While I'm handing them out...
  Decently sized ups to me, for persisting in keeping my Blog fresh. At some point, updating went from being a dreaded chore to being an obligation. I know is sounds like a minor difference, but it matters. I used to sit and stare at the screen, not being able to come up with anything beyond a laundry list of the things I'd done that day, or a litany of things I hated. I discouraged easily, and I would avoid updating altogether because it was so tedious. Now, the new, improved Blogging me starts to feel guilty if I don't update every few days. I know that my girlfriend is just about the only one who reads this stuff on a regular basis, and I have a small (but hearty) cadre of friends who check in from time to time. I suppose it would make more sense to just email them all, instead of wasting bandwidth and BlogSpot server space. Still, there's something more... vital? Interactive? I don't know the exact word. (I know, bad writer, find the word.) There is some deeper sense of pride, a feeling like, "I made this, look at me! I can do a cannonball, Mom! Watch me! No, watch. Don't just say you're watching and then glance back at that trashy paperback, WATCH ME!!! No, wait. Now I'm too scared. Don't look." You know, that sort of pride/tension that you get when you're taking a risk, however miniscule, of looking stupid.
  That's right, stupid. For all I know, my Blog could be the Dude, Where's My Car? of your Internet experience. By posting this stuff here, I'm taking the risk that you're tuning in just to laugh at me. I'm exposing myself to ridicule and praise in (I hope) at least equal measure. The truth is, I think I'm a decent writer. Sure, I often go back and look at my stuff and find eleventy-billion things I could have done better, but on the whole it's marginally better than crap. But sharing it means that I have to risk the chance that you disagree.
  Strangely, I find myself becoming less scared of that as I go along. I'm certain that it has a great deal to do with living with someone who writes pretty prolifically. My girlfriend is writing a hilarious play, as well as maintaining an online journal. She's as sensitive as any of us to criticism. In fact, she gets pretty upset when I can't silence my inner editor long enough to praise her early drafts. But, despite that anxiety, she keeps writing because she loves it. She gets a kick out of finding characters and a story and bringing them to life. She persists, despite her fear, and I thank whatever that she does, because it helps me want to do the same. I haven't gotten any farther than updating my journal because I know she reads it, and cracking out a short story with characters she created, but it's building. I hope she knows that she's inspiring me, and that I am slightly in awe of her ability to work through writer's nerves. I hope that the things I produce do her talent, persistence and courage justice.

Now, let's totally switch gears,
  I need to pass out even more ups. Not so big this time, but ups nonetheless. I complain about... well, everything, but today I had a pleasant experience, and I thought I should give due credit. It starts with a trip that I made to Best Buy yesterday.
  B.B. is my secret shame. I know it's a big corporate monolith, and it stands for everything commercial that irks me so. Yet, I can't stay away. More to the point, I have to stay away, because I either buy things I really don't need, or I get depressed because I can't afford to buy anything. I feed my filthy habit by asking for gift certificates, for birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, bar mitzvahs, other people's birthdays, Arbor Day... I suppose you get the idea. Anyway, I had a couple of these plastic pieces of capitalist paraphernalia saved up, and (for once) I had a specific item that I wanted to purchase. I was looking for a carrying case to protect my camera from my natural clumsiness. I found one, picked out a color I liked, purchased it, and took it home. Oh, and I wandered into just about every other department before I left. (Hi, my name is LBB, and I'm a Best Buy-aholic.)
  When I got home, I discovered that the case didn't have these little divider thingees it was supposed to have. I was disappointed. Crushed, even. That was the only one in the color that I liked, and I knew if I exchanged it, I'd have to settle for a less desirable color. (Don't let the word color fool you. The ones I liked were all varying shades of grey. Oh, and gray.)
  I dragged my LB butt into the store on my way to work this afternoon. Sure enough, the other versions of that case were less attractive shades of gray or grey. Then, epiphany! Why couldn't I just take the dividers from the one I didn't like, and put them into the one I did like? Simple, right? In fact, it turned out that the two different shades of grey (gray) even had the same UPC number, which in the eyes of technology makes them the same thing. I mean, the net total of divider-bearing and non-divider-bearing bags would be exactly the same, right? Still, I was convinced that it was fruitless. There would be some iron-clad policy, and I'd be going home with a slightly less wonderful shade of... light black.
  I guess you can probably see where this is going. As it turns out, fantasy met reality, and the returns/exchange department allowed me to take the dividers home in the bag I liked better. I was blessed with customer service which actually was, and it made me happy.
  So, ups to you, Best Buy Deptford. Not huge ups, because you're supposed to be helpful and agreeable, damn it, but ups just the same. Keep it up.

