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.)
# # #
Monday, December 25
Friday, November 3
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.)
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.)
Friday, October 27
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.
# # #
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.
# # #
Wednesday, October 25
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."
# # #
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."
# # #
Thursday, October 5
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 offlattery 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.
# # #
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
"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.
# # #
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.
# # #
Monday, October 2
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.
# # #
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.
# # #
Wednesday, September 27
'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.
# # #
"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.
# # #
Friday, September 22
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."
# # #
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."
# # #
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