store stock a considerable array of wireless headsets, jawbone headsets and increasingly popular Bluetooth headsets that feature crystal-clear voice clarity. Further, while sifting through their wealth of products, I began to consider upgrading my stereo headphones – the value and use of which have increased significantly since I moved into an apartment building and my neighbours don’t share my love of Audioslave at a sufficiently gratifying volume.

Headsetselect.com features Bose headphones, Sony headphones, Koss headphones and Sennheiser headphones, all renowned for exceptional sound quality. Now that I think of it, my mp3 player headphones are looking a little worse for wear as well, and I could pick up a nice pair of ipod headphones or earphones here as well. A couple of wireless stereo headphones might be nice as well, especially considering the cord of my current pair always seem to get tangled up in my left arm when I’m playing 16^th to 32^nd note patterns on the high-hat of my practice kit.

Get where I’m going with minimal fuss, take calls and still operate my superior vehicle with maximum efficiency, and arrive home earlier with more time to enjoy good loud music. Very appealing the more I think about it!

Cool School: Are You Ready for Your Zack Attack?

“Goodnight Mom, goodnight Dad,” I yelled from the top of the stairs. My little Pomeranian Jessie came bounding up the stairs with me. In unison, we yawned and crawled into my comfy, warm bed. I scratched Jessie’s little ears and snuggled in next to her.

Tonight is my last night at home. Tomorrow, I begin the college years.

Suddenly, I awoke to an alarm ringing violently in my ear. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. I looked at the clock. My flight to California left at noon, and it was almost 10! “Phew,” I said. “It’s alright ‘cause I’m saved by the bell!”

My new university was everything I had hoped it would be. I have a quirky roommate, an understanding, though suspiciously old Resident Advisor and the dreamiest hunk ever lives just down the hall. I didn’t catch his name, but I think its Zack or Mack or something like that.

In my first class, I spot the boy. He’s a bit of a smart-ass, a bit of a prankster, and I think I’m in love. That shaggy blond hair, that curious attempt at facial hair, that cell phone the size of a shoe box . . . If only there was a restaurant that I could meet him at.

The professor dismisses us and we walk slowly back to our dorm room, me a good ten feet behind him. Suddenly, he turns around and stares at me as if we’ve known each other our whole lives. I feel anxious and excited all at once.

“Do you want to come to my room?” he asks me. “I’m Zack.”

I do, I do, I do! A curly-haired boy with clown pants interrupts us, but Zack blows him off.

He opens the door, and I can’t believe his dorm room. It’s the size of my parent’s house and the furniture is unbelievable! A brand new computer desk, a cool new futon and a loft-style bed, plus there was a beefy guy in a tank top walking around.

“Wow!” I said. “Your dorm room is amazing! Mine’s much smaller and not as cool.” I felt sad and was sure that my lame apartment would be a major turn off to Zack.

“I got it all at moredormfurniture.com,” said Zack undressing me with his eyes. “They even delivered it for free.”

His strapping roommate went to wrestling practice, and we were all alone. I knew this was my big chance. I ignored the poster of a cheerleader on his wall, even though she looked suspiciously like a girl I’d seen him with earlier. I threw caution to the wind and went for it. Our lips were millimeters apart and . . .

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

“What? Huh? Jessie?” I had no idea what was happening or where I was. I heard my parents talking down the hall, and recognized, with utmost sadness, the boring décor of my bedroom.

“It was only a dream, Jessie,” I said with a sigh.

One thing’s for sure. I’m going to moredormfurniture.com before I leave today. I’ve got to have the coolest room at school. You never know who I might meet. Wink.

Bunk Bed Envy

Andre and I; we laughed, we dined, we philosophized, we cried. We drank fruit juice and compared combat strategies for Street Fighter. We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and exchanged crusts (my brown for his white), but at the core of our often deep and always meaningful conversations was the ever present divider which had plagued most of our relationship. You see, Andre had a bunk bed and I did not.

