Pop Culture Blog: Music, Movie and Humor

Leveraging low-hanging synergies outside the vertical fruit box since 1999.

The Bag Is Out For The Cat.


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I maintain that cats are brighter than dogs – because coming on command does not a smart animal make. Those dense, hairy little canine buggers would jump off of a building if they were told to follow a tasty snausage over the side, wheras a cat would stop dead in its tracks and wonder what the heck you’d been smoking. I don’t think obedience equates to superior intelligence. I like the fact that my domesticated house pet of choice has his own agenda, and doesn’t jump on me, drooling like Sloth every time I walk in the door. I like the fact that I can leave him alone for a weekend and not come home to an apartment that looks like it was broken into by incontinent gorillas.

When I got home tonight, however, Boss put on a show that ranks him right up there with the deer tick in terms of intelligence. I bought a new winter coat on Saturday afternoon, and it’s a big ‘un. The white plastic bag that I brought it home in is ginormous as well and Boss was curled up inside of it just as comfy as can be. I sat down and started watching the news, and he poked his head up to look over at the TV. That was when I noticed he had one of the handles wrapped snug around his neck. I made a mental note that when he tried to get up I’d lean over and remove it – thereby escaping a tragic garroting at the hands of the spiral staircase.

When he finally got up, he got up fast – suddenly realizing he was supposed to be in my bedroom for some life and death situation as cats are known to do. The bag followed him whipping back and forth and making a heck of a racket. Before I could grab him he was off the couch with the enormous bag tagging along above and behind him like a raincloud with a vendetta. He became absolutely terrified, and ripped around the kitchen and living room at a speed I’ve never seen, desperately trying to escape his cheap plastic pursuer. I nearly doubled over laughing as words cannot really describe how ridiculous it looked, but then he headed for the stairs and I snapped back to attention as my spidey senses began to tingle.

By the time I got down to the lower level, he’d successfully gotten away from his nemesis and was looking up at me from the middle of my bedroom floor, chest pumping and eyes wide with kitty shock and awe. The bag lay a few feet away, hung up on the last step. He quickly turned his attention back to it – I assume anticipating yet another attack. That was 4 hours ago, and he’s still there staring at the bag as I type. It’s a Filene’s Basement Bag Standoff, and I truly hope it’s over by morning as I’d like to use it to take my gym clothes to work. Godspeed. You show that bastard bag who’s boss, Boss.

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I Sincerely Like The AHL Hockey.


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Site favorite Detroit Velvet Smooth works for the Lowell Lock Monsters as an off-ice official, and he’s invited me several times to accompany him to a game. I finally tagged along last night, and I have to say – AHL hockey is considerably more enjoyable than its older brother. I may be hooked.

I will be going to the Monsters’ game a week from today to continue my new obsession. It’s healthier than niche German pornography, anyway. Let me know if you’d like to accompany us.

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Arrested Development Guilty On All Counts.


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That’s right. It’s guilty of being original. It’s guilty of being hilarious. It’s guilty of being a fucking milestone – and today – it’s also guilty of being cancelled.

Bateman will now be able to join the support group for “brilliant shows which were axed by stiff suits before their time”. Colin Quinn and Chris Elliott are bringing the donuts and coffee this week, while Peter Griffin moderates via satellite from the Drunken Clam.

Other tragedies include: The Tick, Freaks and Geeks, Sports Night, Firefly, NewsRadio and, of course, Mr. Show. Where is Susan Powter when you need her? Cancelled, I’d assume.

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In Flander’s Fields The Poppies Blow.


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Please read the poem you see below, and then this accompanying article on the poem’s history and author Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae.

IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

In Canada, you used to learn this poem in the 2nd grade or so. You would memorize it and recite it every November 11th with your classmates – I remember saying it out loud in a gym once with every other kid at my school at an entire assembly devoted to Remembrance Day. We’d all be given poppies, in keeping with the poem, which we would wear on our little lapels for the entire day – and usually for a few before and after. Veterans would come and speak to us, and most kids were well versed on the major wars before they were old enough to fully appreciate G.I. Joe. Although I cut and paste it into this page, I could have still typed it out from memory. And it gets me every time.

I say ‘used to’ because the current Canadian climate is not really conducive to mentioning war, or the soldiers who fight them, in any sort of favorable light. It’s probably been stricken from most curriculums in favor of repeated viewings of Ellen. Regardless, I wanted to share Flanders Fields with my American friends who have likely never heard of it – and say a sincere personal thank you to all those who have fought and died so far from home over the last hundred years. See another tribute over at GoonBlog.

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