Terror of the Drop Bear

Originally published 2006

In my endless adventures around suburban Northern California, I've encountered a great number of exotic, hideous beasts. Many of them have been extremely frightening and horribly dangerous, but NONE of them filled me with more dread than the one I've been researching for the last 45 days.

I won't go into the complex details, but I was studying an Australian bicycle race at work when I stumbled onto some information about a mysterious creature that stalks the wooded areas of the Australian bush, searching for victims on which to feed. And I'm sad to report that at least one of these creatures has made its way to American soil.

Now I know what you're thinking: how can anything from Australia be dangerous? This is the same country/continent that brought us some of our most beloved institutions, like Yahoo Serious and Jacko. But unlike those two cherished icons, these creatures aren't hilariously wacky or heroically masculine. They are cold-blooded and vicious, with no remorse and no second thoughts about brutally dismembering whomever's unfortunate enough to cross their paths. Please send your children out of the room, and for those who are squeamish, I apologize in advance for what I'm about to show you. But it must be seen. Lay your virgin eyes upon...the Drop Bear.



The Drop Bear, or Dropbear, is a distant relative of the Australian koala bear (koalamus bearus), and shares many of its physical features. But instead of eucalyptus leaves, the Drop Bear chews on HUMAN FLESH. And instead of a gum tree, it prefers to sink its claws into YOUR TORSO. Standing roughly four feet tall, with broad shoulders and sporting razor-sharp teeth and talons, the Drop Bear waits for its prey in the branches high above before leaping down on it, tearing and clawing through the victim's skin and clothes in a ravenous race to reach the nourishing entrails. Food is not the Drop Bear's primary concern, however. Like most Americans, it eats when it isn't even hungry. First hand accounts are rare since no scientist who ever attempted to study Drop Bears has ever returned alive, but behavioral studies gleaned from recovered audio tapes and rock carvings give every indication that Drop Bears actually enjoy the sound of desperate human screams. Running will not save you, as the Drop Bear can reach ground speeds of up to 35mph. A car or truck is no safe haven either; Drop Bears have been known to rip car doors off and smash through windshields.

Even though I'm fully aware that everything written on the Internet is true, I still had to do some hands-on research of this chilling subject. To protect the people. My people. In order to get a glimpse of a Drop Bear, or at least gain a greater understanding of its natural habitat, I combed every Outback Steakhouse within a 30-mile radius of my home. At the third one I visited I encountered Ozzie Matty, a wise Tasmanian mystic moonlighting as a Bloomin' Onion cook. He gave me the ironclad, foolproof method to discerning if there is a Drop Bear is in the vicinity. He instructed me (I beg you to pay close attention, for your own safety) to travel to the nearest wooded area and lay down on my back. Then, I had to purse my lips and spit straight up into the air. If someone spit back on me, it was a Drop Bear.

Now I'm not an idiot; I wasn't just going to take this man's word because he was old and spoke with a slightly faltering Australian accent. I had to test his theory for myself, no matter how dangerous. So early on a Saturday morning, I quietly crept into the lonely woods just beyond the Petco near my house and laid down. Fighting off a brutal case of cottonmouth, I generated as much spit as I could and launched it as far up as possible. Before I could breathe a sigh of relief, a gob of spit exploded directly in the middle of my forehead. Again, I'm no idiot, so I wasn't going to jump to a quick conclusion. I reasoned that it must've been the discharge of another animal, perhaps a squirrel. A squirrel wouldn't spit on me twice, so I tried it again. And again. And again. Each time my secretion was returned. It was undeniable: THERE IS A DROP BEAR IN MY CITY.

Covered in Drop Bear saliva yet heroically maintaining my composure, I quickly wiped my face with some green leaves I found on the ground and ran off as furiously as I could. How did I escape the blinding speed of the Drop Bear? It was partly due to my own tremendous swiftness (in high school I was Master of the 12-Minute Mile). But through more painstaking introspection, I've deduced that the Drop Bear actually allowed me to gain a head start. My elevated adrenaline level must've given off an intoxicating pheromone, raising the sweetness of my blood. The Drop Bear sensed this, and waited for my hemoglobin to reach an orgasmic level of deliciousness before devouring me. In somewhat less scientific terms: Drop Bears FEAST ON FEAR and DINE ON DANGER.

Fortunately, the Drop Bear's saliva wasn't acidic. It did however, leave me with a terribly itchy rash on my face. Now it's clear; not only can Drop Bears shred your intestines like iceberg lettuce and pull your legs clean off, but they also spit toxic venom.

So with calamine on my face and worry in my heart, I implore you: BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR DROP BEARS. Don't go near any trees or anything that can be mistaken for a tree. I care deeply about all of you except Freefall Jones, and I realize that none of you are as quick or crafty as me. If you're targeted by a Drop Bear, you won't be able to flee successfully as I did. The best prevention against getting mauled is avoidance. In this case, knowing is ALL the battle. For extra guidance, here's an artist's rendition of a Drop Bear:



Of course, it may seem unnecessary to post a drawing of a Drop Bear when I already posted a photo of one earlier. But some people respond better to illustrations.

