The Montreal Screwjob

On November 9, 1997, the World Wrestling Federation (WWF) produced a pay-per-view extravaganza featuring a main event in which one of the wrestlers defeated his opponent by using a “finishing maneuver” more commonly associated with a different wrestler.  For some reason, the wrestler who lost the match (and his fans) responded by getting really, really upset.

Putting things in context
Everybody knows that professional wrestling, generally speaking, is fake. Ah, but “generally speaking” is not the same as “always.”

Surely the most notorious instance of pro wrestling “breaking script” transpired during the main event of the 11th annual WWF Survivor Series — better known as the “Montreal Screwjob” — in which then-WWF Champion Bret “The Hit Man” Hart, put his title on the line against arch-rival, Shawn “Heartbreak Kid” Michaels, before a sold-out Molson Centre in Hart’s home country of Canada.

Michaels applies the Sharpshooter

As is typical in pro wrestling, a basic script for how the match would unfold had been agreed upon ahead of time by Hart, Michaels, and WWF owner Vince McMahon. Hart, who had recently signed a contract with the WWF’s principal rival, WCW — set to take effect one month after the Survivor Series — recognized that he would need to “lose” the WWF championship prior to leaving the company, but he and McMahon disagreed on the specifics of how this storyline should be written.

McMahon wanted Hart to "job" (i.e., lose cleanly) to Michaels in Montreal, but Hart refused: partly because he didn't want to lose the title in Canada, where he was considered a sort of national hero; but also because he and Michaels had significant bad blood towards each other — not just "on camera," but in real life.  As a result, Hart, Michaels, and McMahon mutually decided that the match would end in a disqualification — meaning that the title would not change hands — and that Hart would then willingly abdicate the title to McMahon the following evening on Monday Night Raw.

The specifics of the match script hinged on a scenario in which Michaels, late in the match, would lock Hart into the Sharpshooter — The Hit Man’s own signature submission hold — which promised to “draw heat” from the fiercely pro-Hart, Canadian audience. But then, after a few tense moments in this predicament, the agreement was that Hart would escape from the hold; and that, soon thereafter, three of Hart’s allies (his brother, Owen Hart; “The British Bulldog” Davey Boy Smith; and Jim “The Anvil” Neidhart”) and two of Michaels’ allies (Triple H and Chyna) would collectively interfere in the match, eventually resulting in a double disqualification.

This, at least, was the plan.

But in a shocking, real-life twist, McMahon and Michaels (along with other WWF higher-ups) met the day prior to the event and together crafted a secret plot to double-cross The Hit Man. As a result, what actually came to pass was that, when Michaels applied the Sharpshooter, referee Earl Hebner almost immediately waved his hand to declare the match over and Michaels the victor, even though Bret Hart had very clearly not submitted. In the video (embedded below), you can actually hear McMahon — who was standing immediately ringside — order the timekeeper to “ring the bell!” You can also see a genuinely astonished Bret Hart spit directly into McMahon’s face.



After spitting on McMahon, Hart would go on to destroy much of the WWF's ringside broadcast equipment. Hart's supporters were also livid, including many of the other wrestlers, some of whom threatened to leave the company as a direct result of McMahon's betrayal (at least one, "Ravishing" Rick Rude, did leave).  Another high-profile wrestler, Mark Calaway (aka "The Undertaker"), confronted McMahon after the event and demanded that he publicly apologize to Hart. Later that evening, when approached by McMahon backstage, Hart delivered a single punch to McMahon's face, knocking him to the ground and leaving him with a black eye.

Many fans in the audience were equally incensed; some threw garbage at McMahon, and others pushed Michaels, as they retreated to the locker room.  To this day, many wrestling fans around the globe have still not forgiven them.

But despite all the backlash, McMahon's plan had succeeded, and the damage was irreversibly done. As if deceiving Hart into losing his final match to his bitterest rival in front of his own countrymen wasn’t humiliating enough, the cruel and ironic culmination of McMahon and Michael’s scheme — which portrayed Hart as having submitted at the hands of his very own "trademark" maneuver — ensured that the ultimate insult would be added to injury.

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If you're interested in learning more about the Montreal Screwjob, I'd recommend a documentary called Hitman Hart: Wrestling with Shadows, now available on Netflix Watch Instantly.

The World's Best, Litterally

Brumpelstiltskin has a rather deplorable habit of crafting blog posts that only appeal to a small percentage (and in some cases none) of the Mic’s Tape readership. For many readers, today’s article is but the latest example of this heinous trend. But for those of you who are (a) cat owners and (b) not 100% satisfied with your current brand of cat litter, well, this is your lucky day.

