The (Very) Best of Lukateake

SANTA MONICA, CALIF. (SNARKY) -- I've succumbed to the temptation to do a "Best Of" post. Not because I feel that what I have is particularly profound but rather because I'm lazy and this is a means to an easy post.

So with that tepid lead-in building absolutely no buzz whatsoever, I present to you, humble reader, the very best of Lukateake:

10. Blog Becomes 'Unholy Bitch Mistress' After 1 Week
9. Bush Taps Groundhog for Global Warming Post
8. Man to Vigorously Defend 'Cockblocking' Accusation
7. Blogger Too Lazy to Post, Spellchcek
6. Razor Accident Claims Beard, 'Stache Clings to Life
5. Heart Attack Downgraded to Pneumonia
4. Bender Retold Through Receipts, Phone Logs
3. Sentient Tivo Records Porn
2. Man Succumbs to Omnipresent Marketing

and drumroll, please...

1. Uncle Frets Candid Conversation With Nephews

# # #

This Lyric Scares the Shit Out Of Me

"I changed by not changing at all." -- Pearl Jam in Elderly Woman Behind The Counter In A Small Town

My First Internet Stalker

SANTA MONICA, CALIF. (SNARKY) -- Well it was bound to happen sooner or later, especially what with the meteoric ascent of Lukateake from humble beginnings to its present comfy corner in the world wide web. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is truly a historic day for me as I now have my very own Internet stalker!

The net effect to you, loyal reader, is that I've had to return to comment moderation. It sucks for all of us but I really have no other choice.

See you in the funny pages... or the obituaries.

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Speech as John's Best Man

[to Lisa] Good evening, you look beautiful.

[to John] Wow! Do you realize that we've known each other for almost 20 years?

[reading off note card] John and I met when I moved to DeWitt in the seventh grade. We quickly became fast friends as John was the "cool, jock, class president" kid looking for foot soldiers to expand his empire. He saw in me -- a nebbish neophyte of a boy fresh off the farm -- someone who he could shape in his own image and, perhaps, equally willing [begins to shake fist] to rule school with an iron ffffffffffffff...

Oh, sorry, wrong speech. [retrieves note card from other breast pocket; throws both away]

In reality, John and I ran track together and we dated girls who were friends themselves. It was a natural progression that he and I would become friends as well.

We grew up in small town Iowa and had similar yet still distinctly different perspectives. In John and myself (and Amy, Bridget, Molly and Mindi), formed a different worldview than those of our classmates and we couldn't wait to expand our horizons. We knew it was a great big world out there and we couldn't wait to be party to it.

Unfortunately, the party would have to wait a little longer. I was "passed over" by M.I.T. and John had second thoughts on going to an east coast school, so we wound up as freshmen at Iowa. How fortuitous that decision would turn out to be!

While John was going to class, I was majoring in algebra avoidance and sleep conservation. The University of Iowa gave us the opportunity to meet some of our world-class friends: Andy, Kevin, Rick and Zoom among others.

We parted amicably following that freshman year and I went to Northern Iowa, John stayed and cultivated his alter ego: "Hank" who we all know and love.

Now Hank (and not John, mind you) would go on to have some wonderful encounters with Iowa City's finest and let's say just say he got some less than stellar job recommendations.

Moving right along... because this is getting long.

John graduated and moved to Chicago first, staying true to that earlier covenant to see the world. The group would follow as Kevin and I joined him at the legendary address of 2243. Oh, those were salad days, my friends. Think of it as "college with money."

During this time, John was pursuing his Master's at the University of Chicago by using the time-honored tradition of "B's get degrees." He employed his extra time in establishing great friendships with many of the guys here tonight. Larry, Rowland... Sanjaya.

John graduated with his M.B.A. and excitedly began preparations for a move to San Francisco. Again, wanting to see a bit of the world firsthand.

In one of those moments that can only be found in truly great love stories, John bowed his head and said... [notices John unbowed, goes over and physically does it for him]

John said, "Lord, thank you. Please don't change a thing in my life." Enter John's love interest: Lisa, stage left. Yeah, life's kinda funny like that; when you're not looking for true love, it blindsides you and you're not even concerned whether or not it's got insurance.