Unfortunately, we may be forced to stay indoors completely if we wish to keep our innards intact, as lately I've been uncovering reports of burrowing Drop Bears and aquatic Drop Bears, which attack from underground tunnels and watery environments, respectively. When I think about it, I'm not sure why they're called Drop Bears, when they don't actually drop, but rather dig and swim. But that's beside the point. We're in serious danger people; I only hope you can follow my lead before more Drop Bears appear and gorge themselves on you and everyone you care about. Follow me people. Follow me.

Japan Nite 2008 - San Francisco: Part 2

Friday, March 21, San Francisco, California -

When we left off, I was gushing about the greatness of the newest targets of my affection: SCANDAL, and hopefully starting a grassroots campaign that will create a massive demand to bring them back to the U.S. and result in them playing a marathon live set in my living room...or somewhere near there.

Despite all my focus on SCANDAL, believe it or not there were other bands at Japan Nite 2008. Good ones. Some of them were even good enough to make me forget about SCANDAL for minutes at a time.

The second act onstage was a three-man band called The Emeralds. Sound-wise, they were a typical J-rock group: melodic vocals over loud, noisy guitars without a real "foot-tapping" rhythm. The guys were actually more entertaining between songs, when they played up their stilted English to brag about their snazzy disco-looking button-down shirts, or plug their merchandise. They were funny, and they certainly looked like rock stars, but their music wasn't anything memorable to me.

Third up was Ketchup Mania: three guys and a crazy female lead singer. Their music, which was kind of punk/pop, didn't stand out to me too much either until their last two songs, which were fast paced and had great beats. Like the Emeralds, they got humor out of trying to communicate in English. One of the singer's segues went something like this:

"Hi San Francisco!" (crowd roar)
"We are from Nagoya!" (crowd roar)
"Do you like SUSHI?" (crowd roar)
"Do you like NINJAS?" (bigger crowd roar)
"Do you like...KETCHUP MANIA?" (biggest crowd roar)

In pro wrestling, that's known as getting a "cheap pop." But I'm all for it, and I love ninjas. The band was loud, and the vocals were very squeaky and cute. It was a step up from The Emeralds, in my opinion.

If any band topped SCANDAL on this night, it was the next one: Detroit7. A three-piece consisting of a female lead singer/guitarist, a male bassist and a female drummer, Detroit7 is a VERY hard-driving band with a semi-punk, semi-Black Sabbath sound, kind of like a groovy 70s hard rock band. In fact, the singer has a grungy, Janis Joplin vibe. She was barefoot, her hair was matted and her voice was gritty. And she just TORE her guitar apart. But even with that awesomeness, the highlight of the set was by far Detroit7's drummer. Looking to the entire club like she was coked out of her mind, she smashed at her drums like an angry gorilla until I thought they would vaporize beneath her. Yet she never lost step; in fact the other two members had to keep up with her. In between songs her jaw would hang open as she violently gasped her breath, then she'd just explode as the next one started. If SCANDAL left you smiling and giddy, Detroit7 left you sweaty and exhausted. And like SCANDAL, if Detroit7 is performing anywhere near you, it is IMPERATIVE that you see them, no matter what kind of music you're into. They will rattle your innards until you sound like a can of F'N spray paint. You can get a taste of their intensity on their MySpace page: www.myspace.com/detroit7. There are a lot of songs available for listening. Using the ol' SOG foresight, I failed to get a CD in time; they flew off the table as if hit by a tornado.

There was an interesting subplot to Detroit7's performance. If you've ever seen a big, hulking galoot fall head over heels in love, it's quite fascinating and a little bit scary. It took about half a song for Tsuji to become firmly wrapped in the drummer's spell. Throughout the performance I would lean over and make incredibly witty and insightful comments, but he just stared straight ahead while mumbling things like "FUUUUUUUUUUCK" and "God.......daaaaaaamn....." and other things that I can't repeat. Not because they were obscene, but because I don't think they were actual words. By the third song he had created his own language of clicks and grunts. I can definitely see her appeal. Much like Ayako Miyake, she probably won't have any photobooks out any time soon, but her badass-itude could fill a few dozen volumes. If you ever disrespected her she'd respond by kicking your balls into your brain stem or headbutting a hole into your face. When she came off stage to mingle with the crowd I wanted to wrap myself around her leg and let her walk around the city with me. And she wouldn't even notice. During the set Tsuji stood frozen, but I thought the look in his eyes would set her drumsticks on fire. Of course she would've kept playing. Afterward, the drummer (her name's Miyoko Yamaguchi) was mobbed by the crowd, and Tsuji disappeared. I half expected to find her in my trunk on the drive home. After the whole concert was over and the room was clearing out, we managed to corner Miyoko on the floor for a picture as she was handing out buttons and stickers.
For such an aggressive performer, I found her to be surprisingly shy, sweet and...umm...Japanese. I told her she was great and she nodded politely and said "Thank you." She even gave the peace sign for the photo, Tsuji turned it sideways and she followed suit. If I spoke Japanese I probably would've told her to run as fast as she could as soon as I snapped the picture, but fortunately it wasn't necessary and we didn't end our night having to dispose of a body. That's almost always a plus.