With that ridiculous introduction out the way, let me cut to the chase. Back in October I issued a glowing endorsement of a product called World’s Best Cat Litter (WBCL). Ten months later, my satisfaction (and that of my cats, Dickens and Dolly) remains complete. For starters, I continue to marvel at its combination of top-notch "clumpability" and odor control; all-natural corn kernel-based ingredients; and biodegradable, septic-safe composition (which allows it to be flushed rather than taken out with the trash).

But what impresses me most is its cost-effectiveness. For instance, since May 1 of this year, I've spent $37.10 on three 8-lb bags and one 18.7-lb box of WBCL (yes, I've been tracking this with Quicken), which amounts to less than $10 per month over the past four months (note: I have two litter boxes, which I scoop at least once a day). To recycle some statistics from my original post, compare this to the last brand I bought, "Better Valu", which was seemingly cheaper at $2.63 for a 10-lb bag, but utterly reeked (and needed to be thrown away) after just a week—and thus would've amounted to more than $10 per month had I stuck with it.

All that said, my real inspiration for revisiting WCBL is that the company recently launched a new logo (pictured), new packaging and product names, a Facebook page and Twitter feed, and a fully revamped website that features a wealth of information—including several videos. In conjunction with this launch, WBCL has given its blog supporters (like Mic's Tape) the opportunity to share an exclusive coupon with their readers. If you'd like to try WBCL, click here to download a coupon for $4.00 off your next purchase. Please note that the coupon must be downloaded by August 29 (i.e., Saturday), but does not expire until September 30.

I Got Technotrashed

Sure, the transactions that inspired this blog post were paid for using a Visa (not a MasterCard), but still:

Paying a company to responsibly recycle a 29 lb box of electronic waste: pricey

Paying the US Postal Service to ship said box to said company: pricier

Finding out that said box was lost in transit: priceless!

Sometimes you take out the technotrash, sometimes it takes you out
The company I refer to is GreenDisk, a WA-based e-waste recycler. As mentioned in a previous post, I'd long been meaning to send them some unwanted electronic materials (aka "technotrash"), and last month I finally did it. Into a big box I tossed a pile of old videotapes from my mom; some obsolete audio cassettes from my friend Paul; plus my own accumulation of CD-Rs, cords, jacks, a modem, and more. In the end, the box weighed in at 29 lbs, which GreenDisk charged $9.65 to process and the USPS charged $13.30 to ship (via media mail). As I left the Post Office with a smug look on my face, I thought I'd really done my part to close the e-waste loop. In reality, I was about to get Technotrashed.

Last Friday, I received a letter from the USPS Des Moines Bulk Mail Center notifying me that an "empty wrapper with [my] address on it was found in the mail and it is believed to have been separated from a parcel during handling". After re-reading the letter a few times (and looking up "parcel" in the dictionary), I realized that by "empty wrapper" they meant my box and by "parcel" they meant my 29 lbs of e-waste.

Five days (and many tears) later, I'm still trying to figure out where it all went wrong. Did the box fall off the mail truck en route to Des Moines, and are its former contents now scattered alongside Interstate 80? Did the postal worker who processed my shipment realize that it contained several episodes of Dr Quinn on VHS, and decide to "sully" his employer's reputation and make off with the whole caboodle?

I might never know. But one thing I do know is that if those 29 lbs of e-waste end up in the landfill—which now seems likely—they will not do so in vain. No, because even if nothing else that's good ever results from this recyclatragedy, at least it gave brumpelstiltskin the inspiration to blog again.

Micsamorphosis

Sometimes a caterpillar evolves into a butterfly, but other times—at least in the virtual world of blogging—it's the opposite that occurs.

Yes, I refer to Mic's Tape. Admittedly, this analogy is a bit silly and perhaps ill-chosen (can a blog that's never floated higher than five posts in a month really be likened to a creature with wings?). But regardless of whether this blog could ever "fly", there's little doubt that in recent months its activity has slowed to a caterpillar's crawl. And just like the voracious appetite of that famously hungry caterpillar, Mic's Tape has surely done nothing over the past six weeks if not gluttonously devour the time (and hopes) of its loyal, beloved readership who've checked for updates each day in vain.

Pressure, blogging down on me
During these six weeks, brumpelstitskin (BS) has been pondering the causes of this reverse metamorphosis. In doing so, it's become clear that at some point we've lost the plot—instead of a joy, blogging has become a burden.

