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The Columns
on Aug 30, 2011 in Muskegon Comical
Dancing With The Stars weekly update: We’re two weeks away from opening night and my “Pro” and I have yet to complete our dance all the way through one time. Part of the reason being I still don’t know what the dance is, I realize figuring out what we’re going to do is a fluid process but time is starting to compress. Oh, and I’m going to be in Florida all next week. With any luck I’ll step on an angry crab.
Winter X
By Tracy K. Lorenz
Once again I got sucked into watching the Winter X-Games A.K.A the three day commercial for Monster Energy Drink. I don’t know why I watch the X-Games, I have nothing in common with these people, they speak a language I don’t understand, they wear clothes I don’t understand, and they idolize a guy who bears a striking resemblance to Mr. Ed. I guess I just like to watch rich white kids give the Shaka sign ad naseum.
The trouble I have with the X-Games is it’s a bunch of competitions they just made up and there’s really no way to judge the events against history or the rest of the world. These aren’t the best snowboarders in the world, they’re the best snowboarders who can afford to snowboard. If you’re the worlds fastest man somehow the world will find you, you will emerge from the jungles of Borneo if necessary and work your way to the top. You can also tell exactly what you do by the name of your sport, that’s not always true in the X-Games, can anyone tell me what either “Women’s Skier X or Mono Skier X” would entail? Okay, now can anyone tell me what the participants do in the 100 meter dash?
And that’s one of my big problems with the X-Games, they try to make EVERYTHING cool, every phrase, every piece of clothing, every hunk of wood they strap to their feet has to outdo the previous years phrase, clothing, and hunk of wood. Here’s a tip, in the world of art the secret is the white space, the nothingness between the colors. At the Winter X-Games there are no white spaces, every second is a spectral and verbal assault from people you kinda wish would die.
Here’s another thing that annoys me, they use machines. There’s no reason that snowmobiles need to be involved. Maybe it’s ESPN’s attempt to increase viewers by trying to connect to people who actually ride snowmobiles which is the demographic I picture as the exact opposite of the Aspen crowd. When I see a snowmobile it’s usually parked outside a trailer or a bar with deer heads inside.
But the X-Games even tries to make snowmobiles cool by hosting an event called “Snowmobile Best Trick.” I must admit the snowmobiles look cool all Monster-ed up and the guys look kind of cool in their fancy helmets. The course looks cool lit up at night and the announcers are practically stroking out every time the guy revs an engine. But the cool balloon is popped as soon as they drivers remove their helmets and Goober pokes his head out. Gaw-aw-ly,
The other clue that ESPN is trying to pull the cool wool over our eyes is the Fiance’s. It seems every participant in every event is on the edge of marriage which makes me think one side or the other is trying to hedge their bet. “Well, she’s my high-school sweetheart but if I stick this Goofy-footed iPod double McTwister 1080 with Indian air and a mule hold I might be able to step up to a girl who doesn’t work at Dollar General. Conversley, the Fiance’ on the other side might be thinking “If he can’t pull off the double back-flip on a Ski-Do we’ll probably be looking at some pretty large medical bills the State won’t cover and daddy will have to mortgage the double-wide.”
I’m 100% serious, whenever they showed a snowboarders Fiance’ she’d look like a Victoria’s Secret model, when they’d point the camera at a snowmobilers Fiance’ she looked like a Quality Farm and Fleet model whose shipment of Proactive got held up in customs.
Which brings me to stupidity. Here’s the thing about trash sports: No one is impressed. If you can claim to be the first person to ever successfully do a double back-flip on a snowmobile no one will care. You will never get a free drink. You will never get a working phone number from a waitress. Of course we’ll never know because no one has ever successfully flipped a snowmobile twice on purpose. A guy tried this year but not surprisingly he did a complete face digger. The tricky part was trying to avoid getting squished by the snowmobile he was attached to. Avoid it he didn’t. The 450 pound sled landed on him, and when he popped up he had a bad case of scarecrow arm, the top part went straight out and the bottom part just kind of swung there.
His Fiance’ came running out but, I swear to God, she stopped about twenty feet short of actually getting to her mangled significant other. She just kind of stood there looking at him and weighing her options. Something tells me she wasn’t the first girl to end up an…X-Fiance‘.
Dancing with the Stars weekly update: I continue to practice in a manner that laughs in the face of both rhythm and form. On Friday we had our second group practice where we were introduced to our closing number. In terms of complication it’s the dancing equivalent of the west coast offense. The routine was choreographed by women with little consideration for my abhorrence with the concept of “Jazz Hands.”
Lactic Acid
By Tracy K. Lorenz
Last Friday was what I like to call a day of compression. In life there are those days when all the tumblers align and everything is due at once, I don’t handle those days well.
Part of it was my fault, I had four paintings to get ready for the Post Card Salon at the Muskegon Museum of Art. I was given months to complete the paintings but there were games on TV and stuff so, as usual, on Thursday night I was painting like a squirrel hopped up on Red Bull. On Friday morning I looked at the entry form and saw that the paintings weren’t actually due until Monday but by then it was too late and my life-long streak of never having anything done until the last possible second was snapped
(As a side note, on Monday I went to drop off the paintings. I thought it was unusual they’d be due on a day the museum was closed ((the Museum’s closed every Monday)) but I went anyway and, obviously, it was closed. So I buzzed the doorbell and a lady let me in and I said “It’s odd that you’d have these due on a day you were closed” and she said “If you read the rules it says cards are due by January 23 which means they’re actually due the 22nd.”)