Interestingly, the backdrop for their first union was Wrigley Field after -- and I swear to God I'm not making this up -- a Cubs playoff win. You know that the stars align favorably (and exclusively) for you!

Maybe it was the crisp autumn air or the triumphant fan euphoria or, perhaps, the many beers but John and Lisa each saw a glint in one another's eye that night. And well... yadda, yadda, yadda. The rest is history as they say, which serves as a fine transition to mercifully bring us up to the present ceremony.

John and Lisa, you are two wonderful people that love one another dearly. That fact can be evidenced by the great people around you to share this moment on your wedding day.

I'll leave you with a pearl of wisdom I received from my father in the however likely or unlikely event that I do get married someday.

He said, "The easy days are easy, my son. And love is love, it's universal and without interrupt. But marriage really comes down to a question of faith. There will come a time when the two of you will find yourselves together in the most unimaginable set of circumstances. It is in that very moment, where the success of you together is solely dependent upon your absolute and complete faith in one another. Persevere; and when you're beyond your travail, your bond will forever closer and stronger. That is what it truly means to keep the faith."

With that, a toast to the happy couple. Keep the faith.

# # #

Chad Fucking Lowe

SANTA MONICA, CALIF. (SNARKY) -- I was hoping for a lot more frankly.

When I moved to Chicago in 2000, I couldn't wait to meet my first celebrity. Like any boy from Nowhere, Iowa, I was excited at the prospect of running into Mike Jordan or Oprah -- hell, I would have liked to meet Sammy Sosa back then -- just for the reflected glory and a story for my friends back home.

Though it took a few weeks, I finally ran into someone who's work I had seen. In the old Trader Todd's downtown, I met none other than Donald Gibb. Yes, good ol' Ogre from that boffo film franchise "Revenge of the Nerds."

I'd always felt a little gypped because my Chicago celebrity cherry was popped by an 80's Trivial Pursuit answer. And though I'd go on to see the other celebrities listed above, it never was the same as my first time.

Perhaps subconsciously because of this harbored angst, I recently moved to sunny SoCal to become my own celebrity. And to shake off the stain of Don Gibb, I went famous people hunting upon my arrival.

I live on the ocean in Santa Monica mere steps from trendy shopping and dining districts. I figured it was only a matter of time until L.A.'s finest such as Will Ferrell, Mel Gibson or George Clooney would emerge.

But my great hopes were dashed when I dined late one Monday night at Swingers. Lo and behold, Chad Fucking Lowe was at the counter nervously noshing with a quite pronounced mandibular motion. (It looks like he got Hillary's horsemouth in the divorce.)

So I am 0-2 in quality celebrity sightings in my first attempts in each city and I'm seriously considering moving to New York City.

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Hello California

SANTA MONICA, CALIF. (SNARKY) -- Yes, 'tis true: I live in California now. However, I am missing Chicago terribly because it's my friends that are irreplaceable... at least until I replace 'em with surrogates out here.

Other than that, I have nothing witty to say, nothing snarky at this point; I'm just trying to make right by the world. To those who care (and to those who don't: fuck you!): the screenplay is "in progress" and I'm determined to get something committed to film by the end of the year. I hope that it doesn't cost me my soul but I know the blood, sweat and tears will be worth it in the end.

So please stay tuned; this shit is about to get weird.

Remember: it's a long trip alone. (Please listen to the song by the same name.)

# # #

Goodbye Chicago

CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- Well, my love, we've got to say it sometime sooner or later seeing as how I am (in typical 'guy' fashion) leaving early in the morning.

I'm sorry that we didn't get to cuddle longer than these past seven years. But I do promise to call you again sometime because, well, umm... you're a really swell lady.

In all sincerity, I'll miss you and the special moments we've shared together. I came into full under your tutelage and grown into much more than the naïve Iowa boy I once was. In fact and though you didn't know it, you've been preparing me for this step since I arrived. And now it's time to take it.

