Thanks to Tivo (I love you Tivo!) I rarely watch commercials anymore, but when fast-forwarding/skipping through them, I occasionally will detour my show-bound journey for infomercials. Because of my dream of selling mostly useless crap to hapless TV-land denizens, I hold a soft spot in my heart for them. (It’s not my fault they work so well. Watch one, and I guarantee that 20 minutes later you’ll find yourself thinking, “I need a pocket vegetable dehydrator!”)

And so, I happened upon the Pasta Express. “What is this magical device?” you ask. It’s a plastic tube, with a strainer on one end. That’s it. It’s apparently solving the heretofore unknown problem of pasta fitting into a pot. It’s also $20 dollars. No. Seriously. $20 dollars. For a plastic tube, with a strainer on one end. All I can say is, it’s no Urine Gone.

Speaking of which, for all your televised product needs.

Recently I had read How Click Fraud Could Swallow the Internet in Wired, so it was relative fresh in my mind when I started seeing ads for The Mirage, Treasure Island, and other MGM Las Vegas properties appear in the side bar of my Yahoo Mail accounts. This wasn’t surprising, as I had, prior to the trip, done quite a bit of searching to find out where to stay, what the best rates were, etc., and know that Yahoo uses search history to feed targeted banners.

What struck me, however, is that for the first time in recent history, I (or we, the consumer) have a direct way of impacting the advertising costs of a corporation. If I’m pissed that The Mirage took $400 from me, I could just click on their banner ad 400 times. Et Viola! I cost them $400. Granted, this money would go to Yahoo and not me, but were I, for instance, to put advertising on this site, start writing a lot more about Las Vegas, and click on the resulting links myself, I could even capture a portion of that revenue.

The implications are rather fascinating.

If I had some sort of fetish for the overweight and slow, I suspect Las Vegas would be my Mecca. But alas, I do not. Most of the city’s temporary denizens were not inherently ugly, not in the Philadelphia sense of the word, but rather in the red-state, well-groomed, poorly-dressed, far-too-fat, oooh buffets! kind of way. This was primarily disappointing, however, only in lack of eye-candy. My days are just far less interesting if my hormones are disengaged.

Free from lascivious interference, I spent a lot of time noticing the things that make the city so successful, from the obviously large garish architecture, to the far more subtle and ingenious (and insidious) social engineering methods that were developed to part people from their money. For instance:

• Most of the hotels are built in a two or three wing design, with both the entrance and the casino at the center. The restaurants, shops, and other forms of entertainment are either built along the casino floor or in one of the aforementioned wings. Net result, if one wants to leave one’s hotel room for more or less anything, one has to walk past slot machines and card tables.
• The ATMs distribute only $100 dollar bills and charge high fees $4.00. Why? I can think of two reasons. One, most people aren’t used to handling that denomination. It’s a lot easier psychologically to hand over a single bill than five. Two, by charging a higher fee, people will want to withdraw as much as possible in a single event, rather than taking out some immediately and returning later. This gives individuals more cash on hand, which helps spur impulse gambling, particularly when considered in conjunction with factor one.
• Following Disney’s lead, the hotels have begun offering everything and anything on-premises, to both lure people in and discourage them from leaving. All of the newer developments have their own attached indoor malls, which, along with the casinos are bathed in an eerie permanent twilight. It’s always 6pm, and never time to head back to one’s room.
• Very little in Las Vegas is free and or included. In fact, most services are dramatically marked up. Apart from the obvious profit motive, this serves a secondary purchase of driving people to one of the few “less costly” forms of entertainment, gambling.

Las Vegas is also becoming renowned for its food, and I must admit some of the best restaurants in the world have opened branches there. But let’s leave my belief that most of these are inferior to their coastal counterparts aside. Excluding these select places, I *swear*, everything else is just like the Simpsons episode (searching snpp.com… ah, episode CABF08: Worst Episode Ever) where all the Squidport’s food stalls are prepared by a central kitchen with little conveyor belts to each outlet. Sure, everything is given a different name, and they might even put a different sauce on it in the back, but otherwise it all comes from some elaborate (and at best satisfactory) food repository sitting somewhere under Las Vegas Boulevard.

So, brilliant methods of extracting cash, combined with crappy food, and drunk, fat, mid-westerners. What’s not to love?

Oh! I almost forgot. Pictures of my favorite casino games:

On Monday evening I returned from Las Vegas, where I met my sister, brother-in-law, his siblings, and one of his friends (there were originally going to be more) to celebrate said brother-in-law’s birthday. This was my first plane flight in a good six months, and each time I put myself through the degrading, demoralizing process that is modern transport, I’m reminded why I usually avoid it. Let me regale all of you with the events of this recent trip.