At first it was hard to overlook. I found myself very distrustful of his generally cheery disposition and wide smiling eyes. I felt ashamed of my own pallid complexion and overall dismal demeanor. I didn’t like the way he carelessly ordered expensive, sugary Tahiti Treat with his gelatinous Protein Delight in the lunch room, while I, sickly with anxiety and incurable seriousness, ordered a moderately priced, virtually sugar free V-8.

Oh to have a bunk bed! I would longingly dream; to know what it felt like to be so utterly carefree. To know that there was no reason to hide when it was ‘time to go to bed’. Nothing to dread because you weren’t really going to bed with a bunk bed; oh no, you were going to your own personal sleep playground. Bunk beds are like kid therapy. I knew that if I only had a bunk bed, I would jump higher; I would run faster; I would tan better; I would become the kid I always wanted to be.

There were a few times that Andre and I allowed this deeply seeded severance to surface and discussed our unfortunate division,

“I think my cousin is sleeping over this weekend,” Andre mentioned casually, “I will probably let him have the top bunk – oh…sorry Alvin…I wasn’t thinking about your…situation.”

“It’s O.K. Andre,” I shakily replied, sloughing off how hurt I really was, “I understand.”

“You know, you should really get your mom and dad to go to cymax.com to buy you a bunk bed. Can’t they see what that boring, soul-sucking four poster bed is doing to you? You’re miserable, you’re sick! I can’t take it anymore!” Andre was screaming; he was smoldering with equal measures of guilt and fury, “You know what man? I have to lay down…I need to think things through. What kind of a world do we live in where one kid gets a bunk bed and the other doesn’t…how are we supposed to live, to coexist when there are still divisions like this in life? I thought this was the 21^st century!” With his last exclamation, he slammed his small fist down onto the old lunch room table and his Tahiti Treat toppled and spilled to the floor. Blood red fruit juice sped through the cracks between the gritty lunch room tiles, until finally it lulled to an ominous stop.

Andre got up, faked a stomach ache and was sent home for the rest of the day. When the end of the day finally rolled around for me, I too made my way back home. As I kicked through the falling leaves of October and heard their dehydrated crunch under my L.A. Gears, I thought of Andre, lying on his bunk bed, contemplating my sad bunk bed-less life almost as glumly as I so often do. He was a good friend, that Andre.

When I finally got home, I was overwhelmed with the sense of something strange and new. The air was thick with a feeling altogether different from the one I was used to. It was sweet and clean, sugared with a mood not unlike that of the Hamburglar Jail at McDonalds…wondrous and magical. No one was in the hall when I walked in, nor was anyone in the living room or the kitchen. The basement was empty and so was the sunroom. Finally I walked up our aged, creaking steps towards my bedroom. The door was closed, which was unusual, and I could hear the muffled voices of my parents from within. I also heard the familiar tone of Andre saying something about remarkably simple assembly. I threw open the door and my mother, my father and Andre all whipped their heads towards me, wide eyed with surprise.

But I was the one who was truly shocked.

The three of them were in the process of building me a brand new bunk bed from morebunkbeds.com! It was glorious! Absolutely glorious! A clean, metal ladder glistened with the glow of fun and excitement while the fantastically designed safety bumper on the top bunk sang to me, the songs of carefree youth and happiness. I was experiencing feelings I had never known before. I felt my joints relax and a cherry warmth flow to my cheeks.

“How did you…how did you manage…I….I?” I stuttered; words and thoughts trampled other words and thoughts and I could barely muster my appreciation.

“All we did was go to morebunkbeds.com! It was incredibly easy. The customer service was impeccable, the website was a breeze to navigate and with zero shipping costs and speedy delivery, all we had to do was ready our credit cards!” My mother explained simply, waving a screwdriver in her hand as she spoke, accentuating the finer points.

Andre stepped towards me, a tear in his eye, “Now we never again have to suffer the burden of bunk bed envy. We are free to live the lives we were meant to, without the hindrance of this superficial segregation.”

Together, we mounted the bunk bed, each of us flooded with joy and emotion; and from then on, things were different. I was a changed kid. For the better I think, and Andre and I never suffered another moment of awkward bunk bed envy.

