Variations on the Origin of Two Buck Chuck: Preface and Myth #1

Apparently there are some facts to the matter, but as far as I can tell, something is not being said. This must be more than a simple "wine glut." And I don't know about you, but I'm more intrigued by the "several inventive urban legend-like explanations" for the insanely low price of this very drinkable stuff than by any other cool-headed or "fact-based" reports on the reality of a thing that, let's be real, is much more fantastic than legal (taste-based dissent largely welcome here). So in the spirit of spirits, let's get some story.

Origin myth #1 - The Claw
Those things that you never win but you saw some kid win once and ever since always tell people when you're at the arcade or the Chuck E. Cheese, "Hey, those things are a scam, but I saw some little girl one time pull out a huge stuffed panda by the tag, no shit." Those claw things, the grabber game. SO it happened that one Charles Herbert Davidson Lesley Shaw once felt like you did. Right around the time that these games started making waves in mini-malls across the country, Chucky Shaw was lucky enough the be at the ribbon cutting on 7th and Harrison and watch the first quarter drop, and then the claw, and then the soft and empty return. The groan and the laughter of the crowd. Oh, technology, it will dupe us! And he watched again, and again, and again, tall then pudgy then middle-aged kid after kid step up to big box of toys and lose money fast, all the while developing a strategy that would marry the girth of stuff and the swing and sway of delayed-closing claw in a gift and a prize. In hope for humanity! Groans and laughter turned to muffled anguish among those still left in the quickly dissipating crowd. But Chucky, he stayed. Until the very end, he stayed! The last of the night, mall locking up at 9 bells, Chucky hung on determined.
He stepped to the box. He deposited his quarter. He scanned the field of stuffed friends and one very bright stuffed football. He gripped the joystick, his thumb hovering over that little red button on its top. Prepared, attuned, empathetic, heroic, he sprung! Before he knew it the button was depressed and the red lighted numbers counted down from 30. As if in a flash all of the animals had seemed to move from where he had locked them in his mind. Where was the exposed tag? Where the protruding horse leg? And the football, where had it gone, so well-shaped for the contour of the three-pronged claw? Down to 20, to 15, he raced the claw around the track so it swung in a jangly circle. Down to 10, he needed to regain claw stability! He could see his quarter disappearing forever into what he knew to be an uncountable pile of coins. Down to 5! Plunge! So he plunged, depressed the red button so the claw would swoop somewhere around the middle. What happened next he could not have guessed.
In a strange iteration of fat chance, the claw dove into the mess of stuffed toys at a speed and depth as yet unseen during the day. A glitch in the system, most likely, but good old Chucky liked to call it the fortunes of wisdom and patience. The claw now hidden somewhere at the bottom of the red box, the machine whizzed and groaned as if stuck, almost broken, as the young Chuck stepped back to watch this giant new machine, backlit by the yellow of sporadic mini-mall off-hours floodlights, struggle and a place that was only just today introduced to the claw language of new arcade technology. The groan turned to a whir, then to a whiz, then silence! Chucky, he said to himself, you've killed the monster.
Approaching resignation, he made the motion as if to turn and leave. Another quarter lost, just as stupid as all those other saps. But the patience and the wisdom, as he learned to tell it many years later, stuck in him somehow and won out. He held firm for at least a minute. The box, conceding, glowed a fantastic silver glow. Angels began to sing. The claw shivered, and rose! dislodging a bear here, a dolphin there, with a prize of apparently tremendously weight. At the top of it, pulling out of the mound of stuffs, a burgundy glass bottle shimmered in the box. Clank, clunk, clunk. Out it came, into the prize slot. Chucky, thrilled, awed, reached in his hand a pulled out a bottle of wine. From around the back side of the claw game box, a mechanical golden arm reached toward the prize and popped its cork. Chucky, the victor, the liberator of at least one lost quarter, took a swig. Then another swig. Oh youth, how it flees.
Long story short, Mr and Mrs Chuck Shaw Sr. sued both mini-mall and arcade company for a shit ton of money after finding their kid next day drunk and asleep at the base of claw game. News reports from around the country showed this game malfunction to have been rather a genius game-technician epidemic prank. Chucky, endowed well with his parents winnings, lived the rest of his life in wealth, in the joy of that short and not-well-remembered evening, and in the steadfast hope that if someone's gonna pay a quarter, the best possible prize is wine. With inflation and all that, quarter jumped up to two bucks, Chucky bought some wine and sold it cheap. For the people, of course.

