Sunday, March 25, 2007

WWJBD?

I love the television show “24.” I feel as though at some point, probably when I’ve run out of interesting things to say, I will speak at length (or, as I’m sure the majority of you will probably feel, “ad nauseam”) about how fantastic the show is, about how you should be watching it if you’re not, about how every time Carlos Bernard appeared onscreen during his tenure as Tony Almeida I had the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch his neck, etc. Trust me, those are going to be glorious days for you people. I don’t think I’m ready to go there yet, but I really do feel like I should tell you why I like it so much, because, not unlike the food you consume, you are what you watch. I apparently am a person who loves loads of violence and a healthy dose of patriotism with some hot guys thrown into the mix. Another thing I love: learning (or, more accurately, “I love learning things that I will most likely never need to know and that will serve little or no purpose, now or in the future.”). Perhaps that’s the real reason I love “24”: It has taught me so much about getting through life (i.e., the life of a CTU agent/hero, not my own life, that of a blogger/moron) in times of crisis (i.e., “Terrorists are attacking LA! The horror!” not “We’re out of Diet Peach Snapple? Again? The horror!”). Observe:

If you need to keep a secret, you could…
• …get a heroin addiction. I believe it was season three in which our hero, Jack Bauer, became an addict to get in good with some Mexican drug lords, thereby allowing himself to thwart their eventual goal of purchasing some kind of killer virus (Oh, "24," your complex twists endear us to you so!). He kept as few people in on it as possible, mainly the delicious Tony, his ever-present Cubs mug, and Gael, some generic, I-can’t-believe-I-remember-his-name-all-these-seasons-later Counter Terrorism Unit employee. Jack’s dedication to the project allowed it to develop under the noses of all at CTU. And cultivating a raging heroin addiction? That’s 100% commitment to your goal and keeping your ulterior motives under wraps. I applaud that.
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Doing the smack, the junk, the china white, the big H - all in a day's work for our main man, JB.

• …put the info on a computer chip and stitch it up inside your own body. If I’m remembering correctly, some guy Jack was hunting down did this, and Jack only saw it when he looked at an x-ray of the guy’s chest. Because he is Jack Bauer, he dug in there bare-handed and heroic to retrieve the chip, but I still feel like this is a really smart way to conceal information, simply because there are no Jack Bauers in the real world and your chip would most likely go to the grave with you because of that. Those are just the facts, friends.

• …”go dark.” I can’t count how many times Jack has “gone dark” over the years, but he usually does it when he’s doing something, shall we say, a little outside of the accepted parameters of normal behavior. To achieve full “darkness” you have to cut off all communication with your base (or anyone for that matter) and take off of any satellite-tracking device you might have on you. This way, no one knows what you’re doing, where you’re doing it, or whom you’re doing it to.

• …fake your own death. I can’t imagine that I would ever be in a situation that would require me to fake my own death, but I know I can after seeing Jack do it so successfully on “24.” Apparently there’s not a lot to it: Take some sort of medication that stops your heart, have friends on standby ready to push epi to bring you back, then disappear to some ghetto town where you take on a new identity, complete with a new look (Jack got a sweet chop and some cowboy-looking duds; I would probably end up either looking butch or, conversely, like a beauty pageant queen), a new occupation (Jack: Oil Driller, Nicole: Perpetual trainee at a string of fast food joints), and a new, unimpressive name (Jack went with Frank; I’m going with Alice, because I’m cute like that).


Keeping your own secrets is one thing, but if you need information from a perp who won’t talk, you could…
• …shoot the guy in the thigh. Apparently you can survive a thigh shot and walk again, all while remaining coherent enough to answer questions. Hit the knee or below and you’ve permanently paralyzed your informant, which I wouldn’t think would inspire him to give you anything useful. When watching “24,” “Shoot him in the thigh!” is my most common mantra, mainly because Jack has used this technique many times to monumental success and I always wonder why he doesn’t just jump to that move, his ringer, right off the bat instead of trying some other things first. It’s probably because he gets his torture on so often that he needs to mix it up a little, lest it becomes boring and tedious.
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A few inches lower = paralyzed. A few inches higher = also not good.