One would think that a blog with six contributors would have no trouble generating new material, and initially this was the case—if Michail ran out of ideas, MC Gallagher was there to pick up the slack, and so on. And while the BS creative process was never effortless (far from it), for the first year or so this effort remained firmly a labor of love. But as BS exhausted our original list of material, and as the endlessly inspiring 2008 political season winded down, a collective case of writer's blog undeniably crept in. Yet as the creativity dried up, a self-imposed pressure to produce undoubtedly remained. Two twin desires—an inner longing to regularly create new material & an outer longing to not disappoint those readers who regularly check the blog for new material—together fed this self-pressure, which in turn fed upon the fun of creating (and the quality of the creation).

Can't we give blogging one more chance?
So, what can be done about this? For about an hour or so (out of the past six weeks of contemplation), BS considered retirement, but quickly thought better of it: our love of writing is way too strong to throw in the towel. Instead, an alternative two-part solution has come to fruition. First, BS has decided to henceforth reject any self-generated expectations of blogging at a certain frequency (e.g., once per week); rather, we will only write when we feel a genuine inspiration to do so (even if it's only once per year). Second, to address our strong desire to not disappoint those who've regularly checked the blog, BS wishes to formally encourage our beloved readers to sign up for automatic notifications of new Mic's Tape posts (this way, you'll only need to check the blog when you're certain there's new material).

To receive automatic notifications, you can either: (a) ask me to set it up so that a notification of each new post will be sent directly to your email address; or (b) subscribe yourself to Mic's Tape posts via a web portal/aggregator service such as iGoogle, Google Reader or Netvibes using the "Subscribe To" tool on the right side of the blog. Just let me know if you have any questions about this.

In closing, here's hoping that the future will regain in fun what it loses in frequency.

Bring Out Your Dead Electronics!

Procrastination has plagued me for years, but now, after merely talking the talk for so long, I'm finally ready to walk the GreenDisk walk.

GreenDisk is a Washington-based company that recycles a wide range of computer and technology-related products. The company originated around two main concerns: (1) protecting privacy via the secure destruction of private information contained in "technotrash" (i.e., obsolete and unwanted computer/electronic materials); and (2) recycling these materials in an environmentally responsible manner. Accepted items include CDs, DVDs, ink cartridges, cell phones, iPods, VHS tapes, computer cables, laptops, and more (full list here).

I first discovered GreenDisk a few years ago (whilst surfing the web for a way to recycle burned CDs), but only now—amid some long overdue spring cleaning—am I at last preparing to send them a big barrowload of e-crap. With that in mind, if you have some "technotrash" of your own that you'd like to get rid of, please let me know and I'll gladly include it in my shipment.

The Soiled Fruits of Conscience

So, feeling particularly inspired by Gustaf’s recent post on "brain food", I decided to buy some antioxidant-laden berries during a recent trip to the food store on Tuesday night. (Yeah, that’s right, I called it a “food store”—do you wanna fight about it?) Anyway, lo and behold, there they were: blackberries, on sale for $1.99. I picked up a carton, sized it up, liked what I saw, and nonchalantly placed it into my grocery cart (into the upper "basket" area by the handle). But alas, it seems my placement was a little too nonchalant as the carton immediately fell out the back of the cart and onto the floor:
Upon impact, the carton popped open, berries flew everywhere, pandemonium ensued. My 1st reaction was to giggle and look around nervously to see if there were any witnesses (there weren't). My 2nd reaction was to realize I had quite the crisis of conscience on my hands. I could...

a) Put a canvas bag over my head and run out of the store with identity concealed and dignity intact.
b) Grab a new container and continue shopping as if the whole thing never happened only to become wracked with guilt a few minutes later when a voice got on the PA to request "cleanup in produce".
c) Go ask the high school kid working at the deli what I should do, and be told: "Screw 'em, man, s*** happens".
d) Get on my knees, put the fallen berries back in the carton, buy them, wash them ridiculously thoroughly with water, and eat them.

Which option do you think I chose? What would you have done?

Ending the Year With a Clang

There are times when it's best to destroy the evidence and swear all witnesses to secrecy. And then there are times to just come clean. This, I have no doubt, falls into the former category. And yet here I go:

The first thing I must come clean about is that back in August, when Mickens documented the key-related idiocy of a "certain (unnamed) brumpelstiltskin member", he was referring to me: Mike-Michael. The second thing I must divulge is that, last night, yours truly dropped a chain of keys—house, car, mail, work, and spare—into a fricking sewer drain.

How did said mishap come to pass? Well, it all started with a dinner (frozen Margarita pizza) and a movie (The Dark Knight) date I'd scored with a beautiful woman (Oh, who am I kidding? I've come this far, I may as well bare it all: the film was Made of Honor.)

Just before leaving for my date, I inexplicably performed three impulsive, uncharacteristic, and irrational actions: (1) I changed out of my belt-fastened work trousers and into loose-fitting sweat pants that fall down if I put anything in their pockets; (2) I inserted a recently obtained candy cane—which I typically neglect to eat until at least July—into my mouth; and (3) I decided to check my mail on the way out of my apartment.

