Joe Frozen, or Journeying Through Time Rather Coldly

“I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work, I want to achieve immortality through not dying.” – Woody Allen

Just ask Sue - Chicago is THE place for your old bones to spend eternity

It all began in one of those typical conversations with my lady, where we’re not exactly sure how this crazed topic came up, but we needed to follow it through to the conclusion anyway.

“What, you wouldn’t want to be buried in Chicago?” I asked.

“I figured if anybody you’d want to be buried in Scranton,” she told me, and that’s a reasonable assumption.

I can only assume this came up after spouting a saying I’ve kicked around for some time now, to measure something’s greatness:

“If I die today after (insert great thing here), just take me to the boneyard and put me in the ground. Tell my momma I love her, tell her I did my best.” Saying in essence, my life will be complete after whatever great thing we experience that day – seeing a concert, eating dangerous sushi, meeting Tommy Wiseau, etc. But it did raise the interesting idea of where my dusty old bones should repose for all eternity. I immediately thought Chicago, because honestly, as much as I like Scranton, there ain’t a whole hell of a lot to do there when you’re alive. The afterlife in NEPA must be boring as shit.

I’m Sorry, We’re Going to Have to Let You Go

Hey, thanks for coming in, please have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Oh, you just came back from lunch? What’s in the cafeteria today, that spinach ravioli? I get mad heartburn every Monday from that, I swear.

So look, I don’t want to keep you in suspense, you may have heard some rumors around the office, and yes, we’re gonna be doing a little restructuring, playing with the layout of the cubicals and copiers and whatnot, and the bottom line is I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.

Are you sure you don’t want some juice or something?

My Plan For the Salvation of the Chicago Cubs

Friends, we here in Chicago are in a quandary. You see, it’s the middle of summer, and even though the NFL lockout is over, the populace largely hates Jay Cutler (sad but true) and thinks Lovie Smith may secretly be an assistant coach with the Green Bay Packers (it would explain A LOT). The Blackhawks are a year removed from winning the Stanley Cup, but it’s still hockey, every game of which is kinda like a racist, Canadian slasher movie.

The Bulls were great this year, true, but this is a franchise that won a half dozen titles in the not-so-distant past, so only coming close to the Finals is barely reason to celebrate. It’s a 10% off sale. It’s winning a free lottery ticket. Which leaves us with the national pastime.

Confessions of a Lousy Driver

He thinks he's funny WHILE being a good driver

I’ve found there are two constants in the realm of human self assessment. 1) Everyone thinks they have a sense of humor, which is insane because there are so many dour, humorless clods out there on which the funny has no effect. And 2) everyone thinks they are a good driver. EVERYONE. Blame for all driving mishaps can be attributed to other drivers, road conditions, pedestrians, the car, the seatbelt, the radio, passengers, the armrest, anything. It’s never your fault behind the wheel. You’re blameless. You’re a great driver. So what’s the answer? Well, I’m here to tell you – you can blame me. I’m sort of a lousy driver.

Not my finest hour

Now, I’m not a particularly dangerous driver, don’t get me wrong. I’ve rarely hit anyone or anything. Sure, everyone backs into other cars and utility poles now and then (don’t they??), but beyond that I can count my major and minor accidents on one hand…yeah, just one. But, more and more evidence has come to light which leads me to the undoubtedly accurate conclusion that I can’t drive worth a good goddamn.

Editing My Dusty Old Masterpiece

You are privileged to herein grab a glimpse at my awesome skills on display, with my real time editing process. Everyone who writes has their own way of doing this, and usually they don’t wait years after the last draft to pick up and start hacking through again. However, I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time pursuing insanely fruitless careers lately (movie extra, Presidential candidate, etc.) and am only now revisiting my completed but messy masterwork.

So let’s crack open the old Word doc and see how things stand, huh? I remember my first chapter being a real humding – what?! What the holy hell?! Seriously? This can’t be right. I don’t remember the first sentence being “Ye gawd Yardley, that crummy stumblebum?!” I wrote that?!? That doesn’t sound like my pitch perfect ear for dialogue at work. Can’t be.

Things That Suck: Please Come to Boston

(This is another entry in the series of things we always thought were okay and inoffensive, but have turned out to be horrible, following my complete smackdown of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, found here. Herein I extensively and exclusively reference the song “Please Come to Boston” by Dave Loggins. If you are unfamiliar with it, you will find nothing wondrous in what’s to follow. Please seek out, and then return here for the vivisection. That is all. In fact, here, watch this, then read, if you like. Sorry about the crap, homemade YouTube quality.)

Also known popularly as the “I’m the number one fan of the man from Tennessee” song, “Please Come to Boston” is the sort of sappy love song that is pretty much forgettable as soon as it ends, but people generally hold in good opinion. I’m no music critic, it might be the greatest slice of music genius since “Minnie the Moocher” and I wouldn’t know it. I can say “It’s catchy” or “It’s got that cool funky beat” or “I can relate to 99 Problems, cause my bitch ain’t one!” but I can’t really break it down further than that.

