The Mini-Mix.

I have OCD. I’ve never denied this, as I consider my particular brand of OCD to be just mild enough to help structure my life in a responsible way. For example, my anxiety makes it impossible for me to leave the house without a balanced checkbook, but stops just short of having me wash my hands 600 times immediately thereafter. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder is the glue that keeps my life from crumbling, and I’m well aware of that.

Still another positive result of OCD are the little projects and hyper-focused, late-night creations that seem to get pulled out of nowhere from time to time. Something that, when glanced at by a foreign eye, seems unnecessarily complicated and trivial, yet turn out to be pretty cool ideas in the light of day.

Like Mini-Mixes.

I’ll preface this by admitting that I’m probably not the first person to invent the Mini-Mix (or even the millionth, probably), but I get the feeling that the bulk of my audience would appreciate something as needless-yet-completely awesome in every way as the following creation. Here’s where my inspiration came from.

My commute to work is almost concrete in nature. 10.5 miles each way, approximately 22 minutes on the road at a time. It’s not a lengthy commute by any means, but it’s still long enough that I want to listen to music on my iPod for the duration. Typically, I spend more than five minutes a commute skipping around, dissecting playlists or otherwise distracting myself from watching the road or actually listening to any music at all, while searching for that next perfect track.

This is where the Mini-Mix comes in. I’ve decided to create a veritable library of 5-7 track mixes that not only last the exact length of the 20-22 minute commute, but each have their own specific mood and theme. I choose a mix before I leave the house, and the Mini-Mix does the rest. No wasting time skipping or skimming around; just a handful of killer tracks for a short attention span.

Here’s an example. This is my Mini-Mix, entitled “The 80’s Loves You!” I mainly chose to share this list with you because it’s easily the most embarrassing and guilty-pleasure-y mix that I have.

1. The Outfield – ‘Your Love’ – 3:43
2. Rick Springfield – ‘Jessie’s Girl’ – 3:13
3. The Cure – ‘A Night Like This‘ – 4:19
4. Squeeze – ‘Another Nail In My Heart’ – 2:55
5. The Smiths – ‘This Charming Man’ – 2:44
6. New Order – ‘Bizarre Love Triangle’ – 3:50

6 Tracks – 20:44

You really have no idea how much the Mini-Mix has changed my commute for the better. Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your weekend. Also, let me know what your Mini-Mixes would consist of, and go here if you still need to hook your iPod up to your car. There’s a Major CDP Announcement arriving on Monday, so please stick around for that.

Vomit Streak Over.

FROM: Friday, September 6, 2002
TO: Wednesday, January 28, 2009

After spanning nearly 6.5 years and two Presidential terms, my beloved Vomit Streak came to a sudden and unexpected end in the early hours of Wednesday morning. Despite my recent efforts to not catch Food Poisoning from my wife, which we all are aware is one of the most contagious and disgusting viruses currently slithering across the Globe, it happened in a most spectacular and sweaty manner…approximately 10 to 15 minutes ago.

I’m officially sick. Sick sick. Sit on the toilet while holding a bucket between your knees sick. 101-degree fever, pass out on the bathroom floor because it’s easier than crawling back to bed sick. I’ll be incommunicado until this all blows over, so sound off in the comments section and lament the tragic death of my most-impressive Vomit Streak.

Thanks. And in the meantime, never eat at the Olive Garden.

Who Wants To See A Car Eat A Dinosaur, Anyway?

Against my will, I’m due at the office today at 6am and working somewhere in the neighborhood of 12 straight hours, so in lieu of an essay, please enjoy one of my favorite recent videos by one of my favorite recent bands; ‘After Hours’ by We Are Scientists.

We have a huge February planned here at the CDP. Lost Friday returns on the 30th, followed by a Major CDP Announcement on February 2, and the CDP 5th Anniversary on February 12. Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your week.

Lost Friday – "Because You Left/The Lie."

The first Lost Friday of Season 5 is finally upon us. Make with the ha-ha, Joke Monkey!

Before we jump into this week’s episode, two quick thoughts. First off, like most of you, I was worried that this new storytelling element of ‘shattering the laws of logic to pieces and no longer making any sense’ was going to…you know…instantly ruin the show in a hundred different ways at once. But you know what? Screw logic, because Lost is just as good as it’s ever been, only now, the writers have stepped into an even more brilliant gear, actually overlapping old storylines with this cocksure attitude of, “See? See? We knew what we were doing the whole time, you pessimistic, faithless pantloads.” I loved every second of the season premiere, completely understand where they are and where they are headed, love the simultaneous on and off-island plotlines, and absolutely cannot wait for next week, and the next week after that. After years of nervously waiting for the shark-jumping shoe to drop on Lost, I think it’s due time that we just sit back and purely enjoy the greatest Television drama of all-time.