Hence, as I exited my flat toward my car, I had a wad of credit card offers in my right hand; a half-foot peppermint in my mouth; and a heavy, key-laden ring dangling precariously between my left thumb and forefinger.

As for what happened next, I honestly cannot recall if what slipped was an envelope from my fingers or the mint from my lips, but one of said culprits prompted the reflexively fatal opening of my left hand that—along with gravity—sent my precious keys into the drain (pictured above) over which I just so happened to be walking.

As luck would have it, the keys were soon recovered: the drain was not more than four feet deep, and using a broom stick and a metal hanger (pictured right) that the aforementioned beautiful woman mercifully drove over to me, I was able to "MacGruber" those bad boys back above ground within an hour.

As I reflect on the half-hour between the original blunder and when my Chivalrous Damsel rescued her Sir in Distress, I'm struck by the fact that I never panicked. Well, except for those 30 seconds when—like a ring that's a half size too small for one's finger—I literally could not dislodge my elbow from the sewer grate I'd moronically stuck my arm through.

That last point brings me to my conclusion: namely, the following list of last night's lessons learned, which I'd like to impart to you all:

1. Never stick your entire arm through the narrow opening of a sewer grate, especially one situated in a frequently trafficked alleyway.
2. Affix your spare key to a trusted friend or family member, not to the same chain as the original it's meant to replace.
3. Patrick Dempsey is significantly, almost impossibly, dreamier on the silver screen than he is on TV.

Waste Not Iowa City, the Recyclopedia is Here

Back in July, I shared my dream of an “[online] index of if and where (relative to your zip code) anything and everything can be recycled”.

Four months later, I’m grateful to report that this dream has—on a local level—become a reality. In other words, the Iowa City Recyclopedia is born!

iWasteNot Systems
Before I go any further, allow me to explain how this came to be. It all started with a simple email to iWasteNot Systems—a company whose services, I soon realized, extend far beyond the Recyclopedia.

The iWasteNot philosophy essentially assumes that for every item a person or company can no longer use, there exists another person or company who can use it. To that end, iWasteNot supplies "web-based waste reduction systems" (aka "Materials Exchanges") that allow those who don't needs things to bypass the landfill and instead give/sell them to those who do need things.

The company's most common services (see full list here) are (1) "Residential" exchanges like the Newton Reusable Materials Exchange (in Massachusetts) and the Madison Stuff Exchange (in Wisconsin), which exemplify the idea that “One person’s trash can be another person’s treasure”; and (2) "Industrial/Commercial" exchanges such as the Georgia Industrial Materials Exchange, which prove that “One company’s waste can be another company’s raw material”.

Other offerings include "Agriculture/Biomass/Forestry" exchanges like the Maryland Online Farmers Market and the aptly titled manuretrader.org (which literally facilitates the exchange of manure in and around Pennsylvania); and also "Electronics (E-Waste)" exchanges like this one based in British Columbia.

Recyclopedia: Iowa City
By contacting iWasteNot, I soon found a group of "virtual doppelgangers" who shared (and indeed expanded) my vision of harnessing the power of the Internet to reduce waste. What's more, I also found a uniquely informed and friendly business team who swiftly got my project off the ground, straightforwardly walking me through the initial steps; and patiently facilitated my gradual progress, promptly responding to any questions that arose along the way.

Four months later, the "beta" version of Recyclopedia Iowa City is here. To give you a brief overview of how it works, the main page simply lists an array of everyday items ranging from Aerosol to Vinyl Records (as of tonight, there are 27 entries and counting). Clicking on a given entry will display additional information on (a) how that item can be reduced, reused, or recycled; and (b) the names of specific (predominantly local) "Reuse Businesses and Charities" where that item can be either recycled or donated/sold for reuse.

How you can help
My hope is that, in time, the Recyclopedia will tear the proverbial roof off this sucker we call Iowa City/Johnson County, IA (and that, as a result, any literal roofs that are torn off will be donated to the ReStore or Salvage Barn for reuse)!

How can you aid this goal? Here, dear readers of Mic's Tape, are a few ways:

• Read: check out the site & puts its tips into practice
• Share: tell friends, coworkers, etc about the website
• Factcheck: let me know if any information on the Recyclopedia is incorrect
• Suggest: recommend new items that should be added
• Enlighten: share any additional Reuse charities/businesses that you know of
• Join: if you live outside Iowa City, contact iWastenot and get your area online (I'll help you)

Please consider this blog post an official Iowa City Recyclopedia "message board". Help "finetune" the site: keep the comments, critiques, and suggestions coming!