(Only in Muskegon.)
But the paintings were minor, the two big events were the annual Mad Media Luge Race at the Muskegon Winter Sports complex (which started at 3:00) and the afore mentioned DWTS practice at 6:30. It should be noted that those two venues are approximately 30 miles apart and a luge race isn‘t a quick thing.
I got out to the track and it was, as we lugers say, “new.” The ice was only a couple days old and a little low on the walls, when given a whole season to prepare the ice has time to build up and make the turns a little less acute as the water seeks its natural course prior to freezing. On a new track you’re kind of at the mercy on the grounds crew. I’ve probably been down that track a hundred times and I’ve never taken a beating like I did on Friday, I felt like a marble in a blender. Luckily my knees and elbows were positioned between the sled and the walls so the sled made it to the bottom without a scratch. I have a bruise on my right elbow the size of a sticky note and that was WITH pads on.
Guy after guy headed down the track and all you’d hear was the skittering sound of the sled runners loosing their edge, then a the smack smack smack of human against wall, then a series of “Ooooo’s” from the people watching. We had a team of writers up from the Columbia Missourian and, naturally, they weren’t real familiar with the sport. They are now.
But as anyone who’s participated in Luge can tell you the hard part isn’t going down the track, the hard part is carrying your forty-pound sled up the stairs to return to the starting gate. It takes a special brand of idiot to get pummeled and then haul the agent of your pummeling back to the top for more.
I thought I was in pretty good shape but I have to admit after four runs my legs were getting a bit tired. It was then I remembered that on Wednesday night I had a little bowling wager and ended up bowling eight games (195, 269, 208, 257, 235, 249, 231, 247, pay me) which will put a little strain on the quads.
Normally after the race I’d go to the bar with the other media elite and accuse each other of cheating but no, not this time, I still had three hours of non-stop dancing ahead of me and my legs felt like Bob Dole’s arm.
So Saturday morning arrives and I’m awoken by the smiling face of my six-year-old reminding me I’d promised to go snowboarding with him at Mulligan’s Hollow. Apparently my legs forgot to tell my brain that I’m over the…hill.
Dancing With The Stars Weekly Update: We finally practiced again but time is getting short, this week I learned how to take four steps in a six beat song. That’s not easy. I talked to some other participants and they’re practicing three times a week, we’ve practiced four times in two months. My only hope is to fracture a leg in Friday’s Media Luge Race.)
MLK
By Tracy K. Lorenz
I’m writing this on Martin Luther King’s birthday so I thought it would be appropriate to mention my involvement in easing racial tensions and making the world a better place for all human beings.
You may not know this but one of my many (two) movie roles took place in the film “Up From the Bottoms” the award winning documentary by Jim and Rod Schaub which recently appeared nationwide on PBS. The film depicts the struggles African American’s encountered when they moved from the south to the north in the 1940’s. I co-stared with Cicely Tyson. Even though I never met her and she has no idea I was in the movie it still looks good in print and, technically, it’s true except for the “starred” part. What did sort of set me apart was I was one of only two white people in the movie. Once again I was horribly miscast (see: Cop #4; Offspring) but at least this time I wasn’t a meat prop, I actually got to act. I played a racist.
My scene took place in late May, I know this because I walked right off the boat from Max McKee’s Kentucky Derby party and went over to the set on Webster Street in Downtown Muskegon.
I was sent to wardrobe and makeup and that’s when I first became aware of how important my part was. All the other actors and actresses we given very elaborate costumes representative of the period. The guys were wearing cool hats, suits, and spats. The women got fancy 40’s dresses, hats, and purses. I went over to the wardrobe lady (all the time wondering why in all our communications she’d never asked me what size I was) and asked her about my costume. She looked me up and down and said “You look good.” I believe I was wearing a Polo shirt which I’m not even sure Ralph Lauren was born in the 1940’s. Then she said “Wait a minute” and handed me a pair of black wing-tips. That was my costume. You could have shot me back to1945 in a bank tube and no one would have noticed. I guess she figured my acting chops were so strong wearing the proper clothing would have detracted from my performance.
So here’s the scene; we’re out on the street and my wife (played by Sarah Rooks) and I are confronted by a black couple walking towards us. The other couple isn’t doing anything they’re just walking along but I am so incensed I pull my wife towards me to protect her while at the same time giving the other guy the hairy eyeball.
Here’s where the miscasting comes into play. First off the lovely Sarah is a Roller Derby star and really tall and I’m pretty much a shrimp. Second of all the black guy I was supposed to stare down was a former Grand Valley football player built like a nylon full of doorknobs. That guy could’ve beat me like a rented goat, even his “wife” looked capable of causing great bodily harm. Of the four people on that street I had the lowest chance of survival yet I was the guy who was supposed to display menace.
We get to our marks, the director yells “action!” the other couple approaches, I go to pull Sarah in for protection and…she doesn’t budge.
Take two: Pretty much the same as take one.