The second-to-last band was one of the most bizarre I've ever seen: Petty Booka. Two girls sporting western attire and playing ukuleles while backed by a bluegrass band, the duo spoke and sung in voices so high-pitched they made H!P sound like Isaac Hayes. They sang covers of a wide variety of songs, from "Don't Rock the Jukebox" to "Que Sera Sera," all in English. I don't think the crowd knew quite what to make of them at first. There was a lot of snickering, and a lot of "yeehaws." Petty Booka never broke character. Even while their mandolin player performed a lengthy solo, the girls just stood there smiling, holding their ukuleles at the ready like two adorable little robots. Right on cue they would start swaying in unison, squeaking into their microphones and pretending to strum their instruments. If there's such a thing as being TOO kawaii, this was it. Just as the overflow of sweetness was about to infect the entire audience with type 2 diabetes, things changed. The backup band left the stage, and the ladies performed as a duo. They began actually playing their ukuleles - damn well too (I honestly didn't know that those things were even meant to be played. I thought they were just gift shop novelties like giant sunglasses or fuzzy dice). They plucked and tapped on their little guitars, sung in very tight harmonies and created a lovely sound that earlier was overshadowed by their "cute Japanese girl" posturing. I began to appreciate their talent when they sang a Grateful Dead song in the middle of the set. I'm not a Dead fan, and I don't know what song it was. But it was long, it was complex, and it kept me hooked from beginning to end. By the end, when they finished with Mungo Jerry's "In The Summertime," a personal favorite of mine, Petty Booka had won the crowd over. They were cheering, singing along and chanting for an encore. We didn't get one, but I think everyone will definitely remember Petty Booka. They were by far the most unique act on the bill, and a welcome break for the eardrums after the brain-shaking sonic boom of the first four bands. I probably won't buy their CDs, and I still think their musical ability takes a backseat to their gimmick, but the girls of Petty Booka are extremely entertaining live, and will leave you in a very good mood. www.myspace.com/pettybookatokyo

Petty Booka left us thoroughly mellowed out, but the final act of the night, The Beaches, brought us back to total mayhem. The hybrid Latin/reggae/disco/punk/pop/rock act is led by a dreadlocked lead singer who was TOTALLY INSANE. His name is HISASHI and he was worth the price of admission all by himself. He sang, screamed, danced, hurled his guitar, stomped through the crowd and basically dominated the entire room for 30 minutes. At one point he even got on an audience member's shoulders and was carried around the room while continuing to sing. The only thing I remember about their songs were that they were loud and chaotic, but had a lot of rhythm and were easy to dance to. It was impossible not to be caught up in HISASHI's energy; he was that crazy. You can listen to some of their songs at www.myspace.com/comeonthebeaches. Multiply the volume by 1000 and rapidly flicker your light switch on and off and you'll get a small taste of what it's like to see them live.

After The Beaches exited, it was time to go. Tsuji had his moment with Miyoko Yamaguchi and we hit the road at around 2am. He was slightly liquidated at that point, and unfortunately he was also the trip's navigator. So it took us about two left turns to get completely lost in San Francisco. Seriously, is there ANY street in that Godforsaken city that's two-way? ANY??? It got to the point that we were trying to gauge which pedestrians looked least dangerous, so we could ask for directions. Luckily it never got to that point. After he got us lost, Tsuji eventually got us un-lost, which brought my respect level for him back up to a healthy 0. Halfway back he started growling about being hungry, so I quickly sped home before he gnawed my arm off. I managed to get him to his house just as he was getting through my sweatshirt. No harm, no foul I guess.

In recap, here are the highlights of Japan Nite 2008 in San Francisco:

1. SCANDAL!!!

1A. Detroit7

2. The Beaches

2A. Petty Booka

3. Autograph sessions and cameras were allowed and encouraged! Take THAT, SLIM'S!

4. No Rangudon Argeru (this one should probably be higher)

And with highlights, there must be lowlights:

1. Not enough CDs!

2. Or large T-shirts

3. Getting lost

It was a fantastic night. I was exposed to bands I'll be following for a long time, and hopefully they'll get huge, but not so huge that we won't be able to get close to them again. I'm marking my calendar for next year's show no matter who's on it, and I hope all the YODC'ers in the area can be there too. Except Freefall Jones.

Japan Nite 2008 - San Francisco: Part 1

Friday, March 21, San Francisco, California -

I'll try not to make this too drawn out, but the Japan Nite concert was amazing. Lots of intense performances and a really eclectic mix of artists. Most importantly, I was introduced to my BRAND NEW SECOND-FAVORITE JAPANESE ACT OF ALL TIME. That's pretty impressive considering Puffy previously occupied the #1, #2 and #3 spots.