Cat Litter is the New Ethanol

The word on the street—typified by chants of "Distill, baby, distill!" (hat tip: O'Chihak)—is that the future of Iowa's economy is all about ethanol. But in my opinion, that ain't nothing but a bunch of bollocks.

Rather, it is my firm belief (and that of all within brumpelstiltskin) that Iowa's future fortunes will ride the coattails of a Muscatine-based company named GPC Pet Products.

But before I go on, allow me to briefly explain how we came upon this discovery. It all began with my decision (last month) to adopt two of my feline siblings, Dickens and Dolly, from my parents. Once they'd moved in, I had to buy cat food, toys, scratching posts, nail clippers, and litter. It was the latter item that brought me to GPC.

If it's yellow, let it mellow; if it's litter, flush it down the...
For litter advice, I turned to the experts at my favorite pet depot, who recommended the GPC product, "World's Best Cat Litter" (WBCL). Incredulous at first, I honed it on their slogan:

The only litter good enough to be called "World's Best".

"World's Best"? How on Earth do they back up such a boast? For starters, WBCL is naturally made (from corn kernels), safe, clumping, long-lasting, odor-controlling, biodegradable AND...wait for it...flushable! If you don't believe me (or even if you do), please click below to view the official product demo video:



To put all these claims to the test, I purchased a 7-lb bag of WBCL and instructed D & D to do their worst. Five weeks later, I'm pleased to report that all three of us are extremely satisfied with the results. Granted, unlike the demo salesman, I've yet to eat the litter, but I do feel qualified to assess the video's other claims. As suggested, WBCL is indeed dry, dust-free, and clean-feeling; highly absorbent and clumpable; odor-repelling and—insofar as cat litter goes—quite pleasant-smelling (not unlike the scent of home-brewed beer).

I’m also impressed by its longevity and cost-effectiveness. To be clear, WBCL is quite expensive up front—I’ve spent $20.12 so far on just two 7-lb bags—but after six weeks I’ve still got a half bag left, and thus fully expect to make it a full two months off a Jackson plus change. For comparison, the previous brand I purchased (a 10-lb bag of “Better Valu”, sold at a gas station) cost only $2.63, but stunk to high heaven and needed to be changed after about a week. So, at $20.12 per two months versus $2.63 per week, the long-term costs are essentially even.

"Litter" in name only
Personally, though, my favorite aspect of WBCL is its apparent earth-friendliness. Whereas the “Better Valu” scenario detailed above would add about 40lb of litter to the landfill each month; WBCL is biodegradable, flushable, and therefore necessitates zero new trash.

So, if you own a cat (or know someone who does), please consider using (or recommending) WCBL. If enough of us do so, we may just break Iowa's economic dependence on local oil.

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*Admittedly, it makes brumpelstiltskin slightly uneasy that California—a very environmentally progressive state—"discourages" the flushing of cat litter (a fact denoted by an asterisk on the WBCL bag), but unless evidence emerges that doing so is somehow environmentally-unfriendly, Mic's Tape will continue to use, flush, and endorse WBCL with relish.

The Skinny on Why TMZ is Thick

While walking through my office waiting area the other day, a certain magazine cover (pictured right) caused me to do a double take.

At first glance, it looked like it could have been an Onion article: a picture of a beautiful, healthy-looking celebrity—oddly paired with a “Stop Calling Me Fat!” byline—accompanied, no doubt, by a satirical article cleverly ridiculing our culture’s increasingly twisted ideals of “normal” weight and physical attractiveness.

But in actuality it was the 17 Dec 2007 issue of People magazine, in which the cover story detailed the reaction of actress/singer Jennifer Love Hewitt's (aka J. LoH) after gossip website TMZ.com published the above photo alongside the headline: "We know what you ate this summer, Love -- everything!"

Hewitt responded directly via her own website; here is an excerpt:

I've sat by in silence for a long time now about the way women's bodies are constantly scrutinized. To set the record straight, I'm not upset for me, but for all of the girls out there that are struggling with their body image.

A size 2 is not fat! Nor will it ever be. And being a size 0 doesn't make you beautiful.

Hewitt's concern for those "struggling with their body image" is very well-founded, especially since numerous scientific studies such as this one suggest a "direct effect of media exposure [to a thin ideal body image for women] on eating disorder symptoms".

Interestingly, Hewitt has been back in the headlines recently, only this time it's for having lost weight. The decision to seemingly flaunt her successful diet on the cover of Us Weekly has led some to question the consistency of her stance.

While there's little doubt that Hewitt's words and actions convey a mixed message, the stand she took against the media should be commended all the same. Our culture's distorted, unrealistic and unhealthy "thin ideal" needs to be challenged, and media outlets that shamelessly reinforce it—like TMZ—should be reviled.