We filmed at night and it was May and it was cold. When they said the movie was set in the 40’s I didn’t realize they were talking temperature. I’m wearing shirt sleeves, the girls are wearing dresses, and they’re all getting a bit annoyed at the googoo boy who can’t pull off the simple act of moving a woman over three inches.
By take six I was starting to feel the pressure because it was pretty obvious who the weak link was and it was getting colder by the minute. We started to walk, we timed it right and I pulled her in perfectly. Except I was so happy to have pulled that off I forgot to give the evil eye.
Take seven looked remarkably like take six.
By then the director had seen enough, he yelled “scene” and everyone went back inside where it was warm. In the final cut you see us walking and then they pan in on the other actors face and he’s giving ME the look of death which, I guess, was appropriate.
But if you look at the big picture it was actually pretty cool. Unlike the 40’s we had a cast without a hint of racial tension. After the scene we were able to walk down the street to the bar together not as blacks and whites but as people, just regular old people, and when we got to the bar it was nothing but…bottoms up.
Subsets
By Tracy K. Lorenz
(Dancing with the Local Stars weekly update. My partner is back and even if we’re not totally on the same page at least now we’re now both in the same library. I move forward with much apprehension.)
We had our first all-group practice of the 24 participants in this years “Dancing” group. All the professionals breezed through it, but some of us novices looked to be stomping out the embers of an invisible fire. Luckily I had Mayor Steve Warmington next to me to commiserate with and share moments of nervous consolation / panic / dread. We may both be in just a leeeetle bit over our heads.
One nice thing about the group dance (we were practicing our opening and closing numbers) is we have 24 people crammed onto a 20 x 20 stage which would seem to allow for much covering up, it’s basically like when the Red Army marches in front of the Korean President, we’re so jammed together you almost have to do the proper moves or risk getting a bayonet in the back of your neck . So my plan was to sidle my way towards the middle where I would become almost invisible, just another stalk of corn swaying in the field. But no, Steve and I were placed front row center. This will not end well.
One nice thing about the group dance (we were practicing our opening and closing numbers) is we have 24 people crammed onto a 20 x 20 stage which would seem to allow for much covering up, it’s basically like when the Red Army marches in front of the Korean President, we’re so jammed together you almost have to do the proper moves or risk getting a bayonet in the back of your neck . So my plan was to sidle my way towards the middle where I would become almost invisible, just another stalk of corn swaying in the field. But no, Steve and I were placed front row center. This will not end well.
But one thing this experience has allowed me to do is get a glimpse of the dance culture, when I first got there I couldn’t tell who the “Stars” were and who the “Professionals” were because the only person I knew was Warmington. Then I started looking around and noticed that when dancers stand they have one foot pointed straight and one foot at a forty-five degree angle, male or female it didn’t matter, it must be something they teach at dance school because the rest of us schlubs were just standing haphazard. Another way to tell the real dancers was they’d just be standing there and all of a sudden they’d kick their leg really high. I’d be hanging out talking and KICK! This leg would catch my peripheral vision and then KICK! Another leg would go flying out unprovoked. It was like being confined in an area with a bunch of Tourettes sufferers minus the occasional profanity but with an occasional split.
So I started to think of other groups I have fallen into at various times in my life and what sets them apart…
So I started to think of other groups I have fallen into at various times in my life and what sets them apart…
Artists: The worst. The thing about artists is 90% of them have no talent. They have lots of earrings, they have black clothes, they have the surly attitude of a sixteen-year-old-girl sitting home on prom night but they couldn’t paint a bedroom with a roller. Probably no group contains more people who really really really want to be something but who really really really never will. Maybe that’s why they’re always so angst-y? Honestly, I’d rather hang out with a vegan.
Bowlers: If life has dealt you a bad hand and you’ve accepted the fact you’ll never ever be able to play any other sport, ever, then bowling is where you end up. Let’s face it, it’s not that hard. I have one bowling ball, I bowl once a week, and I my league averaged is about 215 over the last few years. And yet there are guys who are “into it,” they show up with six different balls (seriously,) they talk about oil patterns and break points and boards and I’m thinking “The pins are right there, just wing the ball at them. No group has larger self esteem issues with the possible exception of female volleyball players.
Writers: Quite a miserable lot, actually. Most are introverts who’ve spent their lives consumed by word counts and the demons of punctuation. If you walk into a newsroom you will never hear laughter but you will on occasion catch just the slightest wisp of alcohol.
Soft Ball Players: Here’s a tip; If you see a softball player and he’s wearing a knee brace keep your distance because he’s going to be a dink. Guys with knee braces tend to call other players by their number (Nice catch six!) and talk incessantly about the Class B District Championship game of 1992. Like bowling, softball is a sport you will never be respected for and may actually work against you in social situations. There are guys who play like they’re taking the beach at Iwo Jima and there are guys who play to have fun. The skill level between the two groups is almost indistinguishable.
Female Softball Players: Take all the traits mentioned for every group above and cram them into one non-flattering uniform.
Skiers: Probably the only group of people in the world who wear clothes that haven’t even been invented yet. Guys ski to get away from their wives, wives ski so they can tell other wives what a wonderful weekend she just spent skiing with her husband.
