Chris Walker Vs. Breaking Up Happy Homes

Exactly when did the internet become psychic? I spent a good twenty minutes trying to book a flight yesterday. It took a long time because, evidently, if you want to fly from Reno, Nevada to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania it will take you a year to get there. If I didn’t know any better I’d swear Harrisburg was somewhere in the Philippines. You can fly to Los Angeles, spend the night, and fly back to Reno in the same amount of time it would take you to get to Harrisburg. As glorious as it may sound, I didn’t feel like spending that much time getting drunk in Red Carpet rooms.

Comparatively, a flight from Reno to Cleveland, Ohio only takes about six hours. To fly from Cleveland to Harrisburg only takes an hour. Do the math. (Keep in mind, Ohio and Pennsylvania are neighboring states.) I don’t know, maybe airlines just hate Harrisburg. Either way, instead of flying direct, I’ve opted to make a detour in Cleveland for a day.

This isn’t as bad as it may sound. I love Cleveland. It might be because I’ve only ever spent a day and a half there. Or it might be because the thought of people surfing in raw sewage in the winter time is awesome. But it’s probably because Cleveland is where I’ve had the best cocktails of my entire life. Not to mention, the Sixth City is a charming place, full of wonderful people, doing extraordinary things. I’m happy to be once again visiting the city of “progress and prosperity.”

But that’s not really the point here. The point is, after booking my flight and briefly looking for a hotel room, every single advertisement I saw afterward, whether on Hotmail or MySpace or wherever, all had to do with hotels: Holiday Inn, Four Points by Sheraton, Days Inn. Days Inn on MySpace? It’s just a little strange. Suddenly, I find myself anticipating a friend request from Motel 6.

I guess I’m a little too awed by what internet cookies are capable of. You all know what “cookies” are, right? The wonderful, little, invasions of privacy that track who you are, where you go, and what you do on the internet. I don’t like the internet keeping tabs on me, giving me suggestions, placing advertisements it thinks I might be interested in. Not only is it evasive and annoying, it has the potential to ruin relationships. Imagine if I’d been looking up gay chat rooms and suddenly all the advertisements became shirtless dudes. I don’t want people looking over my shoulder thinking I’m really into that. It was a one time thing. C’mon!

But perhaps even more troublesome than the advertisements tailored to your web site viewing is the Google Search bar on your web browser. It should be helpful but it isn’t, it breaks up happy homes. Raise your hand if something like this has happened to you:

You: “Hey, honey, where do you want to eat tonight?”
Your Girlfriend: “I don’t know, how about Bistro 7?”
You: “Sounds good, you mind checking when they’re open ‘til?”
Your girlfriend saunters over to your laptop, opens Foxfire, and goes for the Google search bar. She starts typing in “Bistro 7” but as soon as she enters in the ‘b’ and the ‘i’ Google makes “Big Black Booty Bitches” an option.
Your Girlfriend: “Honey…”
You: “Yeah?”
Your Girlfriend: “Do you have something you want to tell me?”
You: “Um, not off the top of my head. Why?”
Your Girlfriend: “Nothing about big, black bitches?”
You [after a healthy pause]: “I haven’t the faintest clue as to what you’re talking about.”
Your Girlfriend: “Mmm hmm.”
You: “Fuck you, woman! Just find out what time the goddamn restaurant is open until! Google is the devil!”

See what I’m talking about? Google: Breaking. Up. Happy. Homes. It’s a fact. So remember, kids, erase that web history on a daily basis lest your girlfriend find out you’re into big, black, booty bitches.

A COUPLE REASONS I LOVE CLEVELAND:

The Velvet Tango Room

Lola Bistro

Chris Walker Vs. The Breakfast Of A Champion

Dear Health Experts of America,

Shut up. All of you. Right now. Especially you, Rebecca Solomon of the Mount Sinai Medical Center. You’re upset because eight-time Olympic gold medalist Michael Phelps is going to be on a box of Frosted Flakes, instead of Wheaties, since Frosted Flakes contains three times the amount of sugar and one-third the fiber?