However, musicality aside, I’ve got a pretty serious problem with “Please Come to Boston.” There are a lot of facts presented in this piece of work that show without a doubt that a) this guy was absolutely right to get the hell out of Tennessee in the first place but b) presents no reason why he even still communicates with this harping shrew of a woman.  Let us begin at the beginning.

The Wedding to End All Weddings

Ladies and gentlemen, the plan is in place. Cetta/Rusakiewicz, long thought to be an elaborate ruse meant to drum up interest in a potential presidential campaign, has transitioned into a bona fide lovetastic relationshipathon. And after seven and a half years of contemplation and debate, we’re locking this thing down for good and all. Cetta/Rusakiewicz 2011! The wedding that will put all others to ignominious shame!

Excitement is at an all time high here in the relationship!

Okay, that might be taking it a bit far. I mean, what sort of plan could we come up with that will trump all other nuptials in the long history of nuptials? Are we getting married on the moon? Will the attire be entirely made of cake? Is Richard Dawson performing the ceremony?

50 Resume Destroying Buzzwords/Phrases/Ego-Driven Claims

Recently, I ran across a darling little article on a website (n. website – it’s sort of like a video newspaper that doesn’t get smeary on your hands) about common mistakes the average working slob is making when compiling a resume.  People working in an office/business/non-sex related capacity have become so used to management speak and phrasing that they were under the assumption that this is what those thick, troglodyte starched collars wanted to see on your menu of jobs and schools.  Au contraire, amigo (multi-lingual-ality, it helps)!

Another day, another search for a new job

But I felt the article left a number of things off.  Not everyone is working in the corporate sector, punching the clock and not the boss, eating lunch at the same Subway every day, chatting about the same lousy local sports team, what the weather is supposed to be like Sunday, and “Oh I hope it doesn’t rain cause we’ve gotta head out to the suburbs to get that cheap produce,” and “I don’t know who’s going to be the next mayor, but they better fix this parking situation!”  Nope, so not all resumes should or would contain the same trite bullshit.  For every “Team player” and “Goal-oriented” they advised against, they missed equally as hackneyed and cloying terms.  Here now, Knowingly Undersold’s Resume Guide of Don’ts!

The Sad Life and Times of Mac Tonight

"For the last time, my name is not fucking Moonman"

It’s a dingy nameless underground bar on the outskirts of Bangalore, and palpable misery hangs in the air.  A Kingfisher sits on most of the knife-scarred tables, as patrons stare suspiciously at one another with rheumy eyes out from underneath heavy, weathered lids.  The sun has never touched the dank dirt floor, and a mop isn’t a regular tourist in the john.  The bartender keeps a cricket bat wrapped in barbed wire within arm’s reach at all times.  He has a tattoo on his forearm that just says “Screw face,” but in Kannada it’s much prettier.  The lights, already low enough to develop pictures by, sink even further toward the pitch.  A busted upright piano which looks to have been around since well before British occupation is wheeled out with squeaks and groans, and a shadowy figure takes his seat behind it.

“Hello there, Bangalore!” he shouts.  There is no response.  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he adds, voice gargling sarcasm, “Bengaluru.  I’m sorry, I was here before it was fucking Bengaluru, so I call it Bangalore.  If you’ve got a problem with ‘Bangalore’, don’t let your ass get struck by the door!  On your way out, I mean, it just doesn’t fit with the rhyme.”

Then he launches into one of his notable songs, a jingle that sold millions of all beef patties with special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, and onions on sesame seed buns.

“When the clock strikes half past 6, babe

Time to head for golden lights

It’s a good time for the great taste — dinner!

At McDonald’s, it’s Mac Tonight

Come on, make it Mac Tonight!”

Outrage Over The Flintstones “Gay Old Time”

This week, public outcry reached deafening levels as the classic ABC animated sitcom The Flintstones was lambasted for its perceived intolerance and insensitivity towards homosexuals and their lifestyles. The uproar was largely unexpected, considering how long any Flintstones treatment of the issue would have already been on record.

“For over a half century now, The Flintstones theme song has cavalierly touted that when you’re with them you will have a ‘gay old time,’” CNN anchor Anderson Cooper said on the air Tuesday.  “This sort of flip treatment of the homosexual lifestyle, and that it could possibly apply to a family in the stone age, is offensive and outrageous.  What are they trying to say about the homosexual community?  That it is for neanderthals?  For cavemen?  How can any reasonable person not be mortified when they hear this song?”

I Dated a Fugitive From a Chain Gang

It was in the brisk November of 2011 when I lost her again to Johnny Law.  This was six months after her daring side-of-the-highway, tilling-the-fields-with-a-pickaxe escape in rural Kansas (is there any other type of Kansas?), and almost a full year since she first became known as inmate #78725439429 in the correctional system.