Snowboarders: For some reason snowboarders have decided it’s cool to dress like a smashed Pepsi can. Dude, wasn’t there anything available within seven sizes of the one God intended you to wear? Snowboarders also lead the world in descriptive phrases used to describe the most basic and repetitive motions, few of which are intentional. It’s almost as if the secret language they’ve created gives them the special power needed to jump off a little mound of snow and remain upright. It doesn’t. But it does sound cooler to say “Dude, I was doing a backside fakie off the pipeline and did a total digger…” than a simple “I fell.” Snowboarders are a lot like artists, looks trump skill every time.
The Pope
By Tracy K. Lorenz
December 6, 2011
First off I’d like to congratulate my dad, Roy Lorenz, for receiving the Pro Ecclesia Et Pontifice medal from Pope Benedict XVI (yeah, THAT Pope). He received the medal Monday night in front of a packed house at the Basilica in Grand Rapids. For you non-Catholics out there, this would be the equivalent of getting a Kennedy Center honor from the President if the President was President of the world (or at least a billion members of the world.) This is the first time the Pope has given out medals to anyone around here so it was a huge deal and very, very cool. Suzanne Geha even showed up to watch and I didn’t even know she was Catholic. Bottom line; the Pope is now my Peep.
Speaking of Catholics; I judged the “Floodlights” talent contest at Muskegon Catholic Central last Friday night and was once again impressed with the camaraderie of the kids. Okay, some of them weren’t exactly Kelly Clarkson but you couldn’t tell it from the crowd, every kid was cheered wildly by their classmates and encouraged at a level you don’t usually see from today’s “OMG” teenagers. I’ve been to a lot of high school productions and I’ve judged a lot of talent contests but nothing comes close to this one, you really get the feeling these kids care about each other. The actual “talent” wasn’t at a level you might see at a larger school but the way the kids on stage and in the crowd acted it kept me from completely losing hope in the current generation, for the short term anyway.
Quick tip for Disney executives: Snap up Liz Gowran, she has the talent and the look to be your next break-out star.
Quick tip for Disney executives: Snap up Liz Gowran, she has the talent and the look to be your next break-out star.
As long as I’m on the topic of schools, I read where PETA wrote a letter to Fruitport Middle School about not performing a version of the “Twelve Days of Christmas” where they end up killing the animals in violent fashion. HAHAHAHA! What idiot teacher came up with this plan? I’ve been hovering around the comedy business for quite awhile now and there are two things that are NEVER funny; killing animals and parodies of “The Twelve days of Christmas,” by combining the two you create a black hole of comedy from which light cannot escape. You shouldn’t need those boneheads at PETA to tell you that having thirteen-year-old kids sing about strangling turtle doves, shooting a partridge, and drowning swans is a bad idea. We have enough violence in the world and don’t need to desensitize our little darlings any more than they already are. It’s a Christmas show for gosh sakes (call it a Holiday show or whatever diversionary name you want but it’s a Christmas show) so stick with the classics, skip the parodies, and you won’t get any more letters from undatable attention seekers with excessive leg hair and BA’s in Philosophy.
I also have to take a little umbrage with the Fruitport parents, I can’t believe there weren’t more than three of you who didn’t know singing this song was a dumb idea. I don’t care if schools have been featuring the song in their programs for years, that just means the programs have been lame for years. Traditions are made to be broken even if it means some liberal teacher doesn’t get a chance to cram her agenda down the throats of impressionable kids and scared parents.
A few years ago I had to sit through a program at Grand Haven High School where a little girl sang a song about being sent to war and killed in Iraq. This was followed by the choir singing a parody of “The Farmer in the Dell” called “The Old Man in the Well” a song devoted to the admonishing of then-president Bush. Doesn’t it bother anyone else that teachers are using our children as puppets? How about this; we send our kids to school, you teach them to read and write, we’ll teach them about everything else.
There are plenty of good Christmas songs out there; songs that everyone knows, songs that help promote the peace and joy of the season. There’s no reason to crowbar in songs about animal cruelty. I know it seems far fetched but it’s these little moments, these little tweaks off center that years later result in Obama in the Whitehouse and 25 year old men sitting on Wall Street crying because they can’t pay off a loan they signed in good…faith.
I also have to take a little umbrage with the Fruitport parents, I can’t believe there weren’t more than three of you who didn’t know singing this song was a dumb idea. I don’t care if schools have been featuring the song in their programs for years, that just means the programs have been lame for years. Traditions are made to be broken even if it means some liberal teacher doesn’t get a chance to cram her agenda down the throats of impressionable kids and scared parents.
A few years ago I had to sit through a program at Grand Haven High School where a little girl sang a song about being sent to war and killed in Iraq. This was followed by the choir singing a parody of “The Farmer in the Dell” called “The Old Man in the Well” a song devoted to the admonishing of then-president Bush. Doesn’t it bother anyone else that teachers are using our children as puppets? How about this; we send our kids to school, you teach them to read and write, we’ll teach them about everything else.
There are plenty of good Christmas songs out there; songs that everyone knows, songs that help promote the peace and joy of the season. There’s no reason to crowbar in songs about animal cruelty. I know it seems far fetched but it’s these little moments, these little tweaks off center that years later result in Obama in the Whitehouse and 25 year old men sitting on Wall Street crying because they can’t pay off a loan they signed in good…faith.