From the New York Daily News, “The announcement yesterday that Phelps … would grace Frosted Flakes and Corn Flakes boxes instead of the traditional athlete’s choice of Wheaties left many perplexed.” The article continues with a quote from Solomon, “I would rather see [Phelps] promoting Fiber One. I would rather see him promoting oatmeal. I would even rather see him promoting Cheerios.” Really? Because I would rather see him promoting Toys R Us. Mikey P, with his swimming cap on, grinning enthusiastically while a giant giraffe blows him. BUT IT’S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. Michael Phelps on a Frosted Flakes box instead of a Wheaties box is not perplexing. It’s not complicated. It’s simple: Kellogg’s offered more money than General Mills did and Phelps, probably realizing no one will care about him a month from now, chose the biggest payday. (Kellogg’s owns Frosted Flakes; General Mills owns Wheaties.) That’s it. You want to see Phelps on a box of Fiber One? Fiber One can’t afford Phelps. Kellogg’s can. It’s not about nutritional value. It’s about money. And when Phelps was presented with that check – jam packed with zeros – I highly doubt kid’s nutrition was on his mind. I’m sure it was more along the lines of, “Now I can finally hook up with Carrie Underwood.”

Who cares about cereal anyway? Frosted Flakes, Wheaties, they’re both horrible. I can’t even believe cereal is still on supermarket shelves. I almost forgot it was there. When was the last time anyone even bought cereal? We’re all at Jamba Juice or Starbucks or the McDonald’s drive thru…or maybe your girlfriend packs you a bag full of almonds and blueberries. I don’t even think kids eat cereal anymore. Maybe Count Chocula, but not Frosted Flakes or Wheaties. And if they are eating Frosted Flakes or Wheaties it’s probably because their parents make them, and if that’s the case it doesn’t matter who’s on the box, the kids don’t have a choice.

All these over-sensitive activists, “We have to protect the children.” Of course we do but not on this. When I was a kid eating cereal I was never under the impression that if I ate enough I would become a six-foot-six basketball player named Michael Jordan. I didn’t even like Wheaties, I liked Crispix. And I was more enthralled by the little mazes on the back of the box than who was on the front. Are kids today really so dumb that they believe they will become the person on their food boxes? Are young boys afraid to eat Triskets, fearing they’ll transform into Rachael Ray? If so, the problem doesn’t lie in what they’re eating for breakfast, it lies in parenting.

I tell you what, Rebecca Solomon and friends, if you want to get all huffy and puffy and act concerned about something, I have a suggestion. (Since we all know you’re not really concerned with Phelps being on a Frosted Flakes box. It’s a publicity stunt. The Olympics are huge right now and you want to cash in. This got your name in the paper. I understand.) Instead of wasting your time on cereal, why don’t you focus your attention on Electronic Arts’ John Madden football franchise. This August, EA and 7-Eleven – home of the microwavable burrito and heat-lamped taquito – have teamed up to promote the new Madden NFL 09 video game. Now, when you stop by your local 7-Eleven to buy a king-sized candy bar and nachos, you can also pick up the latest installment of the most popular sports video game of all time. Why don’t you grab a “Madden Meal” while you’re at it? Including Frito Lay potato chips, a sub sandwich, a Snickers bar, and a collectible Big Gulp cup, it’s exactly what you need to go pro. Nothing says “I want to be an NFL football player” like potato chips and soda.

Never, not even once, have I met a child who wanted to be a professional swimmer. I have, however, met countless ones who aspire to be professional football players, who’ve found role models in professional football players, and play football video games. (What can I say, I hang out on playgrounds a lot.) You health experts have your priorities backwards. You’re worried about what the current celebrity of a sport that is only acknowledged ONCE EVERY FOUR YEARS is endorsing while the definitive football franchise, Madden, the one all young males know and play and clamor for, associate itself with what is essentially the worst form of “food” imaginable, completely unchecked. And you call yourself experts? You’re stupid. No wonder we have a childhood obesity epidemic that we can’t solve. You should all go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done. You deserve a spanking.