The night started with me picking up Tsuji Eriku, and Rangudon Argeru calling to tell us he wouldn't be able to make it, which guaranteed we'd have at least a little bit of fun.

The show took place in The Independent, a little club slightly smaller than Slim's, and with no chairs in which to sit. At a quarter to 9, the first band appeared and my life was changed forever. Well, let's not go that far, but I heard Tsuji mutter "Oh...my...god..." under his breath - and my new obsession was born: SCANDAL.

Remember, that's SCANDAL - all caps. And yes, that's them. And yes, the play in those outfits. And yes, I'm almost glad Craig wasn't there because we would've had to chain him to the floor. Oh yeah, they played music. Good music. Catchy pop-rock. And it was BADASS.


These ladies can REALLY play. Really. There was no looking at the strings, no missed chords/beats, and they played to the crowd and the cameras the whole time. It was quite exhilarating looking to the right and seeing one tiny schoolgirl ripping into a Nugent-esque solo, then looking to the left and seeing another tiny schoolgirl finger-picking her bass like Steve Harris from Iron Maiden. The bass player was my personal favorite, a fact I repeated to Tsuji about 200 times before he left me standing by myself. The lead singer (although all three guitarists covered lead vocals for certain songs) got the crowd pumped up by yelling, "Hello San Francisco! We are SCANDAL! LET'S ENJOY TOGETHER!!!!" I'm guessing that's Engrish for "Let's rock." And rock they did. I wasn't the only one who thought so. They had CDs/DVDs available for just $5 before their set. Seeing as foresight isn't one of my strong points, I waited to hear them play before I got one. Apparently everyone else had the same idea, because by the middle of the set the discs were all sold out, along with the large-size T-shirts. On the good side the girls immediately came out to sign autographs and I hovered around them while grinning like a giddy little...schoolgirl.

That was just the beginning. The rest of the night would see a lot of great performances, Tsuji falling madly in love, and both of us fearing for our lives while trying to get out of the city. I'll cover that in Part 2. But here is your assignment YODC'ers: spread the word of SCANDAL...but not TOO much; if they ever come back I don't want the venue to be so packed that I can't get to the front row.

Seriously, tell all your friends. You can get more information, pics and songs at their MySpace page: www.myspace.com/scandal4, and their website http://www.scandal-4.com/. Unfortunately, their music video and all their media is animated, which takes away the impact of seeing them play live. If they're in your area, you absolutely MUST see them perform. And tell everyone there that SOG liked them before they were cool. See you at Part 2. Until then, LET'S ENJOY TOGETHER!!!

SOG's Puffy Concert Review - Super Extended Director's Cut

Not an actual picture from the concert. Thanks, Slim's!

November 15, 2007 - Slim's, San Francisco, CA, USA

So it’s been a week since the Puffy concert, and I’ve finally come back to Earth. It was awfully tempting to come here and post the second I came home from the show, and tell everyone how F’N SWEET it was and how it blew every expectation I had out of the water and into a million tiny pieces. But I decided to let the adrenaline rush settle, to pull back and write with a clearer head. I wanted to give myself the time to ask the questions people need to ask after finally witnessing something they were so excited about that that they’d already convinced themselves beforehand that it was great no matter how it turned out:

Okay, how did they really sound?

How did they really look?

Am I glad I went? Would I tell anyone about this?

Would I spend my money to go again?

So, my head is clear is a bell, my pulse is at its normal rate and my feet are firmly on the ground – I will say in all honesty that the show was F’N SWEET and completely surpassed my expectations.

The night officially started when I picked up Rangudon at his place and collected the money he owed me. You have to hand it to Rangudon – you only have to threaten to tear off one of his ears before he pays up. We wasted a few precious minutes talking about J-pop, Puffy, Namie and what a piece of trash Tsuji was for missing the concert before we were on our way to meet the third member of our party. He never gave himself a cool YODC codename, so I’ll give him one: ChubbyChaser. Don’t ask. ChubbyChaser is not a Puffy fan, or even a J-pop fan, but he wanted to tag along because his life is completely empty, and who am I to pass up free bridge toll?

The line outside Slim's. Cameras are not allowed. Not at all. Have we made that clear, people???

We got to Slim’s with plenty of time for the 8pm start time, and there was a line forming. We got our tickets at will call, where we were given the first, and one of the only, bummers of the night: no cameras were allowed at the concert – a fact that the kind people at Slim’s decided to reiterate to us approximately 34,000 more times before the show started.

The Honeysweeper tour towel

Slim’s is a nice little bar. It’s about the size of a walk-in closet but has a remarkably clean bathroom. Half of the floor is completely clear in front of the stage for standing fans, the other half has tables for diners. There was a small booth selling Puffy merchandise by the door and I got a few things, including a t-shirt featuring a Puffy takeoff of the old RUN-DMC Adidas logo. Unfortunately the largest size they had was medium and it fits so tight that it makes me look like I’ve stuffed Ami, Yumi and maybe their keyboard player under it while they desperately try to escape.