Dancing With the (local) Stars Update: Every store, gas station, and school I walk into people ask me about Dancing With the Stars so I thought I’d give weekly updates on the disaster as it unfolds. I would describe my relationship with my dancing partner as semi-hostile. It’s been four weeks, we’ve danced less than fifteen minutes. I’m not even sure we’ve decided on a song yet. The first time I met her the first thing she said to me was “I was hoping you’d be taller.” I see no way this is going to be an enriching experience.
Christmas Trees
By Tracy K. Lorenz
December 13, 2011
I finally got around to buying a Christmas Tree, for some reason I find it difficult to get in the tree buying mood when the ground is void of snow. But I have a six-year-old so I caved to the daily pressure. We went to a tree farm that I’m pretty sure houses nameless bodies in shallow graves. Some places that sell trees are light and cheery and full of holiday spirit. This place is just full of the spirits of hitch-hikers who hopped in the wrong car in 1985.
Have you ever seen the show “American Pickers”? The show where the fat guy and the skinny guy drive up to farms in the middle of nowhere and the guys get all excited about a pile of rusted bicycle rims? Do you ever wonder where the hermits who live on these farms get the money to buy 40 acres of worthless junk? Apparently the answer is selling Christmas trees and the gold teeth extracted from the aforementioned hitch-hikers. But for some reason Q loves the place so going there, buying a tree, and escaping with our lives has become a holiday tradition.
Actually I’ve had pretty good luck with trees over the years. The only real tragedy I remember involved my former dog Ellen. Way back when I was in grade school I made a macaroni angel for a Christmas ornament. I have no idea how I ended up with the macaroni angel or how it stayed in one piece for so long but I’m pretty sure it was the oldest macaroni angel on the planet. It’s not like I took special care of it but every year when I’d pull out the box of broken bulbs the angel would be there intact.
So year after year I’d dutifully hang the angel without much thought to positioning, then one year I hung it on the lowest branch so it dangled like a tea bag. One night I’m sitting there, Ellen dutifully at my feet when without fanfare she got up, walked over, and ate the macaroni angel. I almost had the feeling it had been bothering her for years, like every year I’d put it up and she’d think “Damn it! Just a foot lower…” until finally her wish was granted. I was actually quite surprised she didn’t keel over on the spot.
But that’s nothing compared to what happened to my friend Char. She bought a tree that, unbeknownst to her, contained a Praying Mantis egg. Praying Mantis eggs are about the size of a golf ball and contain the total worlds allotment of Praying Manti. Char brought the tree home and when the egg warmed up the baby mantises figured it was spring and set out to meet the world. In nature roughly 996 of the 1,000 mantises are instantly eaten my predators. That’s not the case in a family room in Grandville.
Then there was my friend Paul who had an experience in one of the rougher neighborhoods in Flint. He was following a car that had a tree on the roof but the tree wasn’t tied down. Paul’s driving along minding his own business when the tree in front of him fell off the roof, bounced once, and became wedged under his car. Since the skinny part was facing the car about three quarters of the tree was under while the fat part stuck out like a cannon. Paul was sure this was a trap to make him pull over so the non-tree-tiers could rob him so when the car that lost the tree pulled over Paul took off like a bat, the tree still under the car. A low speed chase ensued and ended only when the tree eroded enough to slip from below Paul’s car, traveled backwards, and wedged in the front bumper of the original owner.
Paul did not stop.
But my fondest Christmas Tree memories happened long after Christmas was over. When I was much younger my friend The Schaaby and I would walk the late-night streets of Norton Shores and drag as many discarded trees as possible to the front yard of an unsuspecting but centrally located neighbor. In the morning the neighbor would be treated to the wonders of a veritable forest of dead pines, some still containing tinsel, that magically sprouted in his front yard. We were never caught for this brazen act of redistribution, I don’t know if it’s because everyone already knew who did it and didn’t want a similar surprise, or maybe they actually appreciated the effort it took to create a small suburban woodland. What I do know is if the question of guilt ever came up our other friends would have ratted us out in a heartbeat. Luckily no one ever…axed.
(Dancing with the stars weekly update: Still no song, still no routine, still no hope of this ending well. My partner called me last week and said I was the only person she ever worked with who refused to perform as directed. She did not say this in a complimentary tone. What I didn’t realize going in was every dance is more of a skit. I’m not too big on skits. “That’s the fun part! Stepping outside yourself and letting people see a different you…” Um, no it isn‘t.)
Worst TV of 2011
By Tracy K. Lorenz
As another year comes crashing to an end, it’s time for my annual Worst things on TV list.
Worst Voice: There’s a show on the Discovery Channel called “Sons of Guns.” The show is chock full of annoying people but topping the list is office manger (and owners daughter) Stephanie Hayden. Not only is she a horrible actress her voice sounds like someone is running their fingernails down a cat that is holding two forks and dragging them across a blackboard. Her voice could be played over loud speakers to make Third-World Dictators surrender. Adding to the annoyance is her “I’m hot” attitude when, in fact, she’s about as hot as a Kraft Single.