• …give him the “swallow the towel” treatment. In season one, Jack tells some dude how in Russian prisons (gulags?), when they need to get the 411 out of their inmates, they make them swallow one end of a towel, which slowly makes it’s way down to the stomach, while they hold on to the other end. The stomach then begins doing it’s stomachly duties and digests the towel, at which point the towel is slowly pulled out of the mouth, bringing with it the stomach lining. So gross, so fantastically effective. Love it.

• …use sensory deprivation. Remember in season four when Jack had to torture the dippy little brother of his then- paramour, Audrey? This was his chosen method, complete with screeching and screaming in what was probably one of those awesome Bose headsets. Also there were some creepy black out goggles involved, and he may or may not have been strapped to a chair, “$100,000 Pyramid” style. Anyway, that kid was such a wuss I feel sure that Jack thought this was his only way to go; if he’d shot him in the thigh (as I loudly recommended) he probably would have gone all hysterical and wet his pants, and then he would have been no use to Jack. And also, Jack strikes me as the type of man who wouldn’t appreciate a floor covered in urine. Especially someone else’s urine. So there’s that.

• …go for the electroshock, especially if it’s delivered through some live wires you just yanked out of a lamp. Jack laid the torture down on Audrey’s ex-husband this way once. I must say, it was pretty brutal to watch, which of course translates to “It was one of my favorite moments of that season.” Props to Chloe, a CTU tech genius, for using this method in the form of a good tasering when some drunken boob was flirting with her at a bar. I think she hit that guy like four or five times. I’ve never been prouder of a fictional character more so than I was of Chloe at that very moment.
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Bravo, Chloe. You're a beacon of hope for annoyed women in bars everywhere.

• …go very, very gorilla and just plastic bag their head. I’ve learned from Jack that when you don’t have time to get creative, you can always hit them where it hurts: oxygen deprivation. Jack did this to his own brother recently. When I saw that, I told my brother, “You know, I don’t think I would have any qualms about torturing you,” to which he replied, after about 30 second of deep thought, “Yeah, me neither.” Huh.


Finally, if torturing is not enough and it becomes necessary to kill someone, or if you have to kill them anyway…
• …use a gift card that you’ve snapped in half. Jack can’t take credit for this little gem; his arch nemesis, the evil Nina, whipped out this technique way back in season three to get slice open the neck of another random, nameless CTU peon. It was unexpected, and while my hate for Nina and her bizarre wardrobe and hair choices runs quite deep, I can’t help but give her props. That’s ingenious.

• …deprive them of their essential medications. Another little biscuit Jack can’t claim; this one was doled out by Sherry Palmer, the (again) evil wife of our beloved President David Palmer. I forget how this all went down, except that she withheld meds from an old dude who had some dirt on her husband and he died. I like it because it’s simple, it’s to the point, and most importantly, it’s bloodless. Plus, who’s to say that she really did anything? Maybe the old coot just couldn’t get himself to his meds in time. There’s no case there, Your Honor.

• …use a pistol fitted with a silencer. I had no idea what a silencer was the first time I saw it, but I liked it immediately. I remember asking Andrea, “What is that thing on the gun?” and she said, “That’s a silencer,” and I said, “Wow.” There were just no other words. I still get excited when I see a silencer on screen, just because I know that there will be some serious business going down. Plus, I think a silencer is indicative of a classier, better thought out production, as a stock gat without a silencer seems more…pedestrian. Because I’m nothing if not a lady, I say bring on the silencer.

• …get your stab on. This is undoubtedly my favorite form of physical violence, mostly because it seems like you’d have to have quite a bit of rage to effectively carry out a stabbing, or else it’s just a poke. You’ve got to have a lot of feeling behind it, you know? It’s very purposeful. I mean, you can accidentally shoot someone, but I would think it’d be super hard to accidentally shiv a guy. Also, it has given Andrea and I an excellent new phrase that we use all the time: “I’m feeling a little stabby today,” as in, “I’m having a bad day, and most likely, if push came to shove, I probably wouldn’t have any difficulty getting my shiv on.”

• …channel your inner Jeffrey Daumer, go balls out and bite straight through a man. At one point this season, it became necessary for Jack to break free of his captors to relay some overheard intel to CTU, and he did so by biting through his guard’s jugular. It just doesn’t get more hardcore than that. He bit through a man! That is awesome.
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Gives a new meaning to the phrase, "man meat."