I just saw Matchstick Men.
  I took my girlfriend on a date. I bought her tickets to a movie, soda and snacks. Someday, we will have regular jobs, so that nights off together are not such a rare and wondrous occasion.
  I rather enjoyed the movie. I can't help liking Nicolas Cage, and Sam Rockwell is really damn good at the likeable sleaze character. Allison Lohman was also very impressive, and I see big things ahead for her, provided this wasn't a fluke performance.
  On another movie note, did you know that Orson Welles almost shot a Batman feature? Neither did I! Big ups to REMY523 for letting me in on his ultra-geek-out. =)

Speaking of the Emmys...
  There is one thing that I have to credit the Emmy awards people with, that I think makes an awful lot of sense. It's the separation of the Primetime and Daytime Emmys.
  I'm sure, if you asked, the Emmy people would tell you that it's necessary to hold two ceremonies because of the vast amount of programming available on a 24 hour television schedule. My theory is that, despite the general lousiness of television, the staff of the National Television Academy are self-aware enough to realize that the really crap TV is on during the day.
  This might work in other arenas as well. There could be a second big football game in January, (I'm tentatively calling it the Stupor Bowl) which would decide who was the official worst team in a given season. There'd be play-ons, where you had to advance to the next round if you lost.

 "You wanna be home for Christmas?" Coach shouted, spittle flying through the air and misting on Johnson's shoulder pads. "Then you'd damn well better win, and prove that we're only the eighth worst team in this league! Otherwise, we're gonna be losin' until the end of January!"

  There are already places where the worst stuff gets acknowledged, such as the Darwin Awards or the Golden Raspberries. But I think it's much more effective when the organization or industry itself sequesters a group of its members, thereby tacitly admitting that they're second-class participants. Good for you, Emmy Awards!
  There's one other organization that I think would really benefit from such a straightforward reclassification of a section of its participants. Yes, AMPAS, I'm looking right at you. In my opinion, the Academy Awards committee should acknowledge what the rest of us already know by creating a Summer Movie Academy Awards. There could be awards for the most creative use of explosive devices, most excessive use of nudity, and most Matrix-esque special effect. They could recognize and reward the qualities that send these films into the box-office stratosphere in the first place.
  Of course, now that I've wasted your time and mine on this little diatribe, it occurs to me that there already is a "Crap Oscars." It's called the MTV Music Awards, and every year it proves that MTV is just as discerning about film as it is about music.

I am a national radio star.
  The scary thing is, this is only a slight exaggeration. My friend Pab has a weekly one hour radio show packed full of comedy and such. I've done some voice work for The Pab Sungenis Project before, including his intro and some character work, but I've never hosted the thing before. This is all about to change. Pab's stuck with jury duty for a couple of weeks, so he asked me to step in and take the reigns. Being the closet egomaniac that I am, I leapt at the chance to increase my public exposure even one millimeter. If you check out Pab's site, you can find a list of stations and net-casters, or you can wait for Pab to post the episodes in the Audio Vault. The shows I'm hosting will air the weeks of October 3rd and 10th, but you should check out the Project even if you hate me, because it's quality broadcasting, and Pab deserves your support.

The Emmys...
  I didn't watch them, and I don't care who won or lost. I find some shows entertaining, and some shows not, and I don't see what the opinion of hundreds of TV industry insiders should do to affect that.
  Most of the networks' lineups can be offered as evidence that those people know as much about quality television as I do about manufacturing crystal meth. And I'm ahead of the game, because I bet I could go online and download instructions for making crystal meth.
  Next topic.