Secondly, I am officially boycotting the Academy Awards due to their Best Picture snub of The Dark Knight. When you make that much money, exceed every one of the already-astronomical expectations, break such new ground and essentially be the sole savior of a faltering Hollywood for 2008, you’d think that you’d receive a Best Picture nod on general principle. Nope. Apart from Heath Ledger’s near-automatic Supporting Actor nomination, The Dark Knight is up for nothing but technical Oscars (deservedly so); not even a Best Director nod for the incomparable Christopher Nolan. This is ridiculous, unacceptable, and indicative of the Academy’s tradition of voting for films that they feel good voting for, in lieu of films that were actually good. Frost/Nixon, Milk and Slumdog Millionaire may have been good films to say the least, but to deny The Dark Knight their due with at least a nomination is unnecessary, elitist bull-rip that flies in the face of anything resembling taste and logic.

Handing an Oscar to Slumdog Millionaire is like putting a ribbon around the neck of a Special Olympics participant. It’s a feel-good moment for the organization, it rewards the tireless efforts and uplifting spirit of the athlete and looks good on the front page of the paper, but we all remember that the poor kid was left in the dust seconds after the gun went off. Remember in 1998 when Shakespeare In Love inexplicably won Best Picture over Saving Private Ryan and Life Is Beautiful, two of the most breathtaking war films ever created? Yeah, and they wonder why fewer and fewer people tune into the Oscars each year. I’m through talking about this nonsense.


(“Okay John, let me bring you up to speed. When Ben went into the Orchid Station, he blew apart the vault that the Dharma Initiative used for time-traveling experiments, and descended into the core of the Island where he found this frozen donkey wheel that pretty much navigates this place through time and space. So anyway, he spun the wheel, warp-whistled himself to the Sahara Desert, and left this place stuttering across the Universe, with us along for the ride. At this point, you’re going to be thrust fairly violently from one date to the next while Ben tries to round up all of your Oceanic 6 buddies for an Island reunion, including your future corpse. Still with me? Good, because Ethan, a guy that Charlie shot to death four months ago, just shot you in the leg and you’re bleeding to death. The next time I see you, I won’t have any idea who you are, so give me this compass and pray that I’m not in a killing mood. Tally-Ho!”)

(“Christ, I didn’t get a word of that. Did he say something about a donkey? Why does my leg hurt?”)

(While Sawyer survived the moving of the Island with relatively minor discomfort, his shirt and pants were tragically blown clear.)

(“Sit tight, you little bastard.”)

(“Hello, I’m Neil. I’m annoying, overbearing and have never been featured on the show until this very moment, which means that I should have a flaming arrow piercing my chest cavity right…about…”)


(Oceanic Six? More like Oceanic Sex if you ask me. Am I right, fellas? High five. Touchdown.)

(“I’m telling you, some day I’ll get everybody in Canned Heat back together and we’re going to tour the World!”)

(After Ben threw Jack’s pills away, Shephard resorted to sucking the embalming fluid out of Locke for a cheap fix.)

(‘Hoffs/Drawlar’ is an anagram for ‘Batcrap Crazy.’)

(“Um, Sun? I don’t really know how to explain this Ultrasound, so I’m just going to show it to you. You haven’t been making love with any pirate ships recently, have you?”)

(The number of times I took solace in the fact that Claire wasn’t in this episode.)


(“I’ll take a coffinload of your best salami.”)

(In a rather unexpected move, Naveen Andrews submitted this episode to the Emmy Nomination Committee.)

(Knowing Shih-Tzu owners, I get the feeling that this was one of the smaller shirts sold that day.)

(“You’re right, you’re totally right; at this point, the fact that I’m still wearing a tie is smug and cocky at best.”)

(“Do you have any idea how drunk you were going back there?”)

(“So that’s it. We’re going to have to lie about everything. The Island, the Dharma Initiative, the survivors, Penelope’s fantastic complimentary continental breakfast, the time I accidentally shot Aaron in the face, that episode where the Harlem Globetrotters showed up and took all the Virgin Mary statues, when we just let Vincent eat Charlie instead of taking the five minutes to bury him, that time I watched Mr. Eko dancing when he didn’t think anyone was around, and the fact that I’m completely nude from the waist-down right now. Everything.”)

Sound off in the comments section, start the discussion and enjoy your day.

Digg this essay here!
Reddit this essay here!