The Contributor Must Contribute

It's been a while. I admit it. I have not been on the top of my game. When we started this blog, I thought I would post something every day. However, it quickly came to my attention that my blog posts were the shortest of all the great authors submitting their thoughts to our blog. In an effort to fight my laconic ways, I thought it would be prudent to wait a few days to built an arsenal of thoughts and anecdotes to share with all of y'all. Alas, it has not been fruitful. While plenty has happened in my life, my drinking habits prevent me from remembering it accurately enough to share appropriately. So while our blog endures these times of great doubt, let me just say that this strategy has been quickly abandoned. Thoughts will be echoed as soon as they occur, no matter the length. As the great Franklin Delano Roosevelt once said, "Be sincere, be brief, be seated." Words to live one's life by.

Things That Could Only Happen To Me-Titanic etc.

The Titanic is on ABC Family...RIGHT NOW.  I'm sure the loyal readers of 37% Blog knew that though. I'm sure you've all set a google alert for every time the movie is on cable.  I'm sure this is true because, honestly, can anyone think of a better way of spending four and a half hours than watching a slow burn towards Jack's demise?  I guess thats kind of a bad way of thinking about the movie, but thats their own damn fault.

Titanic, to this day, amazes me. It won best picture despite having some of the worst lines of dialogue imaginable ("take me...to the stars, Jack").  They chose a female lead who was great, but lets be honest, wasn't the least bit attractive.  This is fairly ordinary, but the most famous scene in the movie (don't deny it) is pictured below:

BUT the thing that amazes me the most about it is the mere fact that it has stayed relevant.  Here are the facts: its a historical period piece that is a slow three hours, and heavily features Billy Zane.  In today's world of shrunken attention spans, I can't see anyone actually sitting down and watching this movie, let alone the type of little nerdnogs who watch ABC Family.  The thing takes four and half hours for god's sake.  Let me explain how long four and a half hours is.

When the movie came on tonight I was leaving the friendly confines to head home for a few day's break.  Me and my upright bass were going to Penn Station to hop an Amtrak train for Kingston.  When I got out of the apartment the torrents of rain forced to hail a cab.  This took forever because I had to wait for a an open SUV cab (almost as rare as Mewtwo).  Once inside cab I quickly realized I had one of those hateful cab drivers that claimed the traffic was bad but really just wanted to spike the fare by taking THE STUPIDEST MOST INDIRECT ROUTE POSSIBLE. This, mixed with actual bad traffic meant that it was 40 minutes before I got to Penn.  Once inside, I tried to get my ticket at one of the do-it-yourself kiosks.  When the machine couldn't read my credit card, I got in line for an antiquated, human-manned ticket counter.  After ten minutes in line, the human at the counter told me that I would have to buy a second ticket to take my bass on the train.  Needless to say, this made me think in capital letters.  But the human was a nice one and told me to speak with a manager because, "maybe he could do something for you".  I went over to the customer service desk actually thinking that this manager might help me out.  What I forgot was that I was about to speak to a useless middle manager who works for a useless, price gouging company who, despite being a government organization, clearly hates freedom. He told me that I had to buy another ticket because there was nowhere to put my bass besides the seat next to me.  I said, "sir, there is no way an upright bass would fit  in a train seat. The ceiling is far too low".  This was his argument: "if a heavy set man can fit in a seat, a bass can".  The condescending way he said this to me caused me to not only think in capital letters, but speak in them.  "THATS BECAUSE THEY CAN BEND THEIR LEGS.  BASSES DON'T HAVE LEGS" I said to him.  Long story short, I got nowhere with him and I bitterly set off for the subway.  After two subway rides which took about 20 minutes each, I arrived at 3rd ave. and 14th st. Now here's why Titanic is so freaking long (Ha! You thought this run on paragraph was also completely aimless!):  When I finally got back up the stairs of 155 2nd ave, after my enraging, rain soaked misadventure, the freaking boat hadn't even begun to sink yet.  Jack and Kate hadn't even fooled around in the old-timey car! Even as I continue this never ending paragraph, the movie isn't over.  How is a kid of 11 supposed to pay any attention to this movie.  The thing came on like three VHS tapes when it first came out.  What the....how?

