Joel Murphy

We are only one day away from “Batman Day” (which isn’t a national holiday yet, but I’m still working on it), the day when the greatest movie since Citizen Kane is finally being released.

You would think being less than 24 hours away from the greatest day in the history of modern cinema would have me feeling giddy and childlike. In theory, today should be like Christmas Eve, a time to sip egg nog and daydream about the wonderful present the mysterious, chubby-cheeked man from a far away land (in this case, England’s own Christopher Nolan) will be delivering to all of us good little boys and girls tomorrow.

But, as much as I would like to be overcome with bliss at this moment, I just can’t get in to the Batman Day spirit quite yet. Before I can let my troubles roll by and focus on the true meaning on this wonderful holiday, I feel I must purge my soul and get a few things off of my chest. So, in order to get my mind right for tomorrow’s big event, I’m going to dust off an old favorite and share a few things that piss me off.

As always, these are in no particular order …

Having to wait this long to see The Dark Knight.

Robin. Thank God Christian Bale said he would stop doing Batman films if they ever tried to bring in Robin. Taking a hard stand like that to keep this new series of Batman films from heading down rubber nipple highway almost makes up for the fact that the guy playing my beloved Dark Knight was once in Newsies.

Comcast. First of all, stop making up words like “Comcastic.” Just because your company sucks so bad that regular words don’t adequately describe how shitty you are doesn’t give you the right to add new words to our lexicon.

And secondly, kudos to you for the new series of commercials claiming that you are the official cable provider of Gotham City. It is actually rather fitting that Comcast is Gotham’s cable provider – after all, the city is so overrun with crime and corruption that it takes a six-foot-tall man dressed like a bat to try to restore some semblance of order. So the stronghand tactics you use to run smaller cable companies out of business and the villainous tactics you use to screw over your customers would make you fit right in. Here’s hoping once Batman is done with The Joker and Two-Face, he can take some time out of his busy schedule to shove a Batarang up your CEO’s ass.

Jimmy Fallon – especially now that he is taking over for Conan O’Brien.

Buying concert tickets. I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point it became impossible to buy tickets to big name concerts online unless you are a ticket broker or you have an inside connection. I tried to buy tickets for the Dropkick Murphys show back in March, but the tickets were sold out before they ever went on sale online to the public. The same thing happened last week when I tried to buy tickets for an Eddie Vedder solo show here in Boston.

In both instances, I did a Google search online and saw that ticket brokers (which is just a fancy name for scalpers) already had tickets, which they were benevolently selling for up to $1,500 (which is only 20 times the ticket price). Why can they get tickets ahead of time, but average fans can’t? When did it become such a scam?

That commercial that keeps telling me to send in my old gold for cash. I don’t have any old gold and if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t send it to you.

Whoever hired Jimmy Fallon to take over for Conan O’Brien.

Automated phone systems. It’s bad enough that I have to wait on hold to speak to someone from India who is trying to talk with an American accent, but still somehow pronounces my name like it rhymes with “Noel,” but having to deal with an automated phone robot to even get to the person from India drives me insane. And Virgin Mobile, don’t think that naming your automated phone robot “Simone” and having her talk in modern slang is doing anything to make me any less annoyed.

Telling me that my call is important to you. Once I get through Simone or whatever other automated phone robot is keeping me from talking to an actual person, then I get to sit on hold for an extended period of time (Virgin Mobile at least has the decency to play good music while leaving me on hold). What drives me insane while waiting is the stupid message that all of these companies feel the need to insert in the middle of the hold music that says something like, “Your call is important to us, please continue to hold.”

First of all, if my call was important to you, you wouldn’t make me run an automated phone gauntlet and then put me on hold for 20 minutes before allowing me to talk to an actual person. So cut the crap and stop pretending like I’m anything other than a dollar sign to you. And secondly, every time you stop the hold music to play that stupid message, it makes me think that I’m going to get to talk to an actual person – so I actually end up more disappointed than I was before you played that stupid message.

