Volatile Lyle

I realize, with–perhaps–a couple exceptions, Adam Sandler has been up to no good for years. However, as someone who grew up on Billy Madison and Happy Gilmore, I have to say that the trailer for his new movie is like Mr. Sandler ringing my doorbell, asking me when I answer the door ‘You’re a fan?’ and then punching me square in the testicles.

I guess Rob Schneider got sick the day they started filming? Because this is the kind of movie Schneider would star in and which you’d never even know about until you saw it at Wal-Mart in the $3 bin four years later.

Thanks for the Starbucks and Nirvana, Seattle. Now could you please shut the hell up about it?

I loathe the idea of the Miami Heat winning the NBA champion for a number of reasons, not the least of which is my strong desire to not have to hear LeBron or Dwyane mistake no one wanting them to do it with no one believing they could. Because if and when the confetti falls on the Heat, and everyone outside of Florida (or frontrunners like Yankees fan LeBron) is trying to choke back down the better part of their digestive system, one of our heroes is going to remind us that nobody believed in them. Maybe Dwyane will talk more about the tremendous sacrifice his warrior-of-virtue teammates made as he did several times following The Decision(Florida tax laws be damned). While they will have defied most everyone’s desires, they will have defied no one’s belief.

This will doubtless be the greatest oversight by pundits and fans since 2007 when Dustin Pedroia said none of us believed his second-highest-payrolled Red Sox could win the World Series.

I guess I have to root for J.J. Barea (see link for Pedroia), and his patented hump the leg, hump the leg, hump the leg–FLOP! defense.

There is just barely, barely room in my heart for one Lady Gaga, and that’s only because I think it’s refreshing to see a 14 year-old boy make it in the world of Pop Divas dominated by modestly talented women. Besides, in our new green America, is it really economical to have two girls dressing up in three-foot monocles made of first-gen iPods?

So the Southeast Portland Bryan Adams Historical Society, of which I used to be a part (we had a falling out over ‘Run to You’) produced a marvelous documentary about the greatest singer of two or three generations. It was finally going to put us (excuse me, them) over our (that is, their) rivals at the Beaverton Bryan Adams Historical Society. Somehow, Sundance didn’t think the movie warranted selection.

Has the whole world gone stupid? Here’s a clip:

I kind of like the music, but I don’t know who else to hold responsible for the band’s entirely insufferable fans, who will tell you that to ‘kind of like’ the music is to glance up at a marvelous sunset and just as quickly look away–or some similar hyperbole. See, in the world of the Radiohead fan there are two kinds of people; people who listen to music, and people who listen to Radiohead. As a blessed member of the latter, it is the sacred duty of the Radiohead fan to never, ever shut the hell up about how transcendent (I used only one adjective here, which clearly illustrates that I do not listen to Radiohead correctly) Radiohead is.

The real challenge in associating with Radiohead fans is the conversational walk on eggshells to avoid setting them off on an endless hyperbolic Radiohead oration. Obviously, any talk of music is off limits. And God help you if you talk about the best artist, album or song of any timeframe. But even beyond music you have to be careful, or you’ll be hearing, ‘What did you say about rainbows?’ or ‘That’s funny you said the computer is okay, see, because….’

Remember when you used to wear a tool, Nirvana or Tupac t-shirt a few days a week and write their lyrics all over your binder? That was high school for most of us. But not Radiohead fans.

From time to time I get emails in coherent English and with seemingly little regard for my possible need for chemicals to help the function of the most male of my organs. I thought I would take a chance to answer a few of those here. If you have questions email me: volatilelyle@gmail.com

Lyle-
Huge fan of the blog. What’s you’re favorite song by the Baja Men?
-Garrett

Thanks, Garrett. Great question, and I would definitely say ‘Who Let the Dogs Out?’ is my favorite song by Baja Men.

Lyle-
You’re super. Can you tell me someone who doesn’t suck?
-RW

Absolutely, RW. Larry Danielson invented a device that syncs two iPods. By naming it LyncSync, he became the only electronics producer and marketer in 10 years to name a product without using the lowercase i + word product-naming formula.

*Note: For the sake of bandwidth and brevity I put together several emails from a number of mailers who almost certainly mistook my email address for another. -VL

Lyle-
How can I be sure that my turtle is getting enough exercise?
People say that I should always wash my hands after handling my turtle or I’ll get salmonella. But one time I forgot and I didn’t get sick, so is that all a disgusting lie?
What’s the best turtle pellet?
My friend Lacey says turtles aren’t awesome. She sucks, right?
My neighbors are starting to complain about the smell of my turtles, would it be wrong for me to ask them to clean the tanks themselves if they’re complaining?

All-
Look, I just don’t know an awful lot about turtles. My neighbor had one at one point but I don’t even remember his name. He only lived next door for a few months, and besides the turtle, the guy had at least a dozen mannequins in various states of undress in his living room and no couch. His front door was always open, even, I think, when he was out. Weird dude.

I went to the doctor because my penis (that’s right I said penis. Penis, penis, penis. Grow up!) hurt. The good news is I don’t have syphilis.

Upon returning I walked into the house and was met by my mother. And she got all nosy like mother’s do. Get this: she asked me, ‘How are you?’ Geez, what’s with the 9th degree, Ma? What’s next?Are you going to ask me if my penis hurts?

Anyway, this is how it went:

Mom: How are you?
Lyle: Diabetic

And I wasn’t joking. The Doctor found ketones in my pee. This is how it went:

Me: Ketones!? So Tom Cruise isn’t full of crap!
Doctor: You’re thinking of ‘thetans,’ and yes Tom Cruise is full of crap. Have you seen ‘Top Gun,’ that movie’s lame by any standard. Even hipsters watching for a smug sake of irony cringe.
Me: So I won’t have to go to Venus for re-implantation?
Doctor: Ehh… no.

After the ketone discovery the doctor took my blood and found a lot of sugar in it. (Here I was thinking about making a ‘because I’m so sweet’ joke, but I’m going to need a couple more weeks to craft it.)

That’s right dear reader (I’m hoping to make that ‘readers’ plural any day now, so please tell your friends about my blog, Garrett), I am diabetic. And not fat, old guy diabetic; but nerdy kid at the slumber party diabetic. I feel like I’m too old to be diagnosed with Type I Diabetes, but then I’m also too old to be living with my parents, which leads me to another parallel: Neither me, nor my pancreas work.

So I get to shoot-up every day. Shoot up in the morning. Shoot up in the evening. Shoot up before every meal. And not the kind of shooting up that gets you record deals and biopics either. Doc says I have to start counting the Oreos I eat by cookie rather than by sleeves as well. In the past (like yesterday) I’d order my meal with Coke rather than Diet Coke because I’d rather have Diabetes than cancer. Those days are over and sadly realized. I’m an aspartame man now.