As you can probably deduce, I have had to put exactly zero of these lessons into practice in my own life, but that doesn’t mean I never will. I still think they’re worth knowing, just in case I ever become brave or smart or useful (unlikely) and someone actually needs me to do something heroic on a large scale (i.e., saving the world from some form of imminent destruction – also improbable). Until then…more blogging.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Drop It Like It's Idiotic

I’ve steered clear of FM radio for a few years now, ever since the glorious inception of the iPod, (my own proudly named iPhil). FM radio is just like that wet steak burrito at the local Alberto’s hole-in-the-wall that makes you weep in your hands all night while planted over the porcelain seat. You think it's a good idea but it quickly spirals down and you end up in a heap. Yet, with time, the memory fades until you find yourself one day thinking it would be good idea to give another one of those behemoths a go. Then all of it, the memory and indigestion, come flooding back as you’re plowing through that sucker. It’s then that you realize that not only are you in for a world of hurt in half an hour, but also that you’re an idiot and that’s all there is to it. Well, I, in my never-ending quest to continuously torture myself, thought that it would be interesting to see what music was being played ad nauseam and then trampled to death on the radio these days. What did I find? Why, classic gems with the following ground-breaking lyrics, of course:


Akon – “Don’t Matter

“Nobody wanna see us together
But it don't matter no
Cause I got you babe
Nobody wanna see us together
But it don't matter no
Cause I got you babe
Cause we gon' fight
Oh yes we gon' fight
Believe we gon' fight
We gon' fight
Fight for our right to love yeah
Nobody wanna see us together
But it don't matter no
Cause I got you”


How tired is the “us against the world” theme in describing relationships, especially when it’s a cross between Sonny and Cher and The Beastie Boys in lyrical intelligence? Trust me, if everyone is against your relationship, you’re going to crumble like a dieter being offered a chunky peanut butter and apricot jam sandwich (those things are crazy good!). I’d stake my whole Korean stationery collection on it.




Fergie aka “The Troll” – “Glamorous

“If you ain't got no money take yo' broke ass home
You say: If you ain't got no money take yo' broke ass home
G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S, yeah G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S”


Ok, I can accept this chorus. I mean, who likes poor people, right? Not me, that’s for sure. And she’s teaching the peeps to spell words. That so qualifies for community service in my book. Big up. But then she had to go and spoil the whole thing and write a few verses to accompany this fine chorus…

“We flying the first class
Up in the sky
Poppin' champagne
Livin' the life
In the fast lane
And I won’t change
By the Glamorous, oh the flossy flossy”

“I've got money in the bank
And I'd really like to thank
All the fans, I'd like to thank
Thank you really though”


Wait, I thought she didn’t want any broke asses hanging with her yet she’s thanking her guaranteed poorer fans for giving her that money? Whaa? Some of these fans need to organize and riot that charter jet.



Mims – “This Is Why I’m Hot

“This is why I'm Hot, This is why I'm Hot
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot
This is why I'm hot, This is why I'm Hot
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot
I'm Hot cause I'm fly, you ain't cause you not
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot
I'm Hot cause I'm fly, you ain't cause you not
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot”


At the very least, you’ve got to admit that the rules of hip-hop are simple and finite. That’s admirable. Still, whenever I hear this song, it’s at this point where I want to drive off a canyon road and sail down in a blaze of glory into a steep ditch, but then I heard the first 2 lines of the next verse:

“This is why I'm hot, I ain't gotta rap
I sell a mill sayin' nothin' on a track”

I take it back. It’s all genius.

Friday, March 9, 2007

What A Strange Way to Kick Me When I'm Down

This week, I was struck twice. The first blow was delivered in the form of some sort of flu/cold hybrid that sadistically attacked my immune system. In the grand tradition of hybrid names (Bennifer, holla) I’ve coined this illness “flold.” I would have gone with “clu,” but my deep love for the board game “Clue” and it’s companion film, 1985’s "Clue: The Movie" (starring the enchantingly creepy Tim Curry), prohibits it. Anyway, the general symptoms of this malady included a severe stuffy nose, clogged ears, bizarre fever dreams, horrendous body aches, fiery eyeballs, violent, hacking sneezes, and a face rubbed so raw by tissue that no ointment could soothe it. I spent three days in bed trying to find a position that would ease my congestion while shooting up nose spray and watching hours and hours of whatever was on Bravo (where I saw literally a million commercials for online dating. I hate that they know their target audience so well…). It was so nasty an illness that even the dog, who is a golden retriever, a breed which is generally regarded as the kindest of all the canines, looked at me out of the cut of his eye, turned on his heels and walked away looking disgusted. Yeah, it was that gross. But, as these viral ailments usually do, the flold came and went in a matter of days. Things were looking up…until I foolishly left my sick bed too early and got rear-ended. Blow #2.