Cymaxpiece Theater Presents: The Real Story of Valentine’s Day

On February 13, 269 AD, a handsome young man named Valen sat under an apple tree playing his flute. Blessed with the dashing, chiseled good looks of a 21 Jump Street-era Johnny Depp and graced with the one day world renowned charm of George Clooney, young Valen was your classic heartbreaker in a time when poor dental and physical hygiene prevented such people from existing. An admirer of nature and all things lovely, Valen was no stranger to propositions from fathers begging him, offering him gifts and treasures, just to marry their daughters. He was offered goats and farmland and bushels of straw and once a very strange contraption called a 1981 De Lorean DMC-12 by an eccentric scientist with wild hair, but Valen did not accept any of these gifts as he didn’t want to marry any of these ladies. Fine though they all were, he had his deep brown eyes set on Tyne, a fair maiden in the next village.

Though it was accepted and even encouraged for neighboring villagers to marry one another to avoid possible inbreeding, Valen’s father did not want his son to become attached to anyone, for he was, without Valen’s knowledge, arranging for him to marry Sintra, the prosperous mayor’s daughter.

But oh, how Valen pined for Tyne! He watched her as she went to the shared river to fetch water, and spied as she fed hay to the horses. He felt stirrings in his loins he had never experienced before. He must go see her!

After dark, when the townsfolk were sleeping, Valen mounted his horse and galloped fervently toward Tyne’s village, all at slumber. He rode toward her cottage and threw hay at the window. When this failed to awaken her, Valen took out his wood instrument and began to play the most beautiful Kenny G-influenced fluting. Tyne appeared at her window and looked down, entranced by the melodic ecstasy that was Valen’s sweet rhythm. There she saw him, the boy from the neighboring village who caused a stirring in her loins she too had never known before.

She quickly ran outside and found him, down on one knee with flowers he had plucked from the field. He presented them to her and then and there, without uttering a word, Valen and Tyne knew they were destined to be together and would announce it to their families in the morning.

As the sun rose, on February 14^th, Valen approached his father to tell him the good news. But his father had plans of his own. Waiting outside was Sintra, wearing a white dress. Crushed, Valen tried to explain his love for Tyne, but it was too late. Valen was to marry Sintra.

Tyne had told her family about her impending nuptials, and they were thrilled. They dressed her in the finest silk and walked her over to Valen’s village. Much to their horror, Valen was already standing at the altar with Sintra, though his miserable face told Tyne all the dismal details she needed to know.

With that, Tyne marched up to Sintra, and scratched her like a rabid mountain lion. She clawed at her hair and laughed gleefully as bloodied chunks fell from Sintra’s head. Pieces of fabric flew and teeth clattered to the floor like marbles from the hands of a child. With her nose smeared to the left side of her face, and her swollen flesh forcing her bruised eyes closed, Sintra gracefully bowed down, and the proper wedding took place.

From February 14^th 269 AD on, Valen and Tyne were thought of as one. And Valen remained forever afraid of his wife. Especially on their wedding night.

She walked into their new love nest, expecting rose petals and wine, but was greeted with nothing more than a pile of hay and warm ale. “This will never do!” she shrieked and opened her laptop to find a new bed. A poster bed, a metal bed or a sleigh bed . . . what to choose? It was too difficult to google all of these, so the always intelligent Tyne visited Cymax.com and found thousands of selections of all three bed styles. When their new bed was delivered, Valen and Tyne stared at each other, their loins stirring again, only this time they knew why.

Bow-chicka-bow-wow.

Compelled to Shrink: A Lack of Roots and Residence in the BIG City

Growing up on an island, I’d never felt overly close-quartered or impinged in my accommodations until a job and a woman (the latter being slightly more influential and infinitely more rewarding) drew me out of my idyllic surroundings and into a seething metropolis full of “opportunities.” Much to my chagrin, every month I bleed nearly twice the number of dineros for a one-bed with a view of a taxi dispatch lot, and for which “cramped” is beyond an understatement, as I did for a spacious two-bed and den pad with a huge balcony and ocean views back home.

