I’m entering a contest to get a chance to be a social media “wine correspondent” http://www.areallygoodejob.com/. To enter, I need to make a one minute video about myself. Most of the videos are pretty lame, kind of a “this is why I’m qualified” routine. I’m doing a video with, of course, some music. I’ve got four mini-songs, but I only have room for three. Please vote for your least favorite song so I can finish making my video. By the way, I don’t expect to win, but I felt compelled to make a video because so many of the entries were lame. Hey, mine is going to be lame too, but a good kind of lame.

Click on the links below for the MP3s:
The Country Murphy-Goode Song

The Euro Murphy-Goode Song

The Hip Hop Murphy-Goode Song

The Rock Murphy-Goode Song

Let me also mention my idea for the sketch, which might help determine which one to axe. In the video, I’m going to be lamenting about what to do for my video. I’ll say “hey, I could do a song,” then it would cut to one of the mini-music videos. After the video a friend would be shaking her head like “dude, no way… that sucks.” So, I guess the least lame video should go.

There’s so many great things that go together: Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Chocolate and Peanut Butter, 2006 Innocent Bystander Shiraz and LG Voyager phone for Verizon Wireless. Let’s focus on the later pair. They were both hot in their heyday, but have been hit hard by abuse and neglect. They both don’t work like they should and they’ll never recapture their former glory. Let’s examine this relationship further:

Okay people. I have a serious issue I need to discuss with you. I was just pitched a story that I have to share, and it’s a story that has affected me at a very personal level.

When I was 16 years old, I had saved my pennies to buy a kick ass electric guitar. I needed something better than a Fender Hot Rod Telecaster, or a Gibson Flying V. I needed a Hondo Stratocaster. Hondos were made with designs based on the designs of lame models like the Fender Stratocaster and the Gibson Les Paul. But unlike Fenders and Gibsons, Hondos had life! The 1986 Hondo guitar I was salivating over was made in Korea and was a mind sucking black with a blazing white pickguard. I loved the frets because they promised to scrape my fingers, releasing my rock ‘n roll blood making me feel alive! I was told that the jack would make the most awesome sound when I was playing, something akin to “grrrblapphhhbrrrriingzzzzphhhh.” The pickup switch was even more incredible because somehow it was supposed to mimic the sound of the jack, but completely backwards. Very satanic dude.

I gathered my pennies together (which happened to be in my father’s wallet) and took them down to the guitar store on Broadway in downtown San Diego and there she was in the display window. I could smell her pheromones through the glass. It was all I could do to keep my pants on as I ran into the store and bum rushed the display to embrace my new love.

When I got her home, I plugged her in and started jamming. But what was this? No blood on my fingers. No “grrrblapphhhbrrrriingzzzzphhhh” from the jack. No nothing of the rock ‘n roll Satanism I was promised. I’m like “WTF?” I looked the guitar over and saw something curious on the headstock. The Hondo label was affixed rather shiftily. I took my little pinky nail and started scraping at it. What was under the Hondo label was the most shocking thing I have ever seen. It said “Fender.” I heard about counterfeit guitars on the market, but I never thought I’d be duped.

Fast-forward 23 years. David Szabados of Legendary Tones has heroically championed the persecution of counterfeit guitar manufacturers and is trying to spread the word virally. Check out his YouTube video below and do your part by spreading the word for consumers to do their research before plunking down a load of cash for a sweet Paul Reed Smith.

I’m in a Chinese restaurant, I order whale blubber pot stickers, then I look down at the table in horror. The image of a whale suddenly appears from small water spill. I immediately cancel my pot stickers and swear off whale blubber for life. No more perfumes, soaps, candles, margarine, you name it. I mean, I’m like really, LIKE REALLY freaked out by this. I made a huge decision in my life. I’m moving to the Thuy Tu communal house in Phan Thiet, Vietnam to join the whale cult. I will no longer be blogging, as that is not allowed there. I will still hold weekly trivia contests to create “songs for winners” and I eventually plan to start my own cult focused around this (while still devoting 20% of my time to the whale cult of course). I’m leaving in the morning. Please send me good wishes and help my wife provide for our children’s piano lessons and capoeira classes. Peace, love, and harmony y’all. Chào buổi tối!

Let’s talk about the goodness of Anonymous Postcard for a minute. It’s so many things rolled into one, I don’t know where to begin. And yet it’s so simple. Love something? Hate something? Just have something to say? Submit a claim to Anonymous Postcard and artist Tucker Nichols will repurpose a found object, write your claim on it, and send it to the intended recipient. The great thing is that people actually respond. When I first saw this website I became obsessed with thinking about a lifetime of claims I could submit, potentially saving me from having to go into therapy.

For Christ’s sake, I live in Berkeley. Every day I practically have an epileptic seizure from all the crazy shenanigans all up in my hee-haw. (Do you know I’ve owned the URL “www.lovehateberkeley.com” for several years?) Now every time something horrible, terrific, or perfectly mundane happens, I think “claim.” I’ve got too many claims swimming around with the rocks in my head that I haven’t even been able to submit one yet. Here’s a perfect example of one taken from Anonymous Postcard:

Claim No.:
005820080911

To:
Employees of Panda Gifts, New Orleans, LA

Claim:
A co-worker who was on a business trip to New Orleans last month brought me back a voodoo doll. It’s nice. I keep it on my computer. It looks like this.

