Freedom Monkey House

A Public Service

As a result of recent world events, billions of people are trying to figure out exactly what the hell is a cyclone. The media is throwing around a lot of terms in a feeble attempt to make the American public understand what kind of force of nature could wipe out an entire third world country ruled by something as naughty sounding as a military junta. A typhoon, a tornado, a monsoon, a tsunami, a hurricane, a recession, a nor’easter… they all fall short of the mark. The confusion is understandable seeing as nobody even knows what the country is called. Is it Burma? Is it Myanmar? Is it France? Nobody knows.

As a public service, I’ve decided to impart you with a bit of my knowledge on the subject. Feel free to reference said knowledge to shock, amaze, and belittle your friends, coworkers, and family. A nugget like this is good to toss out at functions such as a Mother’s Day dinner.

A cyclone is mythical storm with one eye and a horn.

More new posts to follow… Have a happy Mother’s Day.

It Cannot Be Stopped with Conventional Weapons…

(Load-up the Nerf Gun)

I haven’t been to the cinema in about a month. This is unusual for me because I’ve been known to routinely see two or three movies a week. Some that I’d like to see are: There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men… but the one I’d really like to see on the big screen is Cloverfield.

Despite the filmmaker’s best efforts, I have heard that Cloverfield is basically Godzilla meets the Blair Witch… a monster movie with shaky, hand-held, camera work. Sounds great, right? I know! For some strange reason, however, the powers that be decided to keep the details on the down-low. So much so, they named the movie Cloverfield. So now the creature is known as the Cloverfield Monster. Inspires fear, right?

When I first heard the name of the flick, I thought it might have been a movie about a pink, winged unicorn… or a community of orphaned baby dolls. I mean, seriously… they couldn’t come up with anything better than Cloverfield?

Well, whatever the reason, the name seems to be working for them. Bearing that in mind, I came up with some names for possible sequels:

• The Daisypatch Beast
• The Grassymeadow Behemoth
• The Babblingbrook Leviathan
• The Willowthicket Miscreation
• The Appleorchard Big Slimy Thing

I heard, in order to amp-up the fearsomeness, they briefly considered calling the movie Dangerfield… only they were concerned that the monster wouldn’t get any respect.

Memory of Sean Taylor Inspires Bills to a Come from Behind Win over the Redskins

RALJON, Md. (FMH) – Decimated by misery, misfortune, and grief, the Buffalo Bills entered FedEx Field on a mission. After losing tight end Kevin Everett to a cervical spine fracture in the first game of the season, the Bills have struggled with only 5 wins and 6 losses. Add to that the tragic news of the murder of Redskins free safety Sean Taylor, and it has almost become too much for any professional football team to bear.  But, when the dust cleared, after the game, the Bills pulled out a win in the waning moments, improving their record to 6 and 6. Said Buffalo fan John Snorkleton, “It’s what Sean would have wanted.”

With a black, number 21 pin affixed to his Jason Webster jersey, Snorkleton franticly waved his number 21 rally towel through the fourth quarter… personally willing many of kicker Rian Lindell’s five field goal attempts between the goal posts. “We have as much right to invoke the spirit of Taylor to intercede on our behalf as anyone. He was a member of the National Football League. He was a human. He… had two arms.”

To honour the fallen safety, Buffalo won the game without the aid of a touchdown, adding a safety to their five field goals. “A safety! I mean, seriously… does anyone even score safeties anymore?” Snorkleton shouted while spilling beer on a visibly dejected Redskin fan, “If that wasn’t a shout-out to Sean, I don’t know what is.”

Much maligned for his play calling and time management skills during his second go-round as head coach for Washington, Joe Gibbs called back to back timeouts in a failed attempt to put Lindell’s kicking leg into a super-duper freeze. His latest coaching blunder incurred an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty, which shortened Lindell’s 51 yard attempt to a game winning 36 yard kick.