My "so tight it makes me look even gayer" Puffy t-shirt.

First highlight of the night: the table was run by a very hot babe. So hot in fact, that if it had been anyone else headlining that night I would’ve spend the whole show leering to my left pretending to want another t-shirt.

My slightly better-fitting Honeycreeper shirt. The bird is a honeycreeper.

Rangudon, ChubbyChaser and I found a table, ordered food, then proceeded to suffer through an opening act that sounded like The Cure without the giddy exuberance and zest for life. I swear, who found these guys? Again, if it were anyone else headlining, I would’ve jammed our bendy-straws up my nose and poked out my eardrums from the inside. But in a way they may have been the perfect warm-up, as they made Puffy seem even more fun and energetic. And in between their mind-numbing songs they’d say things like, “Are you ready for Puffy?” “Did you know Puffy has a MySpace page?” and “We have a couple more songs then Puffy’s coming out.” With their depressing music and shameless namedropping, they really had me looking forward to seeing my girls. Of course, these guys could have me looking forward to a prostate exam from Nosferatu, but enough about them.

People trickled in throughout the opening act, and before we knew it, the little club was packed tightly with fans (roughly 200 I’d say), mostly adults, some young teens and about an even mix of Caucasians and Asians. As they prepared the stage, I left ChubbyChaser and Rangudon to maneuver my way through the sardine can of an audience and wedge myself firmly front and center.

And after hours—days—weeks—months—hell—years of waiting, I finally saw Puffy take the stage in San Francisco.

I can say this without the least bit of exaggeration: if two angels fell from Heaven, crashed through the roof of a dimly lit bar and landed in the middle of a crowd of sweaty otaku scum, they would look exactly like Ami and Yumi.

Seeing them in person for the first time, I was shocked at their size. These are two petite girls. More often than not, pictures and video make celebrities seem physically larger than they really are, but these ladies look they could fit into a snow globe. And although both of them are reaching their mid-30s, they’re amazingly just as fresh faced and pretty as they were when they debuted 11 years ago.

Both of them sported the big hair they had in their Gap ad.

Ami’s outfit: Black sleeveless t-shirt that read “Stay Gold Soc’s” (a reference to The Outsiders), blue cotton pants, black Chuck Taylors.

Yumi’s outfit: Red sleeveless t-shirt with Bugs Bunny on it, black jeans, black Chuck Taylors.

The perfect brew of kawaii and rockstar.

The show started with “Boom Boom Beat” from their new album Honeycreeper. It got the crowd bouncing, and we never really stopped. Their set featured about five or six songs from Honeycreeper, a few from Splurge and some old stuff that whipped the crowd into an even bigger frenzy. Here’s the set list from what I remember (the order gets fuzzy in the middle):

1. Boom Boom Beat
2. Tokyo I’m On My Way
3. Electric Beach Fever (an old song that they used to end shows with)
4. Teen Titans (as you can guess, this drove the audience berserk and everyone but ChubbyChaser was singing along. It is literally impossible not to chant T-E-E-N-T-I-T-A-N-S-TEEN TI-TANS-LET’S GO when Puffy leads)
5. Kimi to Ootobai
6. Mogura Like (complete with dance)
7. Joining a Fan Club
8. Kuchibiru Motion (possibly the best song on Honeycreeper, IMO)
9. Puffy the Monster (aka Ghost Puffy)
10. Oriental Diamond
11. Radio Tokyo
12. Closet Full of Love
13. Hi Hi
14. Complaint
15. Red Swing (with red light bathing the stage)
16. Basket Case (Green Day cover that blew the roof off)
17. True Asia (Puffy’s very first single. It was awesome to hear this one live, and the crowd was singing along even though most of us didn’t speak Japanese)

ENCORE:
18. Wild Girls on Circuit (One of their BEST songs)

I think that’s all of them, although I may have missed one or two songs. If you know their material, you’ll see that they did mostly “rock” sounding songs as opposed to the more “pop” sounding songs.

As far as their performance went – it was incredible. There’s no shortage of Puffy live footage on the web, and some of their shows are…spotty. The girls walk around in circles, look down at the stage and avoid eye contact with the crowd while screaming their lyrics. While still eager to see them perform, I was half expecting that. But thankfully that’s not what we got.

What we did get was Ami and Yumi singing in harmony, dancing energetically, interacting with the crowd, smiling, laughing and genuinely appearing to have a great time. At one point Yumi even grabbed hold of a pillar on stage and hung over the first two rows as she sung (it’s impressive if know how small Slim’s is). Both of them have such presence that you can’t take your eyes off them for a second, despite the fact that they’re so little you could trip over them.

After every few songs, the girls would pick up little spiral notebooks and read statements in stilted English and classic Kawaii fashion. It was interesting to see Yumi stomping around the stage and Ami throwing up devil horns one second, then both politely giggling (while covering their mouths, of course) and saying “Arigato, arigato” in sweet mousy voices the next. The capper was Ami gently telling the crowd: “This next song is from our new album, Honeycreeper. Please listen.”