Thank you and I'll always love you, dear Chicago. Until we meet again.

# # #

California Stars

I'd like to rest my heavy head tonight
On a bed of California stars
I'd like to lay my weary bones tonight
On a bed of California stars

I'd love to feel your hand touching mine
And tell me why I must keep working on
Yes, I'd give my life to lay my head tonight
On a bed of California stars

I'd like to dream my troubles all away
On a bed of California stars
Jump up from my starbed and make another day
Underneath my California stars

They hang like grapes on vines that shine
And warm the lovers glass like friendly wine
So, I'd give this world
Just to dream a dream with you
On our bed of California stars

(Words by W. Guthrie)

Norway Snubbed For Scandinavian Gift Exchange

OSLO, Norway (SNARKY) -- There will be no lutefisk under the tree again this year.

A family member will be conspicuously absent from the Scandinavian Christmas party when Sweden, Finland and Denmark get drunk together.

Norway, a repudiator of the European Union and still smarting from Denmark's assimilation of their country almost 700 years ago, will be home all alone for the holidays.

Akin to some unilateral uncle, the country chooses to sit on the sidelines rather than engage the rest of the family during this reconciliatory time of year.

Said Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg, "I'm taking my ball and going home." (At least that what I think he said, seeing as how I don't speak Norwegian.)

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The Soundstage in My Mind

(Playing out on the soundstage inside my mind.)

Host: Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and give a warm welcome to the show... the incomparable, one-and-only Chaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad W.!
[applause]
Host: Chad, it's been a long time since we last saw you. Everything alright?
Chad: Could it have been Las Vegas? Ummm, has the statute of limitation expired on that weekend? Can we talk about that?
[audience laughs]
Host: No! I'm afraid those records are permanently sealed.
[uproarious laughter]
Host: That was a very long, long time ago. Whatcha been up to since?
Chad: Just living in Iowa, raising a family.
Host: That's right, you're married and have... two kids? Boy and a girl?
Chad: I guess I do now! Seriously, it's a little like that but you should really get your people to update my index card.
Host: We hire day laborers for that kind of work. I think that's pretty evident to everyone who witnessed tonight's monologue.
[audience laughs]
Chad: Then take the next logical step, get day-laborer guests to come on your show.
Host: That's you, Chad! What did you think this was, The Late Show?
Chad: That's right, you did pick me up in the lot of the Home Depot this morning.
[audience laughs]
Host: Now you're grasping the idea.
[Chad takes a sip of water.]
Host: So update us on your life. Everything good? What's the new project?
Chad: Well I've got my own consulting firm now.
Host: Ahh, yes. The appropriately named W. Consulting Group. Way to go out on a limb there!
Chad: It was the wife's idea. Besides we can't all pull a nonsensical nom de plume out of nowhere, "Lukateake."
[audience laughs]
Host: Touche, Monsieur ... Alright that's probably enough French for one interview, I'm losing my audience.
Chad: You lost them a long time ago!
[audience laughs]
Host: Nice timing, well played. So you've got the new project going on. Hmmm, a consulting group. (asking off-screen) Do we have a clip?
Chad: Oh no!
Host: Yes, we've got the clip. Ladies and gentlemen, coming soon to a suburban office park near you... Chad W.'s starring turn in "W. Consulting Group."

(Cut to Chad reenacting the scene from Seinfeld where Kramer has an office job, [background music: Sheena Easton's "(My Baby Takes The) Morning Train"]: fighting subway commuters, washing his shoes in the water fountain, giving a presentation with the projection upside down, back slapping colleagues during Happy Hour and, finally, eating crackers out of his briefcase.)

Host: (smiling broadly) That's great, nicely done. (to audience) We'll be right back with more of Chad W.

(Paul Shaffer strikes up the reprise of "Morning Train" and go for commercial.)

[120 seconds]

(Drop back in on band's trailing bars of Men At Work's "Down Under.")