The instructions on the tag say that I can “place a personal item (like hair) inside the cloth to capture a part of [a person's] soul.” It comes with pins that I can stick into the doll, to cast a spell on that person.

Here’s my concern: Do you guys wear hairnets when you put these things together? Because I don’t want to stick pins in this thing thinking I’m hurting my boss, when really I’m hurting someone in New Orleans. Y’all have suffered enough.

Good stuff man, good stuff.

What cartoon character is tattooed on Tommy Lee of Motley Crue?

Comment on this post with the answer. If you don’t know the answer I’ll give points for being creative. Also, since everyone can see your answer, please don’t say, “I totally know it’s [blank] ’cause my cousin gave him the tattoo.” You have until 5pm today to answer. You get extra points if you post your answer to my wall on Facebook, as a reply on MOG.com, and @kmigdal on Twitter.

I might also escort you to a fancy ball if you give me the right answer. See a past winner below:

Dear Human Rights Watch,

You recently contacted me regarding prison torture footage that was somehow received by your organization. I understand your extreme concern regarding the torture and the involuntary administration of “truth serums” you witnessed in this video, but listen, this dude had it coming.

For starters, it wasn’t even me doing the torturing; it was my six-year-old daughter and her friend who just happened to be over for a play date. She insisted on taking over to show her friend “how daddy usually does it.” Quit trying to put the blame on me already! Yes, the victim’s hand (not the plural “hands” mind you!) was bound extremely tight, but did you see the fashionable jump rope it was done with? You’re just like all of the other sourpuss human rights organizations that have no appreciation for style. Truth serum? Puhlease. It’s not like the kids inhumanely injected their victim with it. They laced a banana a fed it to him as a snack. And no, there aren’t electrodes in his hat, thank you very much. Just a few head lice that my kid picked out of her hair.

Listen, worry about the economy instead of wasting your time on worthless torture victims. Good job with Guantanamo, now let it go. The prisoner was busted out of jail anyway. There. I spoiled the ending for you.

Sincerely,
Anonymous

99 cent party

It’s like some white trash god came out of the sky and took a huge crap on us. That’s how I felt as we pulled into the parking lot and descended on the 99 cent store. Nico, my WT princess, has a homemade pink tiara on, day old princess face paint, and about eight temporary tattoos, including a tribal choker. Anton, my WT superhero, has homemade blue tiara on, day old Spiderman face paint with only the eyes left, a similar barrage of tattoos, and the dirtiest ass sweatpants that I think I found in the gutter in a crack induced haze and said “oh, these will look great on you.” We pile out of our dirt caked, busted windshield, dented fender minivan and I can feel the Hollywood slow motion shot of the three of us emerging onto the scene. Nico and Anton are clutching their allowance dollar bills raised high above their heads, me closing the sliding door like I’m pumping a shotgun as we all embark on our 50 yard journey from the car to the store. Somehow I get this feeling that the world at the 99 cent store had stood still before we arrived.

The excitement is palpable, I mean majorly palpable (dude, it’s palpable, okay?). A purple and green 99 cent store shopping cart catches our eye as we pass and Nico says “ooh, we can get that for 99 cents!” (honey, we can just take that for free). The front doors whoosh open and there we are at the threshold of the biggest damn 99 cent store I have ever seen. Yes, I have been in a few 99 cent stores, okay? And this was like a supermarket 99 cent story, produce and all (yes, they had produce!). Anton looks up at the ceiling and says “coowal!” And it was pretty cool; a super high domed ceiling with fancy bas-relief and stuff like that. I wondered aloud what the place used to be and my question was immediately answered by the 99 cent store docent. “Oh, this was an old fashioned movie theater. Up there is the screen. And there were the speakers. And up there is the balcony. And there’s another row. They couldn’t mess with none of  this ‘cause it’s a historical landmark. And if you come back over this way you can really see…” Nico and Anton were looking at me like “hey asshole, the toys are this way.”

Anton immediately gloms onto a Spiderman flashlight the size of his pinky (batteries not included) while Nico slips into this “hmm, okay I like this, hmm” phase of shopping. We wander down the beauty/clothing/crazy miscellaneous isle and I catch a glimpse of a home pregnancy test out of the corner of my eye. Okay, here’s the real dichotomy of the 99 cent store. Some items probably cost half a cent to manufacture like the Spiderman flashlight, while others must cost close to a dollar like the pregnancy test. Their margins are all over the map, but they’re stuck to the 99 cent rule. There must be a really smart MBA with one helluva calculator and a slick psychology book sitting in the 99 cent HQ. On the other hand, maybe the generic brand pregnancy test is driving some poor woman crazy because it’s really just a recycled Dora the Explorer invisible ink activity book.

At the checkout, each of the kid’s items ring up to $1.08. They hand the cashier their $1 and I say “Ha ha, you forgot about tax! No toys for you!” No, I didn’t say that, but I was thinking it. Actually, they slipped an extra item each past me. By then it was too late. I wasn’t about to sit there waiting for the manager with “the key” to come and back out a $2.16 transaction. Plus my kids would’ve kicked me in the shins and yelled that they were being kidnapped.