By the way, Ami's English accent is very good. No mixing up Rs and Ls for her. I remember her doing most of the talking.

NOTE: You know you’re geeking out when you laugh hysterically at jokes like “The weather here is nice. We were just in Seattle and it was soooo cold,” and “I love clam chowder.”

The band sounded great – loud as hell but not so loud that your ears were ringing for a week. And fortunately they didn’t tinker with the songs too much. They were played the way were supposed to be played, only with more volume, more guitars and more pounding drums.

Hearing “True Asia” was kind of a surprise to me. They must’ve performed this song a few thousand times in the past decade, but they sung it with a lot of enthusiasm and didn’t change it around at all. That was good news for people who’d never heard the song live before.

After “Wild Girls on Circuit” the girls said their goodbyes and were gone. Their performance started just before 9pm and ended around 10:30, so that chump Tsuji could’ve come along and still gotten plenty of sleep for his morning shift. ChubbyChaser was pleasantly surprised, saying that the concert was “more rocking” than he expected.

Yes, it would be great to see Puffy in Japan, where they’re in commercials, ads, and more importantly, they play live regularly. But seeing them in such a small venue was a surreal experience. They were so close to me I literally could’ve reached out, grabbed them by the ankles and dragged them into the abyss with me. It’s hard to imagine watching them in an arena (not that I wouldn’t), where the first row would be at least 20 feet from the stage. Any further back and they’d probably look like two multicolored dots bouncing back and forth. Yes, there’d be more lights, more fireworks, and more elaborate outfits, but I recommend to any Japanese Puffy fans that want to visit The States to plan their trips around the girls’ American tours if possible. You’ll most likely never get closer to them or see them in a more casual setting. If they ever do take off in this country, it would most likely be the end these kinds of shows, and that would be a shame.

So was this the greatest experience of my life? I don’t know; I’ve had a lot of great experiences. Pitching my first game in little league. Graduating college. Seeing Freefall Jones get busted on To Catch a Predator. This show is certainly up there, because there are only a few minor things that could’ve made it any better:

1. ALLOW CAMERAS, DAMMIT.

2. More T-shirts in large size.

3. Ami and Yumi whisking me away and making me their personal man-groupie/shameless errand boy.

Without a doubt, I want to see them again. Who knows if it will ever be as exciting as the first time, but if they perform anywhere near my area, I’m going to be there, and I recommend everyone do the same. Their energy, charisma and charm will even win over people who aren’t fans. It’s just an all-around good time. Let’s hope they don’t take another two years to hit these shores again.

The Son of Gigan REAL MAN Hall of Fame

Originally published 2006

What makes a REAL MAN? Is it bulging biceps, prodigious pecs, complete and total disdain for the smaller, weaker inhabitants of society and the ability and willingness to express it? Yes. There are other factors as well, such as chest hair, tan and knowledge of extreme combat sports. It’s really quite simple.

Unfortunately, it’s not simple to everyone. There are too many people walking the streets who wouldn’t know a REAL MAN if he walked right up and crushed their windpipes for looking at him funny. But the cure for such naivety has finally arrived and none too soon. Is there really someone MAN enough to decide who’s a REAL MAN and who isn’t? Yes, and it’s me.

So put your hands together as I introduce the first inductees to the Son of Gigan REAL MAN Hall of Fame. Each of these men is about 100 times more strapping than you or anyone you know. Except me.

The Transporter


Our very first inductee makes a living transporting valuable goods for high-powered, well-funded clients. But he has a side job transporting ELBOW STRIKES TO YOUR SPINE. Cracking bad guy skulls is his business and business is very good, especially when those bad guys cause him to break his sacred rules of transporting, which he seemingly does every time he transports something. But that’s fine. REAL MEN can break the rules, because REAL MEN make the rules that they break.

Yes, The Transporter is balder than Bruce Willis at the end of Moonlighting (when he desperately clung to that final pathetic tuft on top of his head). So what? A clean cranium makes it all the easier to HEADBUTT YOUR NOSEBONE into your brain.

Yes, The Transporter is about as tall as your average 5th grader, staring up at his enemies as they struggle to keep straight faces while revealing their nefarious plots to him. Big deal. His height disadvantage just gives him a better angle to RIP YOUR NUTS OFF.

And yes, The Transporter goes completely limp when a leggy supermodel throws herself at him. No matter. The only thing that turns him on is KICKING BAD GUY ASS and taking names…so he can find them later and KICK THEIR ASSES AGAIN.

The Transporter is a REAL MAN in every sense of the word. Whether he’s using a petite Asian woman as a projectile weapon, creaming a dozen villains with his giant hose, or as in the photo above, beating the crap out of the Black Eyed Peas, The Transporter will forever be an inspiration to short, balding, flaccid guys everywhere, and the first-ever Son of Gigan REAL MAN Hall of Famer.