Host: We're back with our good friend Chad W. So you're in town for a charity benefit?
Chad: No, it's nothing like that at all.
Host: Damn index card.
[audience laughs]
Chad: I'm doing a one-afternoon stand at Merkle's this Saturday during the Hawkeye game.
Host: Ahh, new material?
Chad: (sheepishly) Is there any other kind, Luke?
Host: But the proceeds go to charity, right?
Chad: Yes, the Chad-W.-Needs-a-New-Liver fund.
[audience laughs]
Host: Get in line, pal. (pointing at own liver) This baby didn't enlarge itself.
Chad: You're right, but the Coronas and cheese fries probably had something to do with it.
Host: Guilty as charged. Chad, it's always a pleasure. Good to see you. Ladies and gentlemen, you can catch more of Chad W. tomorrow at Merkle's during the game. Good night.

(Strike up the band, fade to black.)

Lukateake: The Costume

CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- It's that time of year again: a chance to reflect on the year that was, to atone for mistakes made and to vow to try harder in the future.

No, I'm not talking about New Years Eve and its bullshit resolutions but rather the best hook-up holiday of all: Halloween. Invariably, All Hallows Eve is a fete for the senses and psyche; people dress up and act down.

Part of it is the costumes and how you feel wearing clothes not your own and another part of it is the role playing and indulging in your fantasies that make Halloween without peer. But, really, Halloween is all about hooking up.

Over the years everything from butterflies to baby Elvii have Halloween hooked up with this French maid cum cowboy. Not because we were soul mates or drunk or anything like that but because we each offered the other the specter of fantasy fulfillment.

It's the sense that, hey, I spend every other day buttoned down and laced up so why can't I be fucking deprave and debauch with someone else who feels exactly the same way?

We're consenting adults... dressed like children.

# # #

A Cautionary Tale

CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- Listen up, kiddies, for I have been down this road already.

You're young, full of life, minimally scarred and supposedly "the future." (I dispute that because "the future" is really hydrogen and not our iDeaf generation.)

You've got the world by the short hairs and you want to make a difference. The best way that you see how is the patented three-point plan:

1.) Start a blog.
2.) ???
3.) Profit.

Let me tell you something, sonny boy, no one (and I mean no one!) gives two shits about the rambling nonsensical web logs of some pubescent teenager living in a cul-de-sac railing against their militaristic parents whose tyranny precludes you any outlet save the aforementioned blog.

Instead, people care about what a thirtysomething -- thank you, Ed Zwick, I just now truly understand your show of the same name a mere 15 years after it went of the air -- with a penchant for obscure words and unorthodox grammar sporadically espouses as fodder from his daily life.

Thirties are the new twenties and it's for real this time. Look at how I've grown over the years, I'm more fascinating now than ever! Hell, I just called up my order history at Amazon.com to verify this.

In 1997, my first purchase from the stratospheric-P/E online retailer was Don Delillo's "Underworld" a masterwork of fiction about a fucking baseball and the nuclear Cold War. The New York Times considered the book the second-best fictional work of the last 25 years. I didn't make it past 50 pages of the three-inch thick doorstop.

See, Luke 10-years ago, was an excruciatingly boring person.

But what, oh what, is in my Wish List these days over at the world's largest bookstore? You'll never guess.

Like I said, "I'm much more fascinating now than ever."

# # #

An Argument Against 'Cold Opens'

CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- Damn you, network television.

I could handle one television series where I was "Lost" and playing catch-up to what is really going on. But with the recent debuts of "Jericho" and "The Nine" from CBS and ABC, respectively, I feel enough is enough.

Both are "Lost" retreads replete with poor man's versions of non-linear storytelling, pseudo-mythology and masochistic psychology. It all adds up to "science friction" to this beleaguered viewer.

As they say in Hollywood, "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery a steady paycheck." But, by God, these two fall offerings are downright abysmal.

"Jericho" plays to our nookular F.U.D., or fear, uncertainty and doubt. Nice timing on CBS' behalf considering the remaining band members of that irascible "Axis of Evil" trio. Iraq left the group for his solo project whilst North Korea and Iran continue to tour, albeit smaller venues than New York's U.N. General Assembly hall.