The parents of whoever hired Jimmy Fallon to take over for Conan O’Brien.

Xbox 360s. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my 360. Games like Gears of War and Assassin’s Creed are incredibly fun to play and the Xbox Live component is far better than what any other console is offering. If all that wasn’t enough to make me happy, Xbox recently announced a partnership with Netflix that will allow Netflix subscribers to access streaming movies for free via their 360s.

So why do Xbox 360s piss me off? Because I can’t seem to get one that works. When I got one in December of 2006, it was broken before I even took it out of the box. Since then, I have had two more 360 consoles give me a “red ring of death.” Each time, I have to mail the 360 in and wait several weeks for them to send me back a working console. Next time, you bastards are coming to my house and fixing the damned thing while I stand over you with a hockey stick.

Jimmy Fallon’s parents.

Random Thought of the Week:
Happy Batman Day!

Joel Murphy is the creator of HoboTrashcan, which is probably why he has his own column. He loves pugs, hates Jimmy Fallon and has an irrational fear of robots. You can contact him at murphyslaw@hobotrashcan.com.

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Courtney Enlow

On July 23rd, I shall leave the Windy City and go west, young man, to San Diego where I will experience my first Comic-Con.

Oh my dear friends, my nerves are a-jumble! What will I wear? Where will I go? Are interviews even a possibility without a proper press pass? Who should I stalk hardest and how do I find out which hotels they’re staying at? Would John Barrowman be amenable to trying out a girl for one night? So many questions!

So I must prepare. Now one could easily argue that I’ve been preparing for Nerd Mecca my whole life just by being me. One would be correct, but one would also be kind of a dick for saying that. Herein lies the problem: compared to those elusive “normal” people, I’m a huge nerd. Compared to “real nerds” I got nothin’.

I mean sure, I grew up on the Star Wars flicks, Doctor Who, all the sci-fi / fantasy classics, but I can’t name every instance of a Red Shirt getting killed on Star Trek. I’ve read comics, but I don’t know Ant Man‘s origin story. I like video games, but I’ve never played WoW and I have never done any RPG’s. On a scale of nerd to frat boy, I rate somewhere around an Andie in Pretty in Pink, or on a particularly angsty day, maybe an Enid Coleslaw, but not quite. I’m certainly not in with the cool kids, but I’m not in the inner-nerd world either. This column ain’t called Outside of the In-Crowd for kicks, people.

So, as I said, I must prepare. I must delve. I must geekify.

Now I’m not going to go from zero to Milhouse in nine days. I’m going to stay true to myself, because there’s nothing I hate more than these post-Seth Cohen nuNerds, and you know I must truly hate them to sully the good name of one Mr. Seth Cohen from Newport. You know them. We all do. The Good Charlotte-tons of the cult and sci-fi world. Hipster deebs (short for douche bags, not a misspelling of dweebs – I won’t give them what they want) attempting to capitalize on nerd pride by sporting Troma shirts and typing in netspeak. Fucking bandwagoners. Get back to me when you have strong feelings regarding Baker vs. Tennant.

Unfortch, what relative less-than-hardcore geekiness, my strong fear is that I will seem like one of these at the Con. We can’t have that, can we?

So I immerse. I’ve been watching nothing but my well-worn Buffy, Angel and MST3K DVDs and taped-off-TV vids for the past two weeks. I’ve been mentally packing my suitcase, and should you see me in San Diego, I will probably be wearing one of my three Firefly tees or perhaps my “The Angels Have the Phonebox” shirt. I’ve been re-reading Mad Love (which reminds me, is it possible for me to find a Harley Quinn shirt in less than nine days?) and I am obviously IMAXing the shit out of The Dark Knight this weekend. (Note: I’ll also be seeing Mamma Mia and am really excited about it. This makes me a different kind of nerd entirely, one of which we do not speak. An ABBAtastic musicalspastic one.)