“I think this win has restored my faith in humanity. Yeah, sure… it sucks for the Redskins, but look at it this way: It could be worse.” Realizing his poorly worded faux-pas, Snorkleton slumped down in his bleacher seat and quietly apologized to a six year old, teary-eyed Redskin fan.

Bored Room

So, there were times back when I was in high school, when nothing was happening. This happened every so often. Whoever came up with the phrase, “an idle mind is the devil’s playground,” clearly also suffered from boredom.

Because of the rules of physics and some other science junk, those of us with an abundance of free time would gravitate toward each other. In my school, most people participated in some sort of extracurricular activity. If it wasn’t a sport or a club, then it might be the marching band or chorus or student leadership. I did it all. I played sports. I was a class senator. I was a thespian. I was a cheerleader. I was a Young Republican. I was in the French club. I was a picker. I was a grinner. I played my music in the sun. I even founded my own club. Even so, from time to time one could still get caught in a period between activities. For me, my longest moment in the void occurred during my sophomore year.

My friend, Regis, also found himself in the void during that time. He played football and I think he was out for a while with an injury. Going home and doing homework or getting jobs were not options for us. Often we would find ourselves, with other voiders, hanging near the media center. We would make up card games, elude school security, or even go on the occasional road trip adventure (which would inevitably end up with someone’s car dying and everyone walking home.)

That fateful day started as inauspiciously as most others. It was another boring day at school, soon to be followed by another boring afternoon meandering around the campus, getting into trouble. However, at some point in the day (let’s face it, I’m sure it was during French class) I had an epiphany.

My go-to lollypop, or sucker if you will (and I think you will,) was the Blow Pop. To be sure, I did not fancy lollypops over other treats… but really, who among you could resist bubblegum encased in a flavoured, hard candy shell? On this fateful day, however, we found ourselves Blow Popless. Dejected, we accepted the, less desirable, Tootsie Pop from the awkward, friendly girl who sat behind us.

Maybe it started as a means to further avoid paying attention in class. Who knows? But, Regis and I began reminiscing about the old commercial in which Mr. Owl fails to accurately deduce the number of licks to get to the center of Tootsie Pop. Oh, come-on… You know the one. “Ah-one… two-hoo-hoo… ah-three… CRUNCH!”

And with that, it began. I was determined to discover the secret that somehow managed to elude that poor boy… Mr. Cow, Mr. Fox, Mr. Turtle, and even wise, old Mr. Owl. I was going to find out exactly how many licks it would take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop if it killed me, and/or caused severe blistering to my tongue. This was my challenge.

The rules were simple: Licks only. Sucking was expressly forbidden. Also prohibited was the use of water or any other drink to “wǣtan my whistle.” This test was to be completed under the power of my own saliva. Regis predicted a forth period “CRUNCH!” The gauntlet had been tossed. Away I licked.

Did I know, then, that I would be making history? Could I foresee the world-wide peristaltic ramifications my brazen audacity would induce? Does anybody know what the hell a “midnight toker” is supposed to be?

As I walked home that day, my tongue was held high, with a triumphant glow. The fact that it had swollen to thrice its size, bothered me not. I had preformed a valuable service for God and my country. More than that, I knew that the next day in school, I would be the envy of every man and dream of every woman.

And even if the Fridays on my calendar weren’t suddenly inundated with movie dates, I could always rely on the weekly meeting of the Blow Pop Appreciation Club to quell the mind numbing boredom.

What The Hell Does Zeitgeist Mean, Anyhow?

I bought the new Smashing Pumpkins album. This should come as no surprise to those of you who know me, because I‘ve been a fan of theirs since high school. Just to depress my classmates, I’ll mention that was nearly seventeen years ago.

Don’t get me wrong. I think the album is good. It is at least on par with most of their other albums… but that’s just it. The new line-up only retains frontman, Billy Corgan and drummer, Jimmy Chamberlin from the original incarnation. It sounds like the tracks could have been pulled from the sessions of any of their last three studio albums. In fact, it sounds like Zwan and Billy Corgan’s “solo” record… which were basically Billy, Jimmy, and some filler musicians. Chamberlin’s Life Begins Again was the refreshing break from the Pumpkins’ formula, which sadly was not more fully explored.