On Thursday I arrive at the airport around 9:30 for a 10:30 flight. I go through security.
“Is this your bag sir?”
“Yes. Can I help you? There’s almost nothing in it.”
“No sir. I need to go through it.”
Incompetent security guard (Yes, I know this is redundant.) proceeds to handle everything in my bag, twice. Finally he removes a metal bookmark, and yells over to the other incompetent security guard “It’s a book mark.” “Is that what that was?” yells the other incompetent security guard, as the first returns my bag to me. It took most of my restraint not to say “Phew. Thanks to your quick decisive action you were able to identify the massive potential threat that is a small piece of metal. Praise Allah.” But I remembered that the federal government has no sense of humor, so I held my tongue. (A full rant on the vast, costly, and utterly pointless security procedures would fill pages, so I’ll leave that for another time.)

Sitting down, I learn the flight has been delayed half an hour, so I wander for a while, and wait for boarding, which comes as promised at about 11. Since I’m sitting near the front of the plane, I’m in the last group to board, which means that when the flight attendant takes my ticket she says to me “Oh. We’ve run out of overhead space. You’re going to have to check your bag.” This seems a bad idea to me, but I have no choice. Everyone on the plane, the pilot says “Things are a bit backed up in Chicago, so we’re just waiting for a departure window. I suspect it will be about 20 minutes.” Roughly twenty minutes pass, when it’s announced that it’s going to be another hour. People would be allowed off the plane, but once off, would not be able to get back on. I’d say I’m sure this has some logic to it, but this is the world of air-travel we’re speaking of, so I’m not going to give credit where credit isn’t due. A flight attendant decides that to pass the time we should play a game. I disagree, but am forced to endure it nonetheless. In about another thirty minutes, we learn that it’s still going to be at least another hour. They decide to completely de-board. Everyone has to get off. At the gate I ask if my bag (My only bag, mind you.) had been put aboard the plane, because I wanted to see if I could get another flight. I’m told it had been, so I’m more or less screwed. Eventually we’re called back, and fly off to Chicago, where the time for most of our connections has long since passed. I’m not concerned about this given that I’m going to Las Vegas, and not, say, Tempe, Arizona, and am sure I can get another flight. As it happens, this isn’t necessary, as my original flight out was also delayed four hours. At least there was equilibrium in the system.

About two hours later, on said flight to Las Vegas, we were all woken up of our collective stupor by a loud “Code red!” spewed from the intercom. As none of us knew what a code red was, we were all slightly concerned, what with the words “code” and “red” being used in conjunction, and that generally not being a good thing. The flight attendant quickly made her way to the medically labeled overhead compartment, and pulled out a defibrillator and some oxygen. By this point I was thinking of A Few Good Men, “Colonel Jessup, did you order the code red?”, “No, that was the stewardess.” It turned out someone was having a seizure. Thankfully they recovered and we weren’t diverted to Des Moines or some other god-forsaken place where no person should ever live.

I finally arrive in Las Vegas, four hours behind schedule, and go to pick up my bag. I wait. I continue to wait. “Is that all the luggage from the flight?” I ask of the baggage handlers. “Yup.” he replies. While I applaud the rapidity with which they were able to transfer the luggage from the plane to the airport, I am somewhat unhappy to learn that the bag which was taken from me has not appeared. Normally, this isn’t that much of an issue, as I will pack emergency supplies in my carry on, except . . . . I only had a carry-on. So, my wallet, cell phone (Which was about to die, and my charger happened to be in the aforementioned lost bag.), and I went off to the hotel.

Since it was only 9:30 Pacific time, I decided to stay up for a while, in the futile hope that my bag might arrive. So I go downstairs to play some black jack. Four hundred dollars and an unfortunate and improbable winning streak by the dealer later, I decided to cut myself off and go to bed.

Most of the rest of the trip is uneventful (My bag made it there on Friday.), including my return, though admittedly it was also fairly boring. Monday evening I stay up far too late, and sleep about four hours before heading into work. The same can be said of Tuesday. By Wednesday, I’m getting sick. Thank you recycled plane air! Thursday begins with my nose is producing far too much mucus. By Friday I’m sitting in a blanket-laden chair, sniffling, feeling like I have small disgruntled badgers scratching at my throat.

Fucking badgers.

From now on I think I’m just going to travel by boat.

Pakistan cartoon protesters riot, burn KFC

Security forces fired into the air as they struggled to contain the unrest in the eastern city of Lahore, where protesters burned down four buildings housing a hotel, two banks, a KFC restaurant and the office of a Norwegian cell phone company, Telenor.

Because as you know, the prophet Mohammed hates chicken.

Through rather circuitous web surfing, I stumbled across this story:

Peace pact with Moro rebels would rid Mindanao of terror: Palace

PRESS Secretary Ignacio Bunye said Sunday a final peace agreement between the government and the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) would mean the closing of doors for terrorists, including those allegedly conducting and transforming parts of Mindanao into a training area.

Stifler’s mom could not be reached for comment.

There’s an emerging phenomenon on the web in for form of cuteoverload. (Now I know what you’re thinking, “Another posting on cuteness? What are you, gay?” But I promise, I’m very manly. Right after I write this I will go kill some small woodland creatures with my bare hands, and then go to a strip club.) I stumbled upon the site a few months ago, and when I walked in the following day I told my female underlings, “I found something that is going to make your day.” Yes, I’m a horrible chauvinist in singling out my female employees, but I have also never had an argument about a puppy’s relative level of cuteness.