Of course, the main reason I will be in attendance is this: the twentieth anniversary reunion panel for my omg-favorite-show-ever-fer-reals, Mystery Science Theater 3000, and the Rifftrax Plan 9 Live Show. And trust, where I may lack true and proper fan-ness, I make up for it in abundance in my fandom for this particular program and the people involved. And I will be lining up hella early / sitting in on boring DO NOT WANT panels so that I might get to see the Whedon-verse and Who-niverse panels (and I am super serial right now, if I don’t get in, I will cut a bitch.) So I may not have ever played Spore, but dammit I know every word to every song from “Once More, With Feeling”, so it will all be okay.

All in all, I’m content with my level of nerdliness. All the joy that comes with the love of science fiction, fantasy and superheroes, with none of the cos-play or penchant for sad / skanky girls dressed as cats or small children. Win win.

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.

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Ned Bitters

This week’s inductee into the “Overrated Hall of Fame” is … my alleged maturity.

Not that I can verify that anyone has speculated that I might actually be acting my age. But just in case anyone who knows me began to wonder if this 45-year-old Sears Craftsman Lifetime Guarantee tool had put away childish ways, I am here to tell you that that is in no way the case. Let me tell you about last weekend. Or let me try to tell you. It’s a bit difficult typing with stitches in both palms. Let me start at the beginning.

This past March a former student of mine talked me into signing up to do a Muddy Buddy race with him in Richmond, Virginia. Two partners complete a relay race that involves mountain biking, running and going over, under and through five low-difficulty obstacles. If you’re interested in learning more about it (and I know you’re not), you can go to muddybuddy.com.

I knew I could handle this. I still run or bike most days. However, I’m not one of those pathetic middle-aged yahoos who tries to maintain the body of a much younger man. I just enjoy the endorphin rush of a good ride or run and not having to buy bigger pants every six months. I figured that the seven-mile race course would provide very little challenge, as I can easily run seven miles, and I’ve put in a few 35-mile road bike treks this summer. And I was right. The distances were a snap. It was the height that did me in. But I’ll get to that.

I made sure that my partner knew that I was not “in it to win it,” and he assured me he was of the same mindset. This race is not supposed to be competitive. The reason it’s called “Muddy Buddy” is because the last obstacle, found just before the finish line, require you and your partner to crawl through 30 feet of 10-inch deep mud. The whole point is to have a little fun while exerting yourself a bit.

My partner began the race on the bike, and we runners started two to three minutes later so as not to clog up the not-very-wide state park trail. I started in the back and continued to hang in the back for the first half mile. However, once the other runners’ adrenaline rushes subsided, I found myself getting irritated at the slower pace of some of the runners, many of whom were younger and, at least in appearance, in much better shape than I. So I started passing people.

When we got to the first hill, I found that I could blow past a lot of the struggling runners on the slope. At this point, a nice run/ride in the park turned into the quest for gold. Mr. Not In It to Win It was now, not even one mile into the race, wondering just how good a time he could turn in if he and his younger partner could keep up this pace. (My partner was in incredible shape. He was also … well, I’ll tell you that important fact in a minute.)

I got to the first obstacle and breezed through it. I found my partner’s discarded bike. (He was now running the next leg. See how it works? You don’t? Doesn’t fucking matter.) I went to mount the bike, and this was the beginning of my trauma. He is six feet, three inches tall. I am not. I think on a good day I can claim 5′, 9″, but only if Jupiter and Saturn area aligned in a manner that allows for their gravitational pull to straighten me out of my 45-year-old crouch. I wish someone had a video of my performance. I’d gladly split the first-place winnings from America’s Funniest Home Videos.