We had a darling little relationship before then, inmate #78725439429 and me.  We lived high on the hog in the Hog Butcher to the World, as Carl Sandberg so romantically put it.  It was a different time back then - we were still innocent youths, unfamiliar with prison visiting hours and making weapons out of contraband Oral B toothbrushes.  As Archie Bunker sang, those were the days.

Until that fateful evening when the long arm of the law reached across the Mississippi, up through the backwaters of Missouri, stopped off for a quick visit in the Illinois state capital to see Lincoln’s boots, and then continued on north, unfazed by boredom, corn fields, or fireworks advertizing.  It plunged its meaty claw into the seedy underbelly of the great city, finally scratching its way to our doorstep – more a barnacle on the underbelly than any sort of pustule or abscess.  She was summarily plucked away – guilty as the pecan be crunchy, mind you - and spirited back to America’s heartland.  I was left bereft of my convict main squeeze.

On Election Day, Just Remember – “Who is This Guy??!?”

My name is Joe Cetta, and I approve these messages:

“Tom Smith voted to raise your taxes.  He allowed no bid contracts to become the norm at City Hall.  He restructured zoning laws to allow a strip club to open next to a kindergarten.  He sold the rights to the Brooklyn Bridge without prior ownership.  On November 2nd, send a message that this is NOT the sort of man representing your freedoms.  Tom Smith – Who is this guy??!?”

“A Chicago Tribune investigation turned up evidence that Lucy Jones hasn’t paid taxes in 53 years.  While in office, she voted to give herself a pay raise 109 times.  Her plan is to cut Medicare benefits to seniors to $11.14 a year.  On November 2nd, don’t vote for her.  She’s bad for you, bad for your interests, bad for America.”

“Pete Williams doesn’t like you.  Otherwise, why would he have voted to close your nearest grocery store, after already shuttering your closest pharmacy, hospital, gas station, and haberdashery?  He voted to put your mother in a nursing home, and he passed legislation allowing the death of your cat.  Pete Williams – we can’t afford his leadership.”

The Trouble with Lemons

“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

Okay, I get the point.  Take what you’re given and make the best of it.  Or, take something that could be perceived as a negative and turn it into something positive.  Right?  That’s it, right?

But step back a second, and let’s look at this situation objectively.  Life gives you lemons.  Lemons aren’t dropping out of the sky, so the more realistic statement would be Someone gives you lemons.  That’s neater, no? Now, did you ask for lemons?  In that case, win-win.  You wanted lemons and guess what?  Lemons in hand.  But we don’t know that.  No back story.  This is just one possibility, and honestly, it’s as probable as the idea that you didn’t want lemons.  Right?

Someone gives you lemons.  You wanted limes.  Okay, this seems bad, but really, how hard is it to just say, “No, sir, wrong hand fruit here, let’s have the green ones this time, and maybe it’s time to get them eyes checked, Magoo.”  No?  We don’t live in a society where we can do that?  We have to be so ultra-polite that we can’t just exchange the lemons?  Or hell, if you don’t want to do that, why don’t you pick out your own goddamn fruit next time.  This, again, is just a possibility, and seems entirely likely as well.

Smoking Returns!

Great day in the morning!  I am pleased to announce that after a lengthy hiatus brought on by lawsuits and corruption and government meddling, smoking is back and better than ever!  Big Tobacco has somehow managed to overcome the psychotic litany of laws meant to limit the growth of their industry and bring sweet, sweet smoking out of the shadows and back to the parlor!

A recent study shows that smoking rose among adults in 2008 for the first time in fifteen years.  Smoking among young adults is also on the rise, both here and overseas, and in a recent poll the most admired man in America was revealed to be none other than Don Draper, the fictitious lead character on AMC’s Mad Men.  The only explanation of Draper’s success, considering he’s a two-faced, womanizing jerk in a glorified office job, is that he smokes pretty much constantly.  Cigarettes are back on top!

Now it’s time to capitalize!  For too long legislation has been produced limiting where you can smoke and making you pay huge taxes for buying those beautiful, flammable sticks of delight.  Clearly America doesn’t care how much it costs or how often they have to stand out in the snow and rain to enjoy it, people are craving their smokes in greater numbers than previously believed possible, and they have rights too!  Back in the family room!  Back in the Burger King!  Back on United Airlines!  Smokers have rights too!

Mr. Yuk Mobilized to Fight in the H1N1 Swine Flu War

With vaccine shipments in short supply or going missing or ending up in the wrong hands, the government had no choice but turn to the semi-retired, but long battle-tested defense against illness and poisoning, Mr. Yuk, last week.

Found living in relative obscurity in a rest home in Phoenix, Mr. Yuk (or Senor Gross, as he’d come to be known in the Southwest) was hesitant about re-entering the fray and putting his face out there again, but when shown the ugly details of the epidemic ravaging the world, Yuk was convinced.

“I do what I can,” Mr. Yuk said at a press conference Monday.  “If they’ve gotta plaster my mug on every touchable surface the world over to prevent the spread of this heinous disease, I say let’s do it.  We’ll be roasting this swine flu at a luau by next summer!”