As far as the other two founding members, only James Iha has attempted helming a project on his own. His Let It Come Down album had a sound that was reminiscent of the Pumpkins’ less-potent B-sides. It made me wonder whether the Iha penned tracks were leftovers, deemed too impotent for an official Smashing Pumpkins release.

Perhaps I am being overly harsh. I mean, I would definitely listen to Zeitgeist over most music being churned out of late. It’s just that, the Smashing Pumpkins are my favourite band. I want the best for them. I want them to blow people away. I want them to push the envelope.  And, for criminy’s sake, if they are going to hype up a “reunion,” I want them to work through their personal bullshit and bring back the original line-up… if only just for a group photo and a couple of appearances where they karaoke through a few of their greatest hits.

Other newer releases of note include Mary Timony’s The Shapes We Make and Billy Talent’s second eponymous record.  Washington, DC’s own Mary Timony is at it again with another collection of songs that hearken back to the medieval music of old. Fans of her old band, Helium, will not be disappointed… if they can get over their initial shock upon learning that not only is Timony not dead, but she’s been putting out a number of good solo albums.

Billy Talent is a breath of fresh air to pop-punk. This is the first new band I have heard in while that has piqued my interest. That being the case, it’s hard for me to compare their sound to other bands of their genre. Think pop-punk… that doesn’t suck ass. They hooked me with the track Fallen Leaves. The video is on YouTube, but be forewarned… you will rush out to buy the album, so have your cash in hand.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I’ve noticed that, even though it is put out by the Johnson & Johnson company, the shampoo only has one Johnson attached to its name. I have spent, at least, the last day and a half trying to figure out why. To my chagrin, I discovered that the whole baby product line is only claimed by one of the Johnsons.

Was one of the Brothers Johnson trying to take the company in a different direction?
“Baby shampoo… Are you fucking kidding me? That is totally going to overshadow the debut of our latest Johnson & Johnson Ninja Stars!”

Maybe it was a quality issue.
“No More Tears is the craziest idea you’ve ever come up with! What is shampoo without the tears? Next, you’ll suggest ‘no more clean’ shampoo! Any shampoo that doesn’t result in retinal scarring will never bear my name!”

Perhaps it was developed by an unrelated member of the staff. Over the years, the name may have been shortened from: Johnson’s (No Relation to Johnson or Johnson) Baby Shampoo.

Sadly, neither Johnson nor Johnson’s website shed any light on this conundrum. To my knowledge, the underling Johnson does not yet have a website. His son, John Johnson has a site… however; it is focused exclusively on Worlds of Warcraft strategy.

Breaking the Ice

This past winter, I was nearly flattened by a three by five foot piece of falling ice. It became dislodged from the roof and came crashing to the ground only inches away as I was entering a Barnes & Noble. …Just another one of God’s reminders that he can take me out at any second. An attractive redhead, several yards away, witnessed my near demise and exclaimed, “Oh my God! That would have hurt.”

My response was to hold out my palm and make an expression as if I was thinking, “Is it about to rain?” Either she missed it, or the humour was lost on her because instead of starting a conversation in which we would have discovered that we both love Star Wars, own every Prince album, and have compatible star signs… she continued into the store and disappeared among the fiction best sellers.

That was not an isolated event. Often, I have problems coming up with witty retorts… particularly when I’m talking to attractive ladies… or when deities are hurling chunks of shit at me. I have been returning to the Barnes & Noble everyday for the last few months, hoping to bump into the redhead again. My plan was to make a case for my non-verbal conversation starter. If my argument fails to sway her, I will insist she allow me to substitute a verbal alternative that is, at least, on par with the funniness level of my impromptu mime. So far, I’ve had no luck meeting her again for a rematch. However, I now own more books than my local public library… proving that behind every cloud, there’s a rainbow… or a lightning bolt… or a space vessel, operated by a race of aliens bent on Earth’s total annihilation… so, it’s all good.