Anyway, the movie is long and I hate Amtrak. Oh, and Billy Zane once wore this:

The Fall of the Roman Empire

Internal rot, external force. Purportedly. That's how it happened over the long run.

The widely held view of simple scholars brings our attention to the commingling of two multi-limbed factors in an historiographical bedding, the mattress of which being the sweet foundations of the democratic state, and the unsightly stains, well, pretty much ancillary to a relationship already destructive and destroyed before anyone gets to say, "what the hell color is that." Rome was largely unstable, had a fear of commitment, just opened up the door to new things and forgot entirely who it was. Barbarian collective wouldn't stop giving Rome shit all the time and it was funny at first but then it stopped being funny at all, someone was not laughing and I'll give you a hint: it was Rome. They got in the room and shut the door and all kinds of shit came out ("your mother" this, and "you eat too much Indian food" that) like real senseless, basic shit that digs in a little at a time until SPLAT something pops and a splinter comes out. Except in the case at hand the splinter was most likely a large wooden rod with a sharpened iron point and the splat was a deadly impaling turning into a KABOOM, the sound of popular representation and thong sandals and the Coliseum all exploding on the bed.

Internal rot, external force. Brings it down.

Now. In a spirit of unselfish loyalty infused with a tinge of revenge and a whole lot of hilarity, I come to you. Spirits of the blogosphere, readers of the night. By way of surprise, it was brought to my attention in post below that a strange looking man and another strange looking man are trapped in a strange resemblance. That one of these men is allegedly the author of current post is not entirely beyond me. Such an allegation begs, however, me, questions of the moral turpitude of my companion posters, or if there's just an expectation to fail, at all times, at collegiality, in the structure of this blog system that I happened to miss when I signed up. Something's wrong with these guys, basically, and it hurts me to watch. Nevertheless, maintaining said loyalty and revenge and, en tout temp et en tout lieu, an attempt at hilarity, it seems that I have to make a decision. It is, as they say in Scrabble, my turn. Any posturing here is political, as I'm already a part of the game. Response or no response, position is crucial. Ignoring the attack on this poster's person, on what some argue to be this poster's face, is an option, but I won't even pretend to think about what consent you, fair reader, might pull out of this poster's silence to the issue (He's making too much of this, you say. He's blogging about a facebook pic, you say.) The stink of internal photographic rot swills out of 37% blog like out of a bunch of dead men in the sun, togaed. Claiming the picture or, conversely, denying the picture, will in either case suggest a posting-worth to a previous poster that I'm just not all that willing to consider. Nor am I willing to render an attack on a blog that, given two posts back, and really all the ones before it, is suffering, tottering, could very well be on its way out. I will not be the external force to your internal rot, I guess is where the metaphor takes us.

A separate option exists! One that, if history teaches us anything, takes the greatest failures of our greatest civilizations and assimilates their not-clever effects into the fruitfulness of their intentions, and into the future! Let it be so! Let the photographs rain unto kingdom come, that previous post might not be an unsightly mustard-colored stain on a bed in flames, but the first dobs of a magnificent and continuous work of art