Manning the helm at "Jericho" is Skeet Ulrich, who hasn't done good work in the decade since "Albino Alligator." His brooding eyes and wooden acting do little to advance the ball of spaghetti that serves as the drama's plot line.

Meanwhile, Tim Daly, protagonist of "The Nine," makes us wait interminably as though again we're caught in a two-bit municipal airport during the holiday crush in the middle of a snowstorm.

What happened during the 52-hour standoff of a foiled bank robbery? Taking a page from Jack Bauer, the answer will be revealed -- like a Band-Aid pulled much too slowly from a scab -- in 52 episodes allowing for Daly and his cohorts to collect 49 superfluous paychecks.

Add in the lame military PSYOPS cum Stockholm Syndrome angle and we've got a hole in ABC's Wednesday night schedule. However, the lead-in audience from "Lost" alone will allow this show to sputter along over two seasons. And that's two seasons too long in my not-so-humble opinion.

I'm going back to "The Simpson's" re-runs from the third through eighth seasons, when they were at the subversive highpoint, to tide me over the six days to another new "Lost" episode.

# # #

Who Used Who?

LOS ANGELES (SNARKY) -- "The Break-Up" has broken up.

Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn have officially split up mere weeks before the DVD release of their collaboration. In a brilliant P.R. move -- loudly predicted by moi, by the way -- the split implores fans of Vaughnifer to quickly snatch up the disc as a memento to their happier times, a tchotchke of rebound love lost.

To fully appreciate the media savvy of the actors' actions, one has to take the macroview. Both of their careers were in the shitter: a bloated, balding, churlish little boy in Vaugh and a vapid, frigid, discarded-like-a-peach-Pitt Aniston.

Add the two zeros together in a vexing, not-quite-right relationship nurtured while shooting and you have the recipe for a high-rate-of-return public relations campaign for "The Break-Up."

Worldwide gross of "The Break-Up" is less than the sticker price of a Prius from surpassing $200 million. That's not bad for a formulaic he-said-she-said with no digital effects, car chases or explosions. Aniston's ass, notwithstanding.

But of the two main conspirators, who got more out of the relationship? Him or her?

Frankly, the argument could be made either way and still not be convincing to me. I feel that they both used the media who in turn used us the paying public. We've been had. Again.

We should learn a valuable lesson from this break up but we won't. We'll repave this long standing Hollywood rut with the speculation and rumor and inordinate interest in the next pair of celebrities who need a career boost.

It's probably a good thing; there are plenty of babies in the Third World that need adopting.

# # #

Why I Wore A Pink Shirt To The Office Today

CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- Short answer: I love boobies.

Long answer: October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month and I wanted to show my solidarity with those afflicted with the disease.

Can you imagine a world without boobies? Frankly, I cannot nor do I really want to, thank you very much. The boobie, my raison d’être. The very epitome of womanhood; the quintessential giver of life. May we soon find a cure and stop this insidious illness.

So for all the petite A's and B's out there just trying to keep their head above water and for their voluptuous big sisters, the C's and D's -- who are more likely statistically to contract the cancer -- keep fighting the good fight.

And please know, Boobie, that in addition to myself, billions of men are looking out for you.

# # #

'T.O.' Allergic to FB Practice

DALLAS (SNARKY) -- Terrell Owens is not suicidal and he wants you to know that.

"I make too much money to want to harm myself," said media-whore Owens after leaving Baylor University Medical Center. "C'mon, I just signed a [$25 million] deal in March and I'm going to collect all of it. After all, I've got to feed my family."

The coddled Cowboys wideout is, however, allergic. But not painkillers, sports supplements, hay fever, the sun, unsalted peanuts or anything else equally plausible. No, quite simply T.O. is allergic to football practice.

In a string of increasingly bizarre excuses, Owens will again miss practice at the Cowboys' training facility after being released from the hospital this morning following his "overdose."

For those scoring at home, T.O. has now missed practice because he: 1.) overslept, 2.) tweaked his hamstring putting on his shorts, 3.) broke the smallest bone in the back of his hand, and now 4.) tried to kill himself.