LINKS:
Breakfast of a champion? Frosted Flakes! Phelps signs with cereal

EA Promoting Launch of Madden NFL 09 at 7-Eleven(R) Stores Nationwide

Chris Walker Vs. Subconscious Association

For the first time in a long time, I had fun in Las Vegas. I was there on business, staying in a suite at the Wynn Hotel and Resort, taking clients to restaurants like Craftsteak and calling it work. There are worse ways to spend one’s time in Sin City. Instead of gallivanting through lavish hotels, drinking gin martinis, and eating Kobe beef carpaccio, you could hang out with loser assholes who grow weed in their house, or with so-called friends who hit on your girlfriend behind your back after you’ve bought them lunch for the umpteenth time. But why would you do that?

While the Vegas trip was a long series of highlights, none of them need to be shared here… except for one: an incident at The OG, the strip club formerly known as Olympic Gardens. I went there to see Supergene, the DJ at The OG and a good friend of mine, before going back to Reno. Tthe most memorable part of the evening was an exchange I had with a really old, unattractive, Asian stripper:

Really Old, Unattractive, Asian Stripper [yelling, about an inch from my face]: “I want make your dick hard! I dance for you!”
Me: “Whoa! No thank you. I tell you what, though, if you have a duck house nearby I’m interested in that.”

Now, at first, my comment might sound racist, and it may in fact be. However, I wasn’t insinuating that since the woman was Asian she should work at, own, or operate a restaurant specializing in roasted duck from the Yuan Dynasty. She just really looked like crafting Asian cuisine was her profession, not stripping, so I immediately thought of, well, a Peking duck house. She looked like the lady who yells at me at the Chinatown restaurant Sam Wo, only she had on purple makeup and was wearing this geisha-corsage-halloween costume that wasn’t even remotely sexy. After she nearly accosted me, my initial reaction was, “What, did I fall asleep at the counter? Is my order up?” It was a subconscious reaction caused by her voice and appearance. And to prove this isn’t some racist undercurrent, another Asian stripper approached me later in the night, when I saw her I didn’t think, “I bet she makes a good Bánh canh.” No, I thought, “I hope this whore doesn’t get glitter all over me.”

It’s just an association our minds make when we see something we’re able to relate with something else. )I know there are scientific terms for this, Cognitive Science or Cognitive Recognition or something, and there are books written by far more prolific people than myself on the subject but, c’mon, let’s not get crazy here. I think I bore all of you enough with my USDA statistics and sources regarding meat recalls and tomatoes.) I do the same thing with the Barefoot Contessa. Whenever I see the Contessa on her Food Network show I immediately think of my grandmother in her prime. I still think my grandmother looks like the Contessa because she used to, and that’s how I remember her. I also do this whenever I see a woman out at a bar who looks like Nigella Lawson. I never think, “Wow. I’d love to hook up,” I do, however, muse, “If we go back to her place, I wonder if she’d make me a killer chocolate soufflé.”

Not all of my associations have to do with food, though. Here are some non-culinary relations I make:

Guys who talk on Bluetooth headsets = Assholes.
Aside from a super-sized portion of self-love, I also think, “That guy must have the smallest penis in the world. And I bet he blames his wife because he’s bad at sex. After he pulls the Yukon into the driveway, he probably goes into the house and slaps her right across the face. Completely unprovoked.”

NASCAR fans or overly patriotic people = rednecks and/or idiots, in the purest form possible.
Case in point:

What a patriotic individual. What an idiot. And you know President Bush loves NASCAR. Watching things go around in a circle for hours. He can’t get enough.

Girls who’ve dyed their hair and now their roots are prominently showing = messy undercarriage.
If she’s not maintaining the hair on top of her head you can almost guarantee she’s not taking care of anything else.

7′1″ tall men with stunning mustaches = Wilt Chamberlain.

But who doesn’t make that association?