Have you ever seen the classic movie Breaking Away? (If you answered in the negative, stop reading this and go rent it right now. You will not see a better sports movie, and it’s hilarious.) Well, by the time I was able to jump onto the seat and find the pedals with my searching feet, I looked just like the liter-sized little shit in the movie when he somehow manages to make it onto the bike and do a few laps in the big race. I had lost precious seconds in the now ultra-competitive (in my pathetic mind) Muddy Buddy race for all-time Sportscenter glory. Or so one would think, with the way Ned “Call Me Lance Today” Bitters was ready to barrel down the path.

I hit the path and began pedaling. I had gone maybe 10 yards when in front of me another charter member of the “For Chrissakes, You’re not a Young Man, So Settle the Fuck Down” club tried to pass a runner. He turned too sharply and his bike slid down sideways on some gravel. I was headed right for his rear tire. Had I been on my own bike, with its seat set for people who are not the size of my Manute Bol-ish partner, I’m pretty sure I could have veered around him and continued my frantic attempt to pass more people in my sad attempt to find weekend state park glory.

But like I said, I was not on my own bike. I awkwardly tried to steer to the side, but I saw that I was going to clip his rear tire, which was still spinning after his slide out. Had I just hit the tire with my front tire, I might have just bounced off and kept going, or maybe had a mild crash. Instead, I hit the brakes, a smart move. Most of the time. The bike I was on was equipped with ultra sensitive hydraulic brakes, which means that anything more than a slight hand clench locks up the brakes. I clenched up hard. I locked up the brakes. There would be no Sunday glory. Just Sunday gore.

If you have read carefully to this point, you might remember that this race involves biking, running and overcoming obstacles. At this point, I added a new twist to the competition: Flying. I sailed over the left handlebar, all 45 years of me. It was at this point I wished I had taken up golf, or tennis, or even giving Sunday morning hummers behind a city dumpster for ten spots. These activities do not involve being airborne and landing on hard dirt and gravel.

Fortunately, some residual athleticism from my youth took over, and I took the fall square on my palms. I rolled onto my left shoulder and arm and did another somersault. I got up immediately as other bikers zoomed by asking if I were okay. It was perfunctory concern. They would have kept riding even had I said, “Yes, except for this feeling of paralysis.”

My palms were a bloody mess, but I managed to remount the bike and make it to the next obstacle and switching station. When I dismounted, I saw that my hands were soaked in red, and my partner’s handlebars were a bloody, sticky mess. He just jumped on his bike and took off. He told me later that he thought I had crashed into some pine trees and gotten sap all over the bike.

With palms that a crucified Christ would not have traded for, I finished the race, including the crawl through the mud. Considering all my difficulties with the bike, we had a damn good time and finished the race. I got hosed off at the squirting station. (Yes, I got all fiery competitive in a race with a squirting station.) I finally took a good look at my hands. Both had gashes so deep that white gooey tissue was popping out. I figured it was time to go back to the hotel and take the most painful shower of my life.

I found a hospital on the ride home and made my first ever trip to the ER. Every time I told another hospital worker what happened, I could see that look come into their eyes. I think it’s called “sadness.” I think they pictured me being the middle-aged married guy who sneaks into the club on Friday night and leans against a wall bobbing his balding head and tapping his bunioned foot as he eyes up the young chicks he hasn’t been able to get for 15 years and will certainly not get tonight.

I got stitches in each hand and made my way home. All told, it turned out to be a great day. The only bad memory from the day was the wait for the hoses after the race. You’re supposed to just hose off the major gunk and get truly cleaned up later on your own. But some of these asswipes were taking 10-12 minutes with the hoses, getting themselves cleaner than I do after a regular home shower. I guess they figured they had to look spiffy for all the hot women who were also in the race and hanging around the post-race activities. Can you believe the ego of some guys? I mean, for god’s sake … grow up.

Ned Bitters is, in fact, overrated. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.

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Jeremiah was raised in the deepest part of the darkest jungle. That’s why he smells like adventure. He currently lives in Elkins, WV with his wife, Becky, and son, Isaiah, who is epic and destined to rule the world one day. You can contact him at jeremiahwentz@hobotrashcan.com.