A Day Late, a Five Cent Deposit Short

I felt like I'd shown up five minutes late to the Duran Duran vocalist audition to find Simon Le Bon already in the band. I was devastated, crestfallen, inconsolable.

For a good two years I'd been crafting this concept of a website: a user-driven, wiki-style index of if and where (relative to your zip code) anything and everything can be recycled.

Have a copy of George W. Bush's A Charge to Keep that you no longer want, but no one will take, let alone buy? No problem, your nearby facility, City Carton, just added book recycling to its repertoire. Does your company go through loads of ink cartridges that are ending up in landfills? Well, this company will pay you to let them recycle those. These are but a couple of the potential success stories I envisioned.

Anyway, I had the concept, the desire, and even a badass web design company to help make it happen. All I needed was a name.

And then, about a month ago, it came to me: Recyclopedia.

There it was. I felt like a schoolboy again, I was so excited! Within minutes, I called a friend to ask him if he was interested in helping. He was. From there, I began to brainstorm the logistics (possible costs, etc). But then, on a whim, I googled "Recyclopedia", which led me to THIS.

Recyclopedia.net? With a mixture of horror and wonder, I read the site's description:

This is a website to help you find information on how to correctly dispose of things. First choose your location and then find what you're trying to get rid of on the list. We'll tell you whether it can go out with the trash, in your blue box, to a charity or if it needs special attention.

That there was a website out there whose mission so closely paralleled my own, that I could believe. But that it literally had the exact same name, that was just eerie.

Well, for the last month I sulked—like a big, bitter baby—about being beaten to the punch. After more reflection, though, I now realize that all that matters is that someone has put this idea into effect. So, if your city/county is missing (like mine is) from Recyclopedia's small but growing database of participating areas, please join me in heeding their call:

If you don't see your location listed, drop us a line and we'll tell you how to get your area online.

Losing My (Artistic) Edge

I think it was Goethe who said: "He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds trust in his hairstylist".

Wait, there's no such quote? Damn. That would have made such a great opener. All right, let's start all over again.

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New England 1, Midwest 0. In the ongoing battle for cultural superiority, that is the latest score.

The reason, of course, is "The Artistic Edge" hair salon's recent relocation from Chicagoland, Illinois to Framingham, Massachusetts (79 Main St, Suite 103).

An exquisite skill with the blade
It has been my pleasure—and that of the entire Brumpelstiltskin blogging troupe—to be a confident client of The Artistic Edge for seven gloriously stylish years. Never had MC Gallagher let someone trim his unibrow, nor Greenspanke his neck hair, until we met Jen, the salon's founder and ace stylist, whose skill with the blade makes Sweeney Todd look like the Dabbling Barber of Geek Street.

Those who knew her as a young prodigy agreed that Jen was born to do hair—that it was in her blood—and many questioned if formal training would even be necessary. But the finest education she would receive: first under the tutelage of her grandma (herself an accomplished hair stylist); and later through the 1500-hour program of world-renowned cosmetology academy, Pivot Point International. Thus equipped with a first-rate fusion of nature and nurture, Jen graduated from Pivot Point in 2001. Soon after, the Artistic Edge was born.

While the salon offers a range of advanced services (e.g., color, highlights, lowlights), personally I’ve always received the traditional men’s cut. That said, there’s nothing traditional about Jen’s approach even to this basic service, which creatively combines a firm grasp of current popular trends with an instinctive awareness of individual wants and needs. Click here for an exclusive Mic’s Tape-sponsored coupon offering first-time clients a 20% discount off any of Jen’s services—which also include updo’s for special occasions (sample updo, above right).

Chairside manner par excellence
But besides being a master of her craft, Jen’s personality and demeanor—not to mention the salon itself (pictured above and below)—place The Artistic Edge among the most comfortable and inviting of salon atmospheres. Indeed, she’s the kind of stylist you suspect could have won the friendliest superlative in her high school yearbook.

I did not fully appreciate this latter point until Jen’s relocation left me in need of a replacement, and forced me down the street to the neighborhood Cost Cutters. "God, how many cowlicks do you have?" the stylist inquired as I sat down, thus launching a steady barrage of insults and barbs far sharper than the shears she would use to massacre my once-magnificent mane. “Do you even use conditioner?” she continued, a look of disgust on her face, before exclaiming: "Ugh, your hair is getting all over me"!

The contrast could not have been more profound. Like Shakespeare's Lear, cast overnight from kingly castle to forbidding tempest, I entered Cost Cutters expecting the royal treatment, but left feeling (and looking) like a Pumpkin Pie Haircutted Fool.