I was on my way home when I stopped at an intersection because, although the light was green, there was an ambulance passing through in the opposite direction and that’s what you have to do. Plus, all the other cars around me were stopped and, as the lemming theory has always served me well in the past, I followed along. Unfortunately, the huge, fast-moving truck behind me did not, and I got rear-ended. Now, I probably should have prefaced this by saying that I drive a little car, a VW Beetle. That sucker is a complete road warrior; you would understand if you saw how minimally it was damaged after the hit, but as I am new to the blog world, it didn’t occur to me to take a picture to show you, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. But wow – what a champion. I’m not saying it doesn’t suck to get hit (and from the minute you get your license it seems to be sort of inevitable no matter how good of a driver you are), but knowing your car can withstand it and protect you from any bodily harm is a perk for sure. Anyway, the man who hit me (what’s up, Jay?) was the kind of guy you want to hit you – super sweet and terribly apologetic. And lucky for him, I’m the kind of girl you want to hit (dirty) – I don’t freak out (at least not outwardly) and I’m not mean (ditto, though my inner monologue is so chock full of obscenities that I fear the consequences should I put them in print here). Another good thing: I have a pretty sweet rental ride while my car is in the body shop – a definite plus. I actually couldn’t be happier with how the situation turned out. The only thing better would have been, you know, not getting hit at all.

And now it’s time for me to admit something to you all: I just reread this post and for the life of me I can’t figure out where I was going with it. Probably something about how you get hit the hardest when you’re least expecting it? That’s not ringing true now, especially since a) I felt achy and tired for days before the flold attacked, a clear sign of impending illness, and b) I could see in my rearview mirror that the truck was not going to be able to stop in time and that I would indeed be whacked. Maybe something revolving around the old, “If you get knocked down, get right back up” cliché? That’s also somewhat ridiculous considering that I was a huge moaning baby when I was sick and also that I was so shaken up after the accident it’s a miracle my quivering hands could steer me home, and, now that I’m back on the road, I can’t help checking the rearview every few seconds just to make sure the driver behind me is maintaining a safe following distance. I guess I’ll go with this: If you get sick but not sick enough that you have to go to the doctor, do name your illness something fun, preferably one of those blended names, and do not watch Bravo unless you want to be inundated with online dating ads and hours of “The Real Housewives of Orange County” reruns. Also, if you do get rear-ended, do your best to get hit by Jay and his big truck, because although getting rear-ended is a bummer, at least Jay is nice and will say he is sorry and make sure that your taillights still work before you drive away. Oh, and do write your insurance information on Korean stationery. Not only is it better than a napkin or an envelope or the paper liner from a maxi pad, but the confused look you get when you hand over your info on a little piece of pink paper imprinted with a bear surrounded inexplicably by various drug accoutrements is just classic and can take the edge off of any difficult situation. Trust me.





And now it’s weird because I just talked about maxi pads. I don’t know what to say, except that sometimes an entry doesn’t end up exactly how you thought it would, yet you can’t get rid of the whole thing because there’s enough good stuff in there to make it worth posting. So, every now and again, you have to talk about maxi pads. You just do. Have a nice weekend.

Friday, March 2, 2007

Thank You

Last Monday was a very big, very exciting day here for all of us here at Destroy All Evidence because (...drum roll...) we received our first comment! On behalf of Andrea and myself, I’d like to send out a ton of heartfelt thanks and appreciation to OK.NOWwhat, whose lovely words of praise and encouragement completely made our day. And week. And month. Check out her blog, Foma (Mostly), if you have the time – she’s a great, funny writer with loads of interesting things to say, and getting a compliment from a blogger of her caliber is truly an honor.