Worst TV Show not involving the Garden State and copious amounts of Aramis Cologne: “2 Broke Girls.” First off, I hate the “2” and the “2” may be the only original part of the show. It’s like someone said “Gee, “Friends” has been gone for a couple years let’s just remake it and we can save a bunch of money by not having any male-leads or comedy writers.” The show centers around a skinny blond whose dad is a millionaire but cut her off so she has to make it as a waitress, and a street wise fat-chick with an attitude like the girls who work the Clinique Counter at Macy‘s. The result is a show about as funny as getting snapped in the eye with a rubber band.
Dakota Fred
Worst TV trend: Discreetly moving objects out of the way as tragedy approaches. It usually happens during fight scenes on comedies, two guys will be wrestling away and as they approach the girl sitting in a chair with a glass on the table she’ll move the glass in a casual manner just before the table is smashed to bits. She’ll then act as if nothing happened.
Worst TV Trend II: Any conversation that ends with someone saying “awkward” in a sing-song manner.
Worst TV Show I watch and I don’t even know why but I can’t stop: “Storage Wars.” UNBELIEVABLY annoying people bidding on and then digging through the storage units of deadbeat renters. The only guy I like on the show is the old Playboy Barry, a guy who seems to enjoy shelling out thousands of dollars for three legged chairs, bladeless lawn mowers, and Hefty bags full of used clothing. I also like to watch to see what nightmare outfit Brandy will wear this week, the girl was born without a fashion chromosome. (But she’s still ten times hotter than Snooki.)
Worst Commercial Character not named Flo: The boss on the Toshiba commercial where the TV is ready to ship if they don’t put Wifi in it. I could never buy anything from a guy with such greasy hair. Seriously dude, buy some Prell.
Worst Kids Show: “Dora the Explorer,” “Go Diego Go,” “The Backyardigans,” or any other show that features childlike characters screaming at me in Spanish.
Biggest Jerk on TV: “Dakota Fred” on the reality show “Gold Rush.” Possibly the most unsympathetic TV character since “Puck.” Usually I have a soft spot for people with Hubble-lensed glasses and one big shoe but not in this case. I hope at some point he is eaten by a Moose.
(Dancing with the Stars update: We now have a song and 1/3 of a dance routine I will struggle to remember. When I walked into the studio the first thing she asked was “What words would your readers use to describe you?” She wrote down my responses, I don’t know why. I fear the future.)
Christmas Lights, The Real Story
By Tracy K. Lorenz
December 27, 2011
I received a number of emails this year asking why I don’t write a “Christmas Lights Review” for my current papers like I used to write for my former paper. Here’s the answer.
Back before I had my own column I was just a freelance hack who’d pick up a few bucks by writing music reviews. Over time my editor grew to like my reviews because I was the only reviewer who ever wrote bad stuff. I didn’t automatically assume the “Styx” concert was going to be magical and I wasn’t afraid to write it because I knew by the time the review appeared the next day “Styx” would be in Toledo.
Winter came along and a tradition my editor hated came with it; people wanted someone to come out and look at their Christmas lights and write a nice little story. I was a reviewer, he called me.
Twenty-five people sent in requests, I visited all twenty five over a four day span and by the time I was done I was ready to take a shovel and beat a plastic penguin to death. When I wrote my story (which was supposed to be 500 words and ended up at 1600 words) I felt cleansed, like a leach had sucked the evil from my blood. My goal was to send in the column and then rest assured I would never ever be asked to review Christmas Lights again.
After the story ran (front page, with pictures) the hate mail started pouring in. Apparently when an eighty-year-old man dying of cancer puts up a single row of lights on his garage you aren’t supposed to start your critique with “You owe me gas money.” To be fair I should mention that I didn’t know he was eighty, I didn’t know he had cancer, and I didn’t know that putting up the lights by himself “Was one of the few joys he had left.”
Ooopski.
So my plan worked, I may have been vilified for writing about how fast Mary lost her baby weight or what nice abs Baby Jesus had but at least I’d never have to review lights again. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The next year forty-five people wrote in, the Chronicle promoted the heck out of it and once again I had to drive hundreds of miles to review displays I had ZERO desire to look at. It wasn’t just the crappy display, it was getting to the crappy display. I’d put in a full day at work and then I’d have to go out into a blizzard and try and find houses from Holland to Whitehall in the days before I had a Garmin, by the time I showed up I was so frustrated and angry I had no choice but to be brutally honest. I’d deduct points for having a reindeer near a manger; I’d deduct points for crooked ice icicles, I deducted points for having a snowman next to a giant fake candle, I took points off from one lady because she actually wrote “Come at night because the lights look better.” Seriously.
The next year forty-five people wrote in, the Chronicle promoted the heck out of it and once again I had to drive hundreds of miles to review displays I had ZERO desire to look at. It wasn’t just the crappy display, it was getting to the crappy display. I’d put in a full day at work and then I’d have to go out into a blizzard and try and find houses from Holland to Whitehall in the days before I had a Garmin, by the time I showed up I was so frustrated and angry I had no choice but to be brutally honest. I’d deduct points for having a reindeer near a manger; I’d deduct points for crooked ice icicles, I deducted points for having a snowman next to a giant fake candle, I took points off from one lady because she actually wrote “Come at night because the lights look better.” Seriously.
