Posted by Nolan Dalla on Feb 26, 2013 in Blog, Essays |
This American patriot can die for his country, but he can’t buy a beer.
Can someone please explain the logic behind “legal age” laws in this country?
How’s it possible that we allow 18-, 19-, and 20-year-olds to freely enlist in the military and perhaps even die a senseless death over in a faraway place — as indeed happens every single day — but these same brave young people can’t even buy a beer?
How’s it possible that we allow 18-, 19-, and 20-year-olds to appear in pornographic movies, but they can’t play a hand of poker inside most casinos?
What’s up with our thoroughly absurd “age” laws?
Seems to me that giving a 19-year-old the keys to a $50-million dollar tank — a weapon more than capable of demolishing an entire village of families — would somehow instill enough sense of trust that he’d also be able to order a draft beer or a glass of wine.
Seems to me that if a young, often desperate girl can freely make the decision to expose her body to the world and fuck on camera for money, she ought to be able to pull the lever on a slot machine. I know — I’m such a pervert filled with corrupting influences on the nation’s youth.
Fact is, our nation’s age laws are preposterous. Why? Because they don’t do shit to combat issues for which they’re intended. Largely sculpted by a well-meaning organization called Mothers Against Drunk Driving (M.A.D.D.), back during the 1980′s states began to uptick age-related laws shortly after I was lucky enough the make the final cut and slide into home plate as a boozing 18-year-old. During the Reagan and Bush (Sr.) Administrations, states were pressured into revamping all drinking laws to “age 21,” or else risk losing federal highway funds. So, any movement to protect the legitimate rights of young people was squashed.
But aside from the obvious hypocrisy of the military-drinking paradox, age laws on gambling are equally as baffling. Everyone’s up in arms about the prospect of young people gambling (shudder), including playing online poker. Alas, much of the resistance to legalizing online poker stems from (unfounded) concerns about young people gaining access to the family credit cards and then blowing up the entire credit line in a losing session of Hold’em.
Puuuuhleeeez.
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Posted by Nolan Dalla on Feb 25, 2013 in Blog, Music and Concert Reviews, Restaurant Reviews |
Writer’s Note: This is a follow up to the February 22nd column, HOW TO AVOID A SHITTY RESTAURANT.
After getting burned by the lousy barbeque joint, the following night I head over to the Thai place just across the street.
Good food. Excellent service. Very affordable. Just like every other Thai restaurant on the planet. I have this conspiracy theory that the food in every Thai restaurant actually comes out of one giant kitchen somewhere over in China (hell, everything’s made in China). I also think the staff are robots. I always seem to get the same 25-year-old skinny waitress with a flower in her hair and perfect skin who speaks broken English and never gets the “spice scale” right when I order a “4.”
However, no one warned me about the vault of horror that I’d experience towards the tail end of my dinner. No one dared to inform me of the musical trigger of indigestion following my main course. Like a random act of terror, it just happened. Like an explosion out of nowhere. And I couldn’t do goddamned thing to get out of the way.
Question: What’s the most nauseating thing you can think of while dining inside a restaurant? Seeing a bug scurrying across the floor? Hair in your food? A karaoke machine? No, much worse than that.
Think real torture.
Think “Guantanamo Bay” kind of torture.
Well by now, you’ve probably figured it out.
I’m talking — Asian guy singing “You Light Up My Life.”
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Posted by Nolan Dalla on Feb 25, 2013 in Blog |
People with peanut allergies shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce.
Seriously.
Why should the rest of the world be denied the pleasure of eating peanuts in public because a few freaks happen to break out in hives whenever there’s scent of a peanut within the same zip code?
Allergic to peanuts? Sorry. Wear a mask or something. Or move to the moon.
When I fly on Southwest Airlines, I typically scarf down 8 to 10 bags of peanuts — the three I paw from the flight attendant, plus the seven I manage to pilfer during my bogus trip to the restroom. Hey — if I’m paying $279 round trip for a cross-country flight buckled up in coach and I don’t even get the luxury of being served a decent meal, then I’m going to stuff myself so full of peanuts that the following day I’ll be shitting Payday bars.
But now, the inmates are taking over the asylum. The peanut police are fucking up everybody’s fun. They’ve already succeeded in removing peanuts from our public schools. And, vending machines are taking out peanut products because they “contaminate” the hallways of hotels. The peanut Nazis are even close to obliterating them from airplanes. What next? “Peanut-free Pad Thai?”
It’s got to stop. Now.
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Posted by Nolan Dalla on Feb 24, 2013 in Blog, Movie Reviews |
I’ve watched every single Academy Awards presentation since 1972. Haven’t missed a single year.
And without any doubt whatsoever, I can say this is the very worst year for movies in more than four decades. Nonetheless, I’m still going to be watching and cheering come Sunday night.
Here are my picks and preferences for each of the major categories:
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Posted by Nolan Dalla on Feb 23, 2013 in Blog, Rants and Raves |
What’s up with hair stylists?
Why in the hell do I have to hear every detail of their life story when I sit down in a barber’s chair? I mean, fuck — I’ve known you for what, maybe fifteen minutes? And I already know more about you than members of my own family.
Please do me a favor. Just shut the fuck up and cut my hair!
Seriously. Is that too much to ask?
You’re looking at a photo I snapped yesterday of me and “Maria.” She’s a stylist at the hotel where I’m staying. During my 35-minute ordeal with Maria, she never stopped yapping. Not once. Worse, she asked me several questions about myself and when I wasn’t forthcoming with much conversation, she decided to tell me her own life story. She’s 53, was born in Cuba, is divorced, has three kids and went through menopause 14 months ago. I can recite all their Social Security numbers and birthdays, and tell you what each of them had for dinner last Tuesday night, too — if anyone’s interested.
I realize that walking in and winging it with any new barber pretty much amounts to taking the plunge of a blind date. That said, my work schedule sometimes requires that I gamble with my personal grooming. Or, skip haircuts altogether.
It’s time for those of us forced to sit in barber’s chairs and endure this abuse to reclaim our rights. What follows is a code of conduct for people who cut hair for a living. A drum roll please.
Here are my “Ten Commandments for Hair Stylists:”
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