The other day, I was standing in front of a bar with a few of my supervisors. A waitress brought us out some water, uttered something beyond my ear shot, paused for a moment, and then walked back inside the bar. Let it not be said that my bosses don’t also dabble in mime, because they were all staring at me, as if they were thinking, “What the fuck!” But then, in unison, they broke character and shouted, “What the fuck!” Lieutenant Ovechkin added, “No wonder you’re a virgin!”

Okay…

1) That outburst was not called for.

2) I am, totally, not a virgin. And…

3) That incident should not count against me as a missed opportunity.

I couldn’t hear her! I don’t even think she was talking to me!

Several days later, Lt. Ovechkin deduced that I author this blog, cementing his belief that I’ve never felt the pleasure of a woman’s company… and proving that God can also use embarrassment as an implement for one’s destruction.

Going Postal

So, the U.S. Postal service has jacked up the price of stamps again. First class stamps have jumped from 39¢ to 41¢. I am still struggling to get rid of my 37¢ stamps.

I was under the impression that the Post Office was in the black, finally, this past year. Yet for some reason, they still feel the need to bilk us out of our hard earned scratch. If congress is still searching for price gougers, I believe I may have found them.

I think the Postal Service is trying to disguise this rate increase with a little slight of hand. A couple of weeks before the increase, they introduced the “Forever” stamp. It costs 41¢ and will purportedly be good enough to mail a first class letter, forever… despite any future rate hikes.

I’m not exactly sure why they don’t make every first class stamp a Forever stamp. They should just call them “First Class” stamps and charge people whatever the rate is at the time of purchase.

With Forever stamps available, who in their right mind would still buy regular 41¢, non-forever stamps? It would seem that the Post Master General Extraordinaire has already taken this into consideration. On May 25^TH, they began sale of the new 41¢ Star Wars stamp. And, even though I know I will be paying for it when the rates go up again, I will be dutifully standing in line to buy the collector sheet and a few roles. Why should George Lucas be the only one to take advantage of the compulsive-buying tendencies of nerds when we could also be used to prop up a floundering, mismanaged delivery service?

On the Saturday before the big rate increase, I rushed to the Post Office in order to mail out a few bills. While I was standing in line, one of the package sorters offered to assist me. “If you are just getting stamps, I can help the next person in line. Sir, are you just getting stamps?”

“Am I? And how!” I replied, as I walked up to the open window. “I’m gonna need one 1¢ stamp, seven 2¢ stamps, forty 4¢ stamps, and I might as well get one hundred Forever stamps.”

With an inquisitive expression on her face, the sorter asked, “Are you sure you won’t need anything else?”

“Please… don’t go there.”

Five Questions: The Interview

I have been courted by the best in the business: Your Barbara Walters, your Oprah Winfreys, your Matt Lauers… All of them, denied. Now, in an unprecedented move, I have granted Leah an exclusive opportunity to delve into the mind of Igmar Fillipé. The following interview promises to be both educational and entertaining. Prepare to be edified.

At the conclusion of the Q & A, you will find a set of instructions. Check it out if you would like me to interview you. Be forewarned, I’m not throwing any softballs. I’ll be coming at you all “Fox News investigates” style. I am out to totally take down you and your corrupt company… not to mention, it’s sweeps week.

On a side note, in a weird, six degrees of Kevin Bacon moment, I managed to trace these interviews as far back as Avitable. He is a frequent commenter at  Midnight Therapy with Crystal.  Crystal is my spiritual advisor. To my knowledge, Kevin Bacon has not yet subjected himself to a “Five Question” interview.

1. If Ben & Jerry's were to name an ice cream flavor after you, what would it be called?
Are you hitting on me? Let’s try to keep this professional. My Ben & Jerry’s flavour would be pistachio ice cream, loaded with whole pistachios, and hunks of banana and dark chocolate. It would be called Monkey Poo and the packaging would feature a cartoon monkey hurling scoops of ice cream towards visitors to his cage at the zoo.