Carrot Top


Quite simply—LOOK AT THIS GUY. Not since the immortal Joe Piscopo have we seen such an awe-inspiring combination vascularity and hilarity. As I can attest, it takes a REAL MAN to be side-splittingly funny and jaw-droppingly ripped at the same time, and Mr. Top has found the balance. When he’s not pushing hardcore steel in the gym or eating one of his nine meals a day, he’s using his comic genius to create delightful props like the cup-and-string phone with the extra cup for call waiting. Brilliant! Our second inductee has proven without a doubt to be the undisputed master of irreverent, thought-provoking stand-up comedy and incline bench presses.



Conway Twitty


As soon as you hear him sing the very first note of Hello Darlin’, there is only one thought on your mind: this guys balls must be enormous. Our third inductee dominated the country music scene for three decades with a baritone that had millions of lonely soccer moms soiling their unmentionables. If anyone but a REAL MAN tried to sing a Conway Twitty song on karaoke night, the machine would detect the heresy and send a high-voltage electric pulse through the microphone, deep frying the perpetrator’s vital organs like a Twinkie at the State Fair. Don’t believe me? Try it.



Frankenstein


He conquered the world. ’Nuff said.



Chong Li


Our final inductee is overflowing with the qualities of a REAL MAN. As if sporting the largest pair of breasts ever seen on an Asian person isn’t enough, on a whim Chong Li could bear hug you until your appendix popped out of your ear. A Chinese man beating up Caucasians is a rare sight, and in the classic film Bloodsport, Chong Li finished off so many crackers they should’ve given him a bowl of clam chowder. With the crowd chanting his name, he rampaged his way through the tournament, mangling his opponents and the English language with equal viciousness. After ruthlessly crippling Ogre from Revenge of The Nerds, Chong Li solidified his REAL MAN legend when he faced Frank Dux (who according to the movie, qualified for the brutal fight-to-the-death competition by being REALLY good at Karate Champ).

When he felt it was time to end the contest (possibly because he needed to go bra shopping), Chong Li decided to incapacitate Dux by hurling a large handful of SALT into the honky’s eyes. He’s obviously a student of professional wrestling, in which every Asian that has ever competed lived by one mantra: when the going gets rough – throw salt in his eyes. Watching pro wrestling is truly a REAL MAN endeavor, and Mr. Li’s awareness of its subtle nuances places him in our honored pantheon.

Let’s raise our protein shakes to The Son of Gigan REAL MAN Hall of Fame Class of March 5th, 2006. All of these gentlemen deserve your undying respect, devotion, worship and fear. Now that you have some idea of what a REAL MAN is, you’re all free to return to your mundane, non-manly lives until the next induction ceremony. Thank you for coming and drive safely.

Honorable Mention: Ted Nugent, Fabio, Robocop

A Few That Will NEVER Get In: Billy Zane, Justin Timberlake, James Bonds 4 and 5, Freefall Jones

The Son of Gigan REAL MAN Hall of Fame Induction II

Originally published 2009

The inaugural Son of Gigan REAL MAN Hall of Fame induction ceremony shook the World Wide Web to its very foundation. The unparalleled response it generated (THIRTEEN responses!) devoured all that bandwidth in its path (kind of like Unicron, but with bandwidth), sending Blogger.com into a tailspin from which it is only now, over THREE YEARS LATER, recovering. Millions of naive souls simultaneously discovering the truth about what a REAL MAN is will have that effect. The first Hall of Fame class consisted of the following pillars of beefcake:

1. The Transporter
2. Carrot Top
3. Conway Twitty
4. Frankenstein
5. Chong Li

Now, after intense deliberation, the second round of inductees has at last been decided. Webmasters, prepare for the tidal wave. And my loyal fans and testosterone enthusiasts, get on your feet in awe and appreciation for the July 2009 class of the Son of Gigan REAL MAN Hall of Fame.

Skeletor

As if carrying a staff with a severed head of a ram that he probably decapitated himself on it wasn't manly enough to get him in, Skeletor is inducted because he is obviously as dedicated to adding massive slabs of muscle to his mighty blue frame as he is to becoming supreme rule of Eternia. In our tragically un-He-Man-centric society, the name "Skeletor" is often used to describe overly skinny people - "You've lost so much weight! You look like Skeletor!" "Hey Skeletor, you need to eat something!" In reality, these pitiful pencil-necks only WISH they looked like Skeletor. The only thing they could possibly share with him is his disturbingly high-pitched voice. But the fact that he Skeletor sounds more like Inspector Gadget with his nuts trapped in his go-go-Gadget vice grips than The Evil Lord of Destruction that he is doesn't detract from his awe-inspiring hugeness. And who needs to unlock the secrets of Castle Grayskull when he's already unlocked the secret of getting his body jacked beyond belief while maintaining razor-thin leanness in his face? In fact, unless the mysterious prize behind Grayskull's drawbridge is a lifetime stash of superhuman protein shakes, Skeletor would be best served giving up his quest to conquer it and take up permanent residence with his brothers in the Son of Gigan REAL MAN Hall of Fame.