The Leukemia Nickel.

Like most of you, I get letters in the mail every week from various organizations asking for donations of some sort. As someone who’s previously sent checks to Planned Parenthood, the ASPCA, HospiceCare, Anheuser Busch, Burrachos Mexican Restaurant, Wolf from American Gladiators and that guy who has photos of me drunkenly making out with a Torrid Clothing mannequin, I tend to get bothered around this time every year from folks that want me to once again pay up.

Their methods to entice (ie: guilt) you into making a donation are typically similar in substance. Usually it’s personalized return address labels, which I absolutely adore and appreciate. Mailing out somewhere in the neighborhood of eleventy dozen bills a month (rough estimate), I never thought I’d grow to appreciate return address labels as much as I do now. When I run out of them, the pedestrian nature of printing my name and address on an envelope becomes sheer torture for whatever reason. Never mind that it takes approximately 10 seconds or so longer than applying a sticker, but hey, time is money, and I have books of puppy and kitten-themed address labels to last me a lifetime and help speed the devolution of my own handwriting.

This week, I got something a little different in the mail. It was from the American Leukemia Association, or Foundation, or Hospital, or whatever they happen to call themselves. They’re the same place that uses Ziggy, unquestionably the unfunniest and most depressing cartoon character in the history of Mankind, as a whimsical mascot, and also has the cardboard quarter slots you see at every greasy spoon and long-forgotten gas station in the United States. They’re usually right by the Lion’s Club mints, or the gumball machine that hasn’t been refilled since 1984.

I had never donated to these Leukemia folks before, which said to me that they were doing some sort of blast mail to thousands of random people in the nation, hoping for some sort of a bite. What got me was that, in addition to the Ziggy-themed return address labels (which I will never use, not even to pay bills– way too embarrassing and tacky, even for a guy that used Halloween-themed labels for his Christmas ‘Thank You’ cards), they also included a shiny new nickel in which to use as a sort of ‘free postage.’ The idea here is to guilt people into sending back any type of donation with the nickel, as no self-respecting human being would be able to sleep at night knowing that they bilked five free cents from a place that treats sick kids.

Right off the bat, I knew I wasn’t donating. I was very charitable this Christmas, donated to a lot of different causes, and was trying to be a little tighter with my millions of dollars in 2009. Furthermore, I didn’t like the idea of being guilted into making a donation. As someone who was raised Catholic, Guilt was an emotion I understood well, and I abhor it when people try to use it as a weapon. The starving and emaciated dogs and cats on the ASPCA commercials, however, is a completely different story. To this day, I still wouldn’t mind smooching Sarah McLachlan a little bit if given the alternate-dimension opportunity. Shill those animals! Empty those cages!

This all left me with a weird little dilemma: What should I do with this nickel?

I mean, I couldn’t just throw it into my change pile and treat it like the rest of the money I’ve earned through hard work and late-night panhandling. I couldn’t just throw it in the garbage like a cold pizza or unwanted newborn on prom night. This was a dirty nickel. This was a cursed nickel. This was a Leukemia nickel, and I had no idea how to handle it.

Conjuring up the best compromise I could, I threw the 2009 nickel into a decorative tobacco box in my foyer that was full of pennies. There, the Leukemia nickel could rule the roost, feeling confident that they were the only piece of silver within at least a six-inch radius. Furthermore, safely within the confines of the penny pile, I knew that I’d never spend it by accident, and would probably forget about it entirely. 50 years from now at my Estate Sale, some antique collector on a jetpack will discover it and never fully understand why a single nickel was surrounded by thousands of copper lowlifes. This, however, was the only way that this was going to work for me.

Fast-forward to Friday afternoon, at work, in the Break Room. The half-pint carton of skim milk was staring back at me from behind the Plexiglass confines of the Wheel of Deliciousness. It looked so good in there, so beautiful, seeming to genuinely enjoy every second of its 360-degree ride back into my field of vision. I was meant to have that milk; to tear it open and savor every drop of goodness. To give it the attention and respect that it deserved. By this point, my breath was fogging up the Plexiglass; we couldn’t stand to be apart for another second. I needed 50 cents, and now.

I galavanted back to my cubicle, shaking every last piece of currency from my messenger bag.

45 cents. This wasn’t happening.

I checked my wallet. No bills at all, which is entirely too commonplace for me to be comfortable with. I stopped carrying cash on me almost nine years ago.

“Keep it together,” I reassured myself. “Check the car.”

I spent the next five minutes on my hands and knees, tearing apart the interior of the Wild Stallion amongst the -50 Wind Chill that has schools closed for three straight days. Shivering, shaking and defeated, I goose-stepped back into the office knowing that I was somehow being punished.