My favorite was some guy who lived in Norton Shores between my office and my house. I went out and looked at his pitiful display and was unimpressed. He called me at home and asked if I’d driven by, I said I had and he said that wasn’t fair because he didn’t have all his lights up yet. He asked if I could drive by again in two days. I drove by and it did look better but not great, one major addition was a giant sled being towed by reindeer, it was tied up between trees about fifteen feet off the ground. The guy called and I told him it was nice but Rudolf’s nose was burned out.
Now you have to understand Rudolf was WAY up in the air, the guy told me he had to park his truck underneath and put a ladder in the truck bed to be able to reach which, in my mind anyway, wasn‘t my fault. He said to give him a day and then come back. The next day he called and I said Rudolf looked better but the bulb in his nose was orange which I just couldn’t accept. He started begging; “Please, just one more day, just drive by tomorrow night and everything will be perfect.” The next night he called and asked what I thought, I told him the nose was the right color red but it wasn’t blinking…
I think I gave him third place. It’s the least I could do considering the guy all but destroyed his front yard by driving a pick-up truck across his lawn four times.
Again I thought that would be the end of the Christmas Lights review, again I was wrong. The next year so many people wrote in the Chronicle supplied me with a driver. It didn’t help, I still hated every second of it and refused to do it the following year. No amount of money could have gotten me back in that car. I didn’t know if people actually liked the reviews or if they just liked the fact I was suffering . In the end it didn’t matter, turning down the cash in exchange for keeping my blood pressure below 1,000 makes me a truly…wise man.
Wishes for the Coming Year
By Tracy K. Lorenz
January 3, 2012
(Dancing with the Stars weekly update: It’s not looking good, my choreographer and dancing partner has resigned, I may be the only DWTS dancer to ever to perform solo. I’m thinking of doing an interpretive dance called “Spring.” Scarves will be involved.)
I’ve never been much for resolutions, especially resolutions tied to a date. I know I’m weak, I know I’m a creature of habit, and the rattlesnake of failure holds no appeal for me. That being said, it doesn’t mean I can’t wish for some changes in 2012 involving other people…
I’d like to see an end to all commercials with the line “That was so 15 seconds ago.” There are few people as annoying as techno-snobs and these commercials give me violent thoughts. What’s the hurry anyway, is it that important that I know someone retired 15 seconds faster than you knew? This also applies to knowing about a taco party in front of Bills office.
What really amazes me is so much of our lives now revolve around phones but finding a business phone number on-line is growing more difficult by the day. It should be a law, or at least a really strong guideline, that if you have a website your phone number and address should appear on the home page and I don’t mean a “Contact Us” tab either. In 2012 I wish for businesses to wise up.
One remarkable trend-breaking moment did occur on January 2nd at the Outback Bowl in Tampa. It wasn’t just that Michigan State won a bowl game, it was that they didn’t dump a bucket of Gatorade on the coach afterwards. The Gatorade dump is sooooo 1986 and sooooo, well, stupid. I hate the Gatorade dump, it was funny once and I mean ONCE, now it’s just lame.
On the downside the Gatorade dump has been replaced with every player who makes a simple tackle standing up and doing the Superman Shirt Rip motion. Whatever happened to just playing the game? I wish more coaches would institute the Lou “Mush Mouth” Holtz rule that if you perform a little skit (the shirt rip, the pretend eating, the one hand chest pound) after you do something good you have to do the exact same thing when you do something bad. If you pound your chest after you catch a pass you have to pound your chest after you drop one.
I hope 2012 puts an end to auto-tune even though I know there’s no chance of that happening. I’m tired of being force fed corporate music performed by interchangeable inflatable dolls. I also hope that in 2012 Justin Bieber continues his inexorable slide into non-cuteness. What worked when he was fifteen looks idiotic at eighteen, just take your cash, fade away, and wait for your call from VH1 in 2025.
The Olympics are coming up and I hope in 2012 they actually shows some sports and stop with the Bob Costas smarmy inspirational back-stories; the only thing they inspire me to do is change the channel. It’s the Olympics, skip the heart wrenching and show the pole vault for gosh sakes.
Along that line, what used to make the Olympics fun and entertaining was cheering against the Rooskies, every good story needs a good guy and a villain but we’re fresh out of villains which makes me cheer against American’s who act like jerks. (See: Olympic basketball team.)
I wish success for whoever takes over the failed “Summer Celebration.” I hope the first thing they do is round up the residents of Muskegon and explain how to act and dress in public situations. Muskegon needs a serious intervention and re-branding when it comes to how the city is viewed by outsiders, what flies here doesn’t fly anywhere else and we’re repelling the tourists. Without tourist money we’re just trading dollars back and forth with each other and that’s not a strong economic plan.
It’s an election year so I hope the republicans can control the monkey show they have now and focus on one candidate. Four years ago they nominated the only guy who couldn’t beat Obama, with the shape the country’s in now they should be able to nominate a pineapple and take the Whitehouse back, they just need to cut away the brush and put all their support behind the right pineapple. I know a lot of people dream of living in a nanny state but I’m not one of them, the whole “Give them bread and circuses” routine has never worked and it isn’t working now.
I hope in 2012 my son Q continues to think I’m an invincible genius capable of solving any problem and righting any wrong. He’ll be a teenager before I know it and he’ll probably turn on me so I’d like to enjoy the adoration while I can.