Gymkata

Screw all those politicians from the 80s, THIS is the man who won The Cold War. And he did it by kicking, flipping and flaring his way across the hostile country of Parmistan in order to establish a US satellite monitoring system that would warn our government of any future missile attacks from space. Okay, I admit that I'm kind of confused by that last sentence. And I'm still having trouble finding Parmistan on a map. But hey, have YOU been hit with any space missiles since Gymkata took care of business? 'Nuff said. Even before his heroic service to the USA, Gymkata achieved REAL MAN status by singlehandedly sucking the gayness out of gymnastics by applying it to dislodging brainstems instead of winning faggy medals. In his greatest display of ass-kickitude, Gymkata beat down an entire village of homicidal maniacs using nothing but his skills and such everyday, about-town items as a pommel horse and a high bar. If the Olympics ever institutes events for severing spinal cords, scrambling neurons, crushing spleens and cracking jawbones, and we all hope they do, this REAL MAN will place at the top of the podium in every one.

Not a pommel horse - A PUMMEL HORSE

Kool Moe Dee

You want to know his occupation? He gets paid to rock the nation. As you all know, when it comes to hip hop, SOG is all about the Old Skool. Unlike da sucka MCs of today, Old Skool rappers were true multitaskers. No rapper that ever touched a microphone after 1989 could replicate Kool Moe Dee's feat of infiltrating the castle of the nefarious Dr. Yo while spitting super dope funky fresh lyrics like "After I have ya I have to slap ya senseless with endless rhymes don't pretend this is anything short of stupendous" and "This time a native New Yorker's riding a crescendo wave to save the mental state of the fan so he can understand my pencil." That's right; he used the words "stupendous" AND "crescendo." Better yet, his mad flow doesn't even get interrupted while he does battle with a ninja posse or a rock-throwing cyborg. Kool Moe Dee is so adept he defeats one ninja apparently by just turning his back, and beats the cyborg by...well...the ending's kind of ambiguous but I'm sure he won. Just as he would win a freestyle battle with any so-called-artist this decade without fogging up his Porsche 5620s. Any CEO who wants his company to thrive should require every employee to listen to "I Go to Work" at the beginning of each day. Productivity will be guaranteed to increase by at least 6000%.

Urge to go to work...rising...

Thor

What could be more BADASS than the legendary Norse god of thunder? THE LEGENDARY NORSE GOD OF THUNDER WITH AN F’N MACHINE GUN THAT’S WHAT. When Mjolnir just won’t get the job done, Thor takes a more modern approach to disposing of his enemies - mowing them down with a hail of bullets. If that wasn't enough, when he isn't battling Loki, chiseling his pectorals or shining his codpiece, this inductee is shaking the heavens with timeless hard rock anthems. Personally, I can't think of a more MANLY activity than cruising the streets in your sweet Trans Am while blasting classic Thor albums like Rock Warrior, Keep the Dogs Away and Beastwomen from The Center of the Earth. A long-haired, AK-47 toting, weightlifting heavy metal singer from Asgard? Thor just might have a wing named after him in the Son of Gigan REAL MAN Hall of Fame. Until it's constructed, you can get your Thor fix at ThorCentral.com.

Schneider
Mark this down and don't forget it: no one, NO ONE, can pull off the thumbs-in-the-tool belt pose like this swarthy superintendant. In fact, there are a lot of things Schneider can do that normal "men" can't. Like making all manner of household repairs and revving the engine of the lusty Ms. Romano, all while acting as a father figure to her two daughters – hot, jiggly jailbate Barbara and bucktoothed cokehead Julie. In a perfectly MANLY world, everyone with a Y chromosome would have a form-fitting denim vest and bellbottoms in his wardrobe, and a moustache on his face. Alas, only some of us do. Sigh…

Let's bang our meaty fists together in salute to this class of the SOGRMHOF. And let's hope it won't take another three years to uncover enough REAL MEN to make a decent induction ceremony. But choosing the members of the prestigious Hall can't be done haphazardly. Entry criteria is so strict that it makes MENSA look like your local YMCA or whatever college Freefall Jones went to. But no one can deny the credentials of this group of Thoroughbreds. Follow their example faithfully, and one day you may find yourself being inducted into the Son of Gigan REAL MAN Hall of Fame. Ah, who am I kidding? You'll never get in.

Jelly Belly "Our Candy" Pages

These are the "Our Candy" pages, which describe the many different variety of candy that Jelly Belly produces. I think I did a good job of selling the candy's premium quality and flavor with my copy, while keeping it "fun." There are a lot of pages to scroll through, but it's worth it.

Jelly Belly Product Descriptions

This is just a small sample of the hundreds of product descriptions I wrote for JellyBelly.com, most of which are still live on the site. These particular products are non-candy items. The consistent theme I had to stick to was "Fun and Flavor."

 

Candy Calculator and Personalized Wedding Favor Pages

   

Jelly Belly Wedding Center Featured Candy Page

    

Jelly Belly Wedding Center Color Palettes Index Page

Jelly Belly Wedding Theme Pages