I knew I couldn’t ask someone for a nickel. I just couldn’t bring myself to do something so pathetic. As a means to save face, I instead embarked on one of the saddest, most downtrodden journeys of my adult life: wandering the hallways of my office building, looking for change on the floor. It was my own personal Trail of Tears; I did this for almost 10 minutes, before slumping back into my chair, a defeated, sad and thirsty man. By the time I got back to the break room, the milk was gone anyway.

I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know why it happened, and I’m pretty sure I don’t know what happened, but I think that the Leukemia Nickel had the last laugh. I, on the other hand, had to drink out of the water fountain that afternoon.

Was it fate? Karma? Coincidence? Sound off in the comments section, explain to me what just happened, and enjoy your day.


I Am Not Bringing Back Lost Friday. Nope. Not At All.

First and foremost, this is not the ‘Major CDP Announcement’ that I have been promising all week. You’ll have to trust me on this, but I’ve decided to save that news until Monday, February 2. It’ll make more sense when the time comes, and should effect every CDP reader in one way or another. It’s…fairly important, so please stay tuned. And if I could just quickly address some of the e-mails and Facebook messages that I’ve been getting, here is a short list of things that do not relate to the upcoming announcement whatsoever:

1. The Missus is not pregnant. Not that I know of, at least.
2. It has nothing to do with Lost. But continue reading, gentle flower.
3. I’m not moving or changing careers, despite my best efforts.
4. It has nothing to do with the next CDP Worldwide Mix-Tape Exchange.
5. I’m not getting a divorce. Not that I know of, at least.

Today, however, brings a different announcement. An announcement that comes in the form of a phrase. A phrase being uttered by a defeated, broken-down shell of a once respected man:

“Fine, you heartless bastards. I’ll keep doing Lost Friday.”

Lost Friday, the infamous weekly Lost recaps that I have been doing for that last three years. Lost Friday, the very thing that has drawn hundreds of thousands of readers to my page. Lost Friday, the project that has kept me from getting a decent Thursday night’s sleep since 2004. Lost Friday, the hundreds of pages, thousands of jokes, years of hard work and zero compensation. Lost Friday, the thing that I proclaimed retirement from at the end of Season 4, but just can’t seem to pry myself away from. Lost Friday, the corrupted mistress I cannot seem to part with.

I’ve tried to quit writing Lost recaps…pretty much since I first started writing them, but when I hung it up at the end of Season 4, I was serious. I still am, too; Lost Friday cannot exist in the same way that it had, but I think I’ve come up with a compromise that should make you happy, as well as my cerebral cortex.

You remember the captioned photos that I’d pepper in throughout the reviews? Well, it’s going to be just that from now on. Quick, to-the-point, funny and easily digestible, Lost Friday will simply be a barrage of one-liner awesomeness from the week that was. And quite frankly, I know that most of you used to just scan the recap and read only the captions anyway, so little has changed for the bulk of you. Here’s a reminder:

Season 3 Captions – Part 1.
Season 3 Captions – Part 2.
Season 4 Captions – Part 1.
Season 4 Captions – Part 2.

So, there you have it. The Season 5 Premiere of Lost is next Wednesday, January 21 from 8-11pm Eastern time. The first hour will be a clip show, followed by the first two episodes of the season, back-to-back.

Every time I try to get out, they just keep pulling me back in again. Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your weekend.

If You Live On An Island, How Can I Walk You Home?

I don’t know who’s running the show over at Adult Swim, but it’s safe to say that they’re a bunch of freaking geniuses.

For the first time on an American television network (not counting BBC America, which, you know, barely counts), the brilliant 2002 series Look Around You will be broadcasted starting on January 18.

I am a huge fan of Look Around You, and as you may recall from a year or two ago, devoted an entire week on the CDP to display some of the more spectacular episodes. It’s truly one of the greatest pieces of comedic satire ever created for television, and I strongly urge you, at the very least, to check out Episode 1 at the top of this post and decide for yourself. They’re only about 10 minutes apiece, and they’re almost all available on YouTube for those who don’t have cable. It should instantly resonate with anyone who went to a public school at any time over the last 35 years, and if that isn’t cool enough, it was created by a couple of the same guys that did Shaun Of The Dead and Hot Fuzz.

Check it out, schedule your DVR’s, sound off in the comments section and enjoy your day. There’s a huge CDP announcement arriving Friday, so please stick around for that.

What Alcohol Does To Me.

(Photo taken on New Year’s Eve at 3:30pm. Everything seems to be in order.)