2. Which superhero do you think has the coolest superpowers, and which one has the best outfit?
Again, Leah, I’m going to have to ask that you stop undressing me with your eyes. My favourite superhero is Wolverine; however, I think Rogue’s superpowers are the coolest. She can absorb the powers of others, so it’s kind of a “wish for more wishes” sort of thing.

3. What's the most embarrassing thing in your refrigerator right now and why?
A carton of strawberries… thanks for asking. You see, my grocer has been selling the cartons, buy one-get one free. I eat one and forget about the second… until they actually sprout legs and walk out of the icebox.

4. What place [that you haven't already been] do you think you could live based on just what you know of it now?
I’m pretty sure they won’t allow me to live at the base of Stonehenge, so I’ll say Wells, Somerset, England, UK in an apartment above a shop… preferably a bakery.

5. Which person in your life has had the most influence over you and why?
I’m going to say that George Lucas has the most influence over me, because despite my best efforts, he is still able to sell me a bunch of Star Wars crap every time he decides to milk the franchise for a few more cents.

Are you ready to come clean? Here are the rules:

1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.” And please, feel free to comment on how my weblog has enriched your life, or whatever.
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Hamster Dance

I have a few problems with Richard Gere, and (at least for the moment) none of them have to do with his lack of ability as an actor. It is no secret that he is an outspoken political activist who has a hard-on for the Dalai Lama. So, when Dick announced that he was surprised by the outrage that resulted from when he publicly slapped several sticky-wet smooches on the face of a top Bollywood actress, it smacked of bullshit. So much so that my niece must think I’ve contracted Tourette syndrome.

For those of you who have been living in a box for the last week, Richard Gere appeared on stage at an AIDS awareness event with famed Indian actress, Shilpa Shetty. Suddenly, and without warning, Gere wrapped his slimy tentacles around Shetty, who recoiled as the deviant planted kiss after kiss on the quivering young actress.

Had it been anyone else, sexual assault charges may have been filed. However, as it is most times with rich, hunky stars of the silver screen, Gere got a pass and Shetty laughed it off. Not laughing, were the people of India. You see, India has public decency laws that we in America might consider more strict.

Over night, effigies of Tricky Dick were bursting into flames across the country. Shilpa Shetty implored the Indian people to excuse him because he was a foreigner, not familiar with their ways. Richard Gere fled the country and took potshots at the Indian conservative party from the relative safety of Jon Stewart’s Daily Show set. Now a judge has filed an arrest warrant for Mr. Gere. The charge is punishable by three years in prison, a fine, or both.

Forgive me ladies, but I think Ricky should turn himself in. First of all, even I knew that India doesn’t take public displays of affection lightly. There is no way that a guy who stalks the Dalai Lama nine months out of the year wouldn’t know that.

Here, Gere slobbering all over some starlet might only cause disgust or induce vomiting. Tabloids might run with stories pegging her as Gere’s latest beard, but that would be about it. No one would riot. Likenesses of Gere would not be burned. After a few days, we would move on to the next drunk celeb, doing or saying something stupid. (…Unless the starlet is black. Then Al Sharpton might call on Gere to commit seppuku.) This is America. This is the kind of freedom we enjoy here. I wouldn’t have it any other way, but I’m not about to trash a different culture because they don’t act like us. Casting India’s conservative law in a negative light, however, is exactly what Gere set out to do. He knew the kind of reaction his civil disobedience would provoke.

Richard Gere, if you purposely set out to break India’s laws, even if it was to point out how you think they are silly, you need to be willing to suffer the consequences of your actions. Turn yourself in and take your lumps.

Better yet, why don’t you just move to India permanently? You could work exclusively in Bombay cinema and you could go antiquing with the Dalai Lama whenever you want. Best of all, you could work to change the laws for a people with whom you at least share nationality.