As an aside, one of the most amusing things one can do in an office is to bring in a baby. In a fit of estrogenic glee, a good 80% of the women in the office will come running out to admire the infant and expound its adorableness. Perhaps 20% of the men will join in. The remainder will stay in their seats, wondering, like I do, what the thing does that’s so special. We burp and drool too, but last I checked those weren’t desirable qualities.

Aside over, a few weeks ago I sent this article on wheat (Yes. That’s the kind of wild and crazy guy I am. I read articles on wheat in my spare time, when I’m not alphabetizing my stamp collection. Fine. I don’t have a stamp collection. But the point is made.) to one of the aforementioned female employees, who, upon finding the picture of the mouse three-quarters of the way down, said, “I can’t concentrate on the story. The mouse is just soooo cute!” And then I had it. Clearly this is how magazines like The Economist can boost their circulation. This will solve newspaper’s subscription problems. This is how politicians can hide bad news.

Scott McClellan: We admit, President Bush *may* have met with Mr. Abramoff more than once, but that’s not important. What is important is this *adorable* puppy. Isn’t it adorable? Oh yes it is!

I may just be the next Karl Rove. But I promise to only use my powers for good, not evil.

With all of the recent news about our Muslim friends chanting and burning things, as they appear to enjoy doing, I thought it would be a good time to mention one of the ways that radical Islam stifled my own speech.

About two years ago I developed a great video game concept, (Prophets of Doom) based on my previous Rock-Em Sock-Em Jesus idea. Street Fighter meets god in the ultimate battle for religious supremacy. Whose deity will reign supreme? Choose your character. Will you be Moses, with his awesome plague bringing combos? (Like those locusts, bitch?) Will you choose Jesus, with his 1000 fish slap, and his devastating crucifixion action? Will you be Buddha, with his . . . . . um . . . . meditative powers? (That one still needs some work.) Or will you be Mohammed, with his fanatical suicide bombers? (He’d shout – Jihaaaaad! – and they’d come running out.)

It would be a best seller; I have no doubt. Except the Muslims would want to kill me, even more than they want to kill me now, and I’d prefer not to go into hiding just yet. So I just sat on it.

I’ve always liked the Danes. I’ve had a soft-spot for them since learning of their actions in World War II. Unlike most of Europe, they didn’t say “Oh. Here are our Jews! We didn’t want them anyway.” and actually took steps to protect them. It’s not the same, but they’re fighting the good fight again, and I say hurrah.

Animal Planet has brought back the Puppy Bowl this year. “What is it?” you ask. Only the best puppy-themed program ever, that’s what. Just take, A. Small enclosure, painted to vaguely resemble a football field, B. Puppies, and C. Cameras. Add in a few chew toys and water bowls, and viola! (It wasn’t until I was 12 that I realized this word, when written, was actually the same as the French Wah-la, and not Vi-Oh-La. But that’s an aside.)

Granted, it lacks the exploitative edge of Fox, but it’s hard to beat in terms of production costs. I happened to catch the Puppy Bowl last year, and was convinced of its genius after watching rather transfixed for a good ten minutes. That it’s back this year means it was a commercial success, which gives me an idea. Behold! Televisions newest creation: The Cuteness Channel! All baby animals, all the time.

Time to get myself some funding; I can’t miss.

A few nights ago while cooking dinner, I heard a promo for Skating with Celebrities. For those of you who aren’t as familiar with this bit of magical entertainment, the basic premise was to take a number of former world-champion and Olympic metal winning figure skaters, and pair them up with D-list celebrities; the sort of actors who once were marginally famous but now can probably be found working the late-shirt at Denny’s. Then they put them on ice (because everything is better on ice) and watch the fun unfold. At the end of the ad, the tagline said, “Only on Fox!” and I thought, “Yes. Yes, that’s probably true.”

While undoubtedly genius, I’ve find this sort of programming to be so very depressing too. Athletes who have devoted much of their lives to rigorous training and competition are paid to humiliate themselves on national television along side wash-ups. It’s the equivalent of watching a car crash, except on ice, which is of course better.

But even Skating with Celebrities can’t top some previous Fox shows like Man vs. Beast (or Man vs. Beast 2). “On the left side of the track, we have three time gold medalist sprinter Carl Jones. Mr. Jones has competed both domestically and internationally for the last 13 years in the 100, 300, and 500 meter dashes. On the right side of the track we have . . . . a horse.” The best though, was yet to come, in the form of the ultimate man vs. beast showdown. Who could pull an empty Boeing 737 faster, an African Elephant, or . . . . 40 midgets? I kid you not. 40 little people in harness. I just wish I was with the producers when they came up with that one. I imagine a room full of very stoned television executives, and one says, “Okay. . . How about we see who can pull a plane faster, an elephant or some people?” “Wait!” says another one, “What if instead of people, we use midgets.” “Midgets are people too man” says a third. “Right” says the first, “How many midgets?” “How many can we get?” asks number two. And thus, Fox begat mid-season specials.