Whiskey – Charming genius, followed by periodical whimsy throughout the night.
Champagne – Embarrassing sloppiness, followed by extreme dizziness and regret.
Tequila – Mr. Hyde-like anger and outbursts, sharply followed by horniness.
Beer – Dignified stumbling, followed by weight gain and emergency urinations.
Wine – Formal and conversational, followed by giggling and karaoke.
Vodka – Screaming heartburn followed by puke and Tylenol.
Rum – I pretty much turn into the loudest, gayest man on Planet Earth.
Brandy – Charles Bukowski, followed by approximately 19 hours of sleep.
Zima – 16-year-old Me at a crappy basement party wearing a bowling shirt.
Gin – Nobody drinks gin.
JT’s Moonshine – Death.

(Photo taken on New Year’s Eve at 3:30am. Note my hair.)

Sound off in the comments section, enjoy your day and let me know what alcohol does to you. There will be a huge CDP announcement coming on Friday, so please stay tuned.

Eel The Pain.

Over the past couple weeks, me and the Missus have been catching up on the unbelievably breathtaking documentary Planet Earth. This Emmy and Peabody Award-winning series is more or less the greatest nature spectacle ever produced, taking over five years to shoot and capturing almost 11 hours of never-before-seen footage. I encourage all of you to either buy the DVDs or watch the repeats on the Discovery Channel when they re-air; you’ll piddle a little, and that’s a promise.

Of the many things that Planet Earth has reinforced for my eternal respect and love of the world we live in, it’s also done some irreparable damage to my psyche in the form of a brand-spanking-new fear: Eel Schools.

I’m a guy that has very few fears. I don’t like the water, the infinite and certain inevitability of my death is constantly looming over my shoulder, and if a grinning midget peeked around the corner of my cubicle at work, I’d probably crap straight through the seat of my ergonomic chair. But that’s about it. However, upon watching the ‘Shallow Seas’ portion of Planet Earth, I saw footage of about ten billion eels slithering in tandem through the waters, and I freaked out so hard that I dropped my veggie burger onto the remote control and cranked my head away from the TV until a Bowflex commercial came on and cooled me out.

I honestly don’t know where this came from. I love eels. I always check them out at the pet store, and even contemplated owning one for a time (“You can’t keep it in the tub” was the Missus’ final ruling). Perhaps it was the sheer number of the damn things, or the terrifyingly precise way they sliced through the water like flying snakes. And goddamn it anyway, can you even fathom how scary life would be if snakes could fly? I mean, can you?

If, for some unforeseen reason, someone where to strap a scuba tank onto my back and heave me into the fringe waters of the Indian Ocean, I’d assuredly curl into a tight ball and vibrate until I exploded upon first sight of a roving Eel Mob. Sadder still, I just discovered a giant, animated eel in the ‘Koopa Cape’ track of MarioKart Wii, and I’m now having a hard time even wanting to play it anymore. And that was my favorite track, you bastard-ass eels!

This is serious stuff, it seems; and completely out of nowhere, I might add. I always figured that me and eels were cool. I wanted to get to the root of the problem and find out just where this was all coming from, so I called my mother, who reminded me that I was raped by an eel at a family reunion when I was five.

Totally forgot about that; mystery solved.

Vote CDP For The 2008 Weblog Awards!

The 2008 Weblog Awards

Last week, the Missus e-mailed me at the office to let me know that the CDP had been hand-picked as a finalist for the 2008 Weblog Awards. After taking a few minutes to gently dab the spittled coffee off of my khakis, I went to the site to get the scoop, the skinny, the poop and the straight dope.

Out of 5000 fan-nominated blogs, the fine folks at the Weblog Awards spent weeks sifting through them all, judging each one via a carefully-based formula that seamlessly takes into consideration the amount of time spent blogging in direct proportion to the amount of quality work done and the overall better place the Internet is due to said blog.

Then, they just stuck some names on a dartboard and started flinging, and I was selected as one of the ten finalists for the ‘Best Hidden Gem‘ category! The jury’s still out if I should be pleased that after five years, 900 essays and a published book, I’m still considered a ‘Hidden Gem,’ but hey, that’s all right by me.

Now, I’m no stranger to kicking ass in Blogging contests. You may recall that the CDP turned heads in the 2008 Bloggers Choice Awards, where we took 4th Place in the Pop Culture category, as well as 4th Place in the Most Well-Written category. This time, we’re going for the EPIC WIN and soforth, and we need your help to make it happen!


Thank you very much in advance. Sound off in the comments section, send any questions my way and enjoy your week.