Unlike the Cowboys' front office -- who happen to be some of the stupidest people on the planet -- I am eagerly awaiting Owens' "Excuse No. 5."

Could it possibly have something to do with an asteroid impact or global warming? I'm crossing my fingers while futilely trying to pull the painkillers out of his mouth.

# # #

Blogger Too Lazy To Post, Spellchcek

CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- What was once a paragon for satirical musings and shining example of the art of blogging, "Lukateake" has quietly and precipitously fallen into disrepair through a milieu of mismanagement, posting dearth and ill-advised $25 words.

Luke Penca, 31, of Chicago, has on-again-and-off-again written the peculiarly-hyphenated web log since January. But acolytes of the once popular site have recently begun defecting en masse to a more consistent online feeding at the Humor Teat, ala TheOnion.com and AlJazeera.com.

When reached at his stuffy, blinds-drawn apartment, the paranoid Penca briefly parted the louvers into his psyche before becoming combative with this mild mannered reporter.

"It's goddamn A.D.H. and I don't mean my good friend, Andrew D. Heog," said Penca referring to Attention Deficit Hyperactivity disorder. "And, yes, I know that there should be another 'D' at the end of it. Now go fuck yourself. Sideways."

Perhaps, all is not lost for the young author and his Luakteake creation.

"If Luke can harnass his anger and use it as a creative force even for short bursts, he'll be all the richer for it," said fellow friend and jazz impresario Matt Geraghty of The Matt Geraghty Project, his eponymous ensemble and not the least bit narcissistic.

"But if he can't ride that razor's edge, he'll devolve into a bitter and jaded has-been or, worse, a never-was," said Geraghty. "Granted, even then he can still get sitcom work."

# # #

Football Picks Picked Up

CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- In an apparent nod to his rampant laziness, a Chicago man has outsourced his office football pool picks to Terry Bannon, a columnist for the Sun Times.

"Terry's record this season speaks for itself," said Luke Penca, 31. "I just don't have the five minutes I need every week to contemplate my picks so I'm outsourcing the work."

Admittedly, Bannon's record over the nascent season stands at a yeoman's 23 wins against 9 losses. However, last week marked a dramatic upturn as he went 14 and 2.

"I'm banking my five dollars on another week like [last week]," said Penca before scurrying off for a nap.

# # #

Google To Join Search For Bin Laden

WASHINGTON, D.C. (SNARKY) -- Using the five year anniversary of 9/11 as a backdrop, President Bush unveiled an ambitious new strategy in the war on terror: engaging the vast resources of Google in the hunt for Osama Bin Laden.

"Google can find anything and as my best friend Homer Simpson says, 'they certainly answered my questions about wang enhancement,'" said the President.

When told that Google is only useful in finding things on the Internet and, furthermore, that Homer Simpson is just a cartoon, the President muttered a few nonsensical sentence fragments then furrowed his brow before spitting on the carpet and disappearing behind the blue curtain of the White House press room.

Ask to comment for the Mountain View, Calif. based company, CEO Eric Schmidt said, "Google steadfastly supports the war on terrorism -- from monitoring American citizens' search habits to invading their privacy to sharing our records with the Federal government -- but there is only so much we can do from here. I can put the President in contact with our Tora Bora subsidary 'Gulagle' for assistance in finding Bin Laden."

# # #

Goodbye Liver

CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- Sure, we had a good run but frankly I expected more than 30.99 years out of you, enlarged Little Fella.

I'm going to need someone to get me through another grueling college football season and I just don't think you're up to par anymore. Especially since the NCAA added a twelfth game this year. While that may not seem like a lot, that nine percent increase and a possible January bowl game will tax you too much I'm afraid.

Plus, there are better floor models out there in the marketplace, Liver. What with Pledge Week already underway there's bound to be a bevy of supple, young organs with half the mileage you've got.

So say goodbye to your friends in the lymphatic system because I'm breaking out the whiskey and acetaminophen shortly. And keep your chin up, too. At least you're going down with a fight so I can spare you the indignity of cirrhosis, replete with its slow erosion and yellowing.

As I see it, I'm doing you a solid.

# # #