In the wake of such experience, it is with great zeal that I call upon New Englanders everywhere to capitalize on the glamorous gift that has landed in your midst. Trust one who knows: a salon combining a time-tested, hair-designing prowess with client-focused personality is a rare commodity to be cherished. So get thee with haste to The Artistic Edge, my friends, for a planeload of chic-deprived Midwesterners will be right behind you!

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Mike-Michael (pictured left, before his first visit to The Artistic Edge) will look like this once more if he doesn't book himself a ticket to Boston ASAP.

Ronaldo's Own Personal Crying Game

It once seemed inevitable that the dominant sports story for Spring 2008 would be the May 12 return of American Gladiators. That was the way it was supposed to go down, anyway.

But as the last few weeks have shown, life is full of surprises. Just ask Ronaldo.

Ronaldo, age 31, is a Brazilian football (aka soccer) superstar, a three-time former World Player of the Year (1996, 1997, 2002), and the most prolific goalscorer in FIFA World Cup history. However, it's an off-the-field "hat trick" that's earned him headlines as of late. Cue the video:

Our non-Portuguese-speaking readers may be a bit confused by this clip, but perhaps caught the words "prostituta" and "travesti"? These words were used because on April 28, Ronaldo (to quote the BBC's Jane Hadden): "left a nightclub with what he thought were three female prostitutes and took them to a motel. It was only after he got there that he discovered the women were actually men".

Ohh...

For the full details (including an excellent video clip in English), I'd recommend this story by BBC News.

To put it briefly, though, once Ronaldo realized there were "too many balls on the field", he promptly signaled his disinterest and offered the prostitutes $600 for their time. While two accepted, the third, Albertino, threatened to leak the incident to the Internet unless Ronaldo paid him $30,000.

In response, Ronaldo went to the Rio police and fessed up, and now Albertino is being investigated for attempted extortion. In his testimony to police, Ronaldo said: "I'm not going to pay [this money]. I may be publicly condemned, but I did nothing wrong".

While Ronaldo is indeed blameless from a legal standpoint (prostitution is not against the law in Brazil), many still question whether he, in fact, "did nothing wrong". Nonetheless, it's strangely refreshing to see a superstar athlete just come clean for once. In the era of Steroids and Co., it's hard to imagine many US athletes following suit.

The Price is Wrong, Bitch

As the human sibling of 11 (count 'em!) illegitimate feline brothers and sisters (of whom 36% are pictured left), I have firsthand experience with the profound ramifications of cat overpopulation.

For starters, there are the inevitable ribbings from friends that result as a corollary of Tigue's Law, which states that "as the number of cats that one adopts approaches ten, the probability that each new cat's name will be utterly ridiculous approaches one". (Just ask my younger brother, "Window Scratcher".)

Then there's the price. According to the ASPCA website, the average CPC (cost-per-cat) is $1035 for the first year and $670 for each year thereafter. Even if you remove all "luxury" expenses (i.e., toys/treats, health insurance, collars, scratching posts, carrier bags, and "misc."), you're still looking at $440/yr on food, litter and recurring medical expenses (plus an extra $280 during Year 1 on vaccinations, etc.). Given that the average lifespan of an indoor-only cat is 15 years, even under the second "luxury-free" scenario, a typical cat will cost $6880.

But there's more to this topic than monikers and money. Just a few weeks ago, amid an impulsive web search, I was unexpectedly struck—like a cat scratch—by the discovery that the scientific community has in recent years gone absolutely b.a.n.a.n.a.s. for felines. For the fever of curiosity that ensued, I knew the only prescription was to sink my teeth into the the first article I could get my hands on: "A review of feral cat control," written by Dr Sheilah Robertson of the University of Florida, and soon to be published by JFMS (that's The Journal of Feline Medicine and Surgery for you lay people).

Dr Robertson begins her review by defining the "feral" cat. Unlike my 11 siblings—who are among the estimated 90m "owned/pet" cats in the US—feral cats are not fortunate enough to be cared for by empathetic humans like my parents. Though sometimes defined in the literature simply as "escaped domestic cats gone wild" (aka the lost and abandoned), in truth the feral population also includes a massive subset who were never domesticated to begin with (e.g., barn and alley cats). While some rely on humans for varying degrees of food and shelter, they are all by definition free-roaming, and there are an astounding 25-100m of them in the US alone.

In her review Dr Robertson also details six main issues in the feral cat debate: (1) public health and zoonotic disease; (2) spread of disease to other species; (3) spread of disease to "pet" cats; (4) effects on local wildlife and ecosystems; (5) public nuisance (e.g., "the noise they make, fecal contamination and their presence around restaurants, cafes and other public places"); and last but certainly not least, (6) the welfare of the cats themselves.