I hope someone close to Dick Clark pulls him aside and tells him to retire. Although his ability to count backwards from ten is unparalleled I’m pretty sure we can find someone else to carry the New Years Rockin’ Eve load. I watched that poor guy on Saturday, watching him talk was nothing short of painful and his makeup people didn’t do him any favors. He had so much makeup on I’m surprised his neck could support the extra weight, I kept waiting for him to tip over and do a face digger on his desk. I pictured him with his head pinned to the desk by forty pounds of pancake, his arms flailing as he called for help. The magic ball has reached the bottom, Dick, it’s time to walk away with whatever dignity you have left.
One of the odder things that happened towards the end of last year was a couple of my childhood friends became grandparents. My friends are some of the nicest guys to ever walk the planet and I hope they can help the new editions to enjoy childhood as much as we did. The world is moving fast, I wish them all a little bit of slow.
Subsets
By Tracy K. Lorenz
January 10, 2012
(Dancing with the Local Stars weekly update. My partner is back and even if we’re not totally on the same page at least now we’re now both in the same library. I move forward with much apprehension.)
We had our first all-group practice of the 24 participants in this years “Dancing” group. All the professionals breezed through it, but some of us novices looked to be stomping out the embers of an invisible fire. Luckily I had Mayor Steve Warmington next to me to commiserate with and share moments of nervous consolation / panic / dread. We may both be in just a leeeetle bit over our heads.
One nice thing about the group dance (we were practicing our opening and closing numbers) is we have 24 people crammed onto a 20 x 20 stage which would seem to allow for much covering up, it’s basically like when the Red Army marches in front of the Korean President, we’re so jammed together you almost have to do the proper moves or risk getting a bayonet in the back of your neck .
So my plan was to sidle my way towards the middle where I would become almost invisible, just another stalk of corn swaying in the field. But no, Steve and I were placed front row center. This will not end well.
But one thing this experience has allowed me to do is get a glimpse of the dance culture, when I first got there I couldn’t tell who the “Stars” were and who the “Professionals” were because the only person I knew was Warmington. Then I started looking around and noticed that when dancers stand they have one foot pointed straight and one foot at a forty-five degree angle, male or female it didn’t matter, it must be something they teach at dance school because the rest of us schlubs were just standing haphazard. Another way to tell the real dancers was they’d just be standing there and all of a sudden they’d kick their leg really high. I’d be hanging out talking and KICK! This leg would catch my peripheral vision and then KICK! Another leg would go flying out unprovoked. It was like being confined in an area with a bunch of Tourettes sufferers minus the occasional profanity but with an occasional split.
So I started to think of other groups I have fallen into at various times in my life and what sets them apart…
Artists: The worst. The thing about artists is 90% of them have no talent. They have lots of earrings, they have black clothes, they have the surly attitude of a sixteen-year-old-girl sitting home on prom night but they couldn’t paint a bedroom with a roller. Probably no group contains more people who really really really want to be something but who really really really never will. Maybe that’s why they’re always so angst-y? Honestly, I’d rather hang out with a vegan.
Bowlers: If life has dealt you a bad hand and you’ve accepted the fact you’ll never ever be able to play any other sport, ever, then bowling is where you end up. Let’s face it, it’s not that hard. I have one bowling ball, I bowl once a week, and I my league averaged is about 215 over the last few years. And yet there are guys who are “into it,” they show up with six different balls (seriously,) they talk about oil patterns and break points and boards and I’m thinking “The pins are right there, just wing the ball at them.” No group has larger self esteem issues with the possible exception of female volleyball players.
Writers: Quite a miserable lot, actually. Most are introverts who’ve spent their lives consumed by word counts and the demons of punctuation. If you walk into a newsroom you will never hear laughter but you will on occasion catch just the slightest wisp of alcohol.
Soft Ball Players: Here’s a tip; If you see a softball player and he’s wearing a knee brace keep your distance because he’s going to be a dink. Guys with knee braces tend to call other players by their number (Nice catch six!) and talk incessantly about the Class B District Championship game of 1992. Like bowling, softball is a sport you will never be respected for and may actually work against you in social situations. There are guys who play like they’re taking the beach at Iwo Jima and there are guys who play to have fun. The skill level between the two groups is almost indistinguishable.
Female Softball Players: Take all the traits mentioned for every group above and cram them into one non-flattering uniform.
Skiers: Probably the only group of people in the world who wear clothes that haven’t even been invented yet. Guys ski to get away from their wives, wives ski so they can tell other wives what a wonderful weekend she just spent skiing with her husband.
Snowboarders: For some reason snowboarders have decided it’s cool to dress like a smashed Pepsi can. Dude, wasn’t there anything available within seven sizes of the one God intended you to wear? Snowboarders also lead the world in descriptive phrases used to describe the most basic and repetitive motions, few of which are intentional. It’s almost as if the secret language they’ve created gives them the special power needed to jump off a little mound of snow and remain upright. It doesn’t. But it does sound cooler to say “Dude, I was doing a backside fakie off the pipeline and did a total digger…” than a simple “I fell.” Snowboarders are a lot like artists, looks trump skill every time.