Inevitable? Yes. Grudgingly accepted? Yes, but with a considerable dose of new-found semi-misanthropy (Just joking…I think).

Demographic trends and the dynamics of supply and demand mean that, in the big city, space = money. Like many young people, I accordingly have little of either, and the king-size Captain’s bed and sectional sofa I’ve admittedly grown attached to over the years are likely doomed to the storage unit long term. In all honesty, I should probably get over the fondness and, ideally, pawn them off on one of my many friends from high school who went into the trades and now sport a family, a mortgage and a truck to pull their lake boat…sigh…

So, in the interest of my newfound urban identity, I’m looking to acquire some less expansive home furniture. Pieces that are more lightweight and more easily disassembled in anticipation of the day I upgrade to an equally miniscule apartment, but one with a preferable view of a four-lane artery and a convenient coin-op laundromat.

For starters, I’ve been considering a platform bed, maybe even a futon, and I’ve been perusing the considerable selection offered by Cymax Stores online at MorePlatformBeds.com. Haven’t made a decision yet, but I keep going back to look at three or four that match the look I want (I’m flexible) and my budget (painfully inflexible). The convenience of shopping from home really works for me too.

I’m also considering a chest as a more upright, less width-oriented clothes storage solution than the double dresser that currently takes up nearly my entire bedroom wall. I’ve seen a few at MoreDressers.com that intrigue me and are similarly priced right. If I could find both and maybe a bare bones nightstand at once that’d be ideal, and to that end I’ve been browsing the selection at MoreBedroomSets.com, a Cymax store just like the first two. I’m not the most décor conscious guy but a matching set might be a nice touch for my meager domicile. We’ll see.

Anyways, it’s nice to know that I can affordably and practically furnish my “cave”, as I half-endearingly, half-derogatorily refer to my current pad, with Cymax Solutions and their online stores.

Tips on Boogeymanagement

We at Cymax Stores are committed to tackling the real issues, and like 68% of all Americans today, my most worrisome issue is the Boogeyman. Boogeyman-related stress and illnesses cost American employers $8.5 trillion a year in health expenses and lost productivity.

The symptoms of a Boogeyman encounter include fatigue, irritability, bed-wetting, sudden whitening of the hair, and shivering in the foetal position while begging the horror to stop. Many Boogeyman sufferers are unable to sleep without the help of night-lights, nightly closet checks, the total tucking-in of all their blankets, and constant whining that the bedroom door needs to be open farther to let more light in.

Does this sound like anyone you know? Perhaps a co-worker, spouse, or family member has a chronic Boogeyman problem. Perhaps you have one yourself, and you’re reading this on a laptop from behind a fortress of couch cushions, which you think will save you when the scary monster comes again. Hint: It won’t.

In any case, there are practical solutions, and we at Cymax can help. Here are some tips and related products to help you deal with this nightly threat.

Tip 1. The Boogeyman cannot be captured on camera or by any home security equipment.

If the Boogeyman was susceptible to such banal trickery, he would have been captured, arrested, imprisoned, contracted to write a best-selling memoir, and made into a reality show TV star by now. So while our excellent range of home security and surveillance products won't help you catch the Boogeyman, it will help you catch those whippersnappers who always smoke their jimson weed out behind your wisteria bush. That alone might ease your mind.

Tip 2. The Boogeyman doesn’t like bright light.

Does this mean you should sleep with all your lights on? Not in these energy-conscious times. Trust us, if you think the Boogeyman is scary, then you haven’t experienced an enraged, shirtless Al Gore punching down your door, screaming about how you’ve “unleashed the hurricane,” and then tearing you asunder with his bare hands. But we at Cymax Stores do have a range of efficient and convenient LED lamps and flashlights for those nightly emergency floor-sweeps.

Tip 3. The Boogeyman only emerges from closets and beneath beds.

Other modes of transportation such as windows, vents and drains are not popular with the Boogeyman, lucky for us – the closet and the bed space are trouble enough. If you check them one at a time, it’s all too easy for the Boogeyman to switch around and elude you, making you check again and again. This is a problem that vexes even world-famous boogeymanologists.