The article also discusses potential solutions to this issue, but that will have to wait until a future post. In the meantime, for a clue, click here.

(This is the first installment in a planned two-part series)

Feel the Vibration!

Drinking coffee laced with vodka. Transferring to the University of Wisconsin. Throwing (and breaking) desk chairs against the dorm room wall. Spraying me in the face with a water bottle. Clawing my flesh.


The above actions have one thing in common: all were performed by various roommates I lived with in college (one of whom, I should mention, was a cat). Moreover, they were all arguably (and one undeniably) linked to the same precipitating factor: their roommate’s inability to get himself out of bed in the morning.

I was a snoozer all right, a snoozer who snoozed ad snoreum. But that was before I met the “Shake Awake” vibrating alarm clock.

Imagine, if you will, the faultless design of a lovable 1x4x3 inch alarm that nestles inconspicuously beneath your pillow while you sleep and dependably wakes you each morning; not with maddening, ear-piercing shrieks of sounds, but with firm yet impeccably gentle nudges of vibration. Minus a lover or pet, does a more appealing bed partner exist? I think not. And this one only costs ~ $30!

I’m not saying the Shake Awake is perfect; I’m just saying I haven’t seen any evidence to prove that it isn’t. Sure, there are some muckrakers out there who’ll try to tell you differently. Like John Crooks, a UK man who, in a recent interview with the Formby Times, whined and opined that his “Shake Awake alarm only worked if [he] didn't move [his] head off the pillow at night.” First off, who’s gonna trust someone with that dishonest of a surname? Secondly, even if this obvious slander were true, is it the Shake Awake's fault that Mr Crooks can't keep still at night?

Some people say I’m defensive about the Shake Awake, but they’re wrong (and witless). If anything, my behavior is offensive. Can I help it that I’m passionate about feeling the vibration, and that I’m ready to get aggressive so that others can wake up to this sweet sensation, too? In other words, as Marky Mark (Wahlberg) so funkily (and prophetically) once put it:

Vibrations good like Sunkist / Many wanna know who done this
[Shake Awake] and I'm here to move you / [3000 dimes] will groove you
And I'm here to prove to you / That we can [wake up] on the positive side
And pump positive vibes / So come along for the ride
Making you feel the rhythm is my occupation / So feel the vibration!

In conclusion (and in earnest), if standard alarms aren't your bag, or if your current setup tends to wake up your roommate, seriously consider checking this thing out.

Not Your Grandmother's American Gladiators

It’s typically only once every four years that I truly invest in a sporting event (FIFA's world cup), but that pattern ended last month when a renaissance of American Gladiators (AG) muscled its way onto my TV and into my heart.

Headlines last Fall of a Gladiators comeback compelled me to actually pinch myself, lest it all be a dream. But when I heard its co-host would be none other than "The Immortal" Hulk Hogan, I knew no mere pinch would suffice, and instead injected three cc's of steroids into my left bicep. When I still didn't wake up, I knew it was the real deal -- and brother, there's been gladiator blood pumping through these pythons ever since!

It became clear within a few minutes of its debut (on Jan 6) that AG Mach II had undergone some changes (since it last aired in 1996), no doubt in an attempt to render the show more palatable to its 21st century audience. The contestants’ human-interest montages, for instance, were noticeably more “reality”-based (and the gladiators’ bodies a bit less so, dare I presume?). But some things never change in Gladiator Arena, like its ability to inspire everyday people to reach down deep, achieve the impossible, and thus become a modern day Russell Crowe.

Take last night's season finale, in which lowly Chicago athletic instructor Evan Dollard and Oregon soccer mom Monica Carlson eliminated The Eliminator to become the show's newest champions. Their prize: $100,000, a new 2008 Toyota Sequoia, the right to become a Gladiator next season and -- most crucially, I think -- the chance to do some serious "hanging and banging" in the gym with The Hulkster.

As for the actual Gladiators, it was pretty much a foregone conclusion heading into this season that none within the new crop could possibly challenge the original season's Malibu (see video below) for the title of "coolest gladiator ever". Nonetheless, the 2008 generation has certainly impressed. Heading the pack, without question, is the 6'4" 225-lb Wolf (pictured above). A perfect hybrid of carnivorous beast and gifted showman, Wolf particular excels in Hang Tough, in which he consistently "claws and paws" his prey, thus inflicting them with "the mange", but not before he first makes them -- as The Hulkster so eloquently put in last night -- swing around "like a monkey who couldn’t find a banana anywhere in the jungle".

Season Two can't come soon enough...



Mike-Michael (not pictured) fills in the gaps for brumpelstiltskin and Mic's Tape; he's as uncommitted to a topic as he is a first name.