The only way to be sure of the Boogeyman’s absence is to check both closet and bed at the same time. Get a spouse or friend to help you. If you're unable to do this, then you are urged to fill your closet with bricks, and use an armoire from Cymax for all your storage instead. You will never again be troubled by a closet-Boogeyman, and as a bonus, you may also be magically transported to Narnia (see your warranty details).

Tip 4. The more distance you put between yourself and the floor, the less chance you have of being Boogeymanned.

The Boogeyman has to travel across the floor like every other dark, lurching abomination except the winged nightgaunt and the giant hornet. The best way for you to keep away from the floor is by purchasing a bunk bed from Cymax Stores. The idea, of course, is that you’ll take the top bunk, and you’ll leave the bottom bunk to be occupied by an anti-Boogeyman decoy made out of a pile of clothes and a wig. You can also give the bottom bunk to any annoying relation who claims not to believe in the Boogeyman. Because they’ll learn. They’ll learn.

Some bunk beds offer added protection, so it’s worth shopping around a little. This bunk bed is more like an anti-monster bunker, and will serve as a prime defense against the horrors of nightgaunts, umber hulks, howling cryptoids and Ann Coulters. Other bed alternatives exist for those who disdain monster-fighting and would rather make a quick getaway instead.

We hope that this guide has been informative to you. If these tips and your credit card are both judiciously applied, the next time the Boogeyman darkens your doorstep, he’ll have no choice but to boogie on back to where he came from (probably Iowa).

Happy New Year . . . In Bed

I love Chinese food. I spent a few years living abroad and wanted desperately to be able to pick up a phone and order delicious, deep fried chicken balls (with more ball than chicken), egg rolls (with more rolls than egg) and create a fried rice river in between, covering the entire plate and half the counter with cherry sauce. And I really and truly think that fortune cookies are sweet little tulips from heaven. Not to mention, all your fortunes are to take place in bed. Mmm. That’s what I call a good Friday night.

I was sad to discover while in China, that this isn’t real Chinese food. “Where are your deep fried shrimp and ginger beef?” I demanded to a stoic-faced lady in Beijing. She stared me down and threw stuff in a boiling pot for me to eat. Boiled! Hell no. I want fried. Deep fried. Deeeeeeeeeeep fried. I begrudgingly ate it and, though I didn’t show as much to old Stone Face, I liked it. But I didn’t love it like I love Canadian Chinese food.

One could look back into Canadian history and discover the reasons behind our savory, unique cuisine. But I don’t want to. I want to open the circular tin dish and have visions of dancing dragons in my head. I want to crack open my fortune cookie and read that my life will never be without wonton soup. I want to down my pork-fried vegetables, rub my belly, and thank Confucious for thy bounty.

My favorite Chinese restaurant is just around the block from where I live. I can get a dinner for one plus a small wonton soup and eat it for four days. It costs me $15 and nine seconds of my time to pick it up. The family who runs the restaurant is all smiles when you walk in, but turn on each other when it comes down to business. I made the mistake of asking for hot sauce and witnessed what could be classified as acute domestic abuse. The boy behind the counter, the owners’ son, looks mournfully at his congealed Shanghai noodles and paused computer game knowing, as he does every other night of the week, the fun times end when dinner time begins.

But not for me.

Chinese New Year is here. 2008 is the Year of the Rat. Rats are compatible with those born year of the Monkey. I am a monkey. It’s going be a good year for eating. I can taste it already. Maybe I’ll buy many dinners for one and a large wonton soup, and invite over some friends. We will unscrew the legs off an easy-to-assemble table from Cymax; perhaps a table from American Drew Dining Room Furniture, Stanley Dining Room Furniture, Standard Furniture Co., Pulaski Dining Room Furniture, GAR Tables or Hillsdale. We will gleefully pass the Chicken Chow Mein and the Lo Mein and not know which is which. We will laugh at our (mis)fortune cookies and lick the soy sauce off our fingers. We will drink Tsingtao and toast to being as rat-like as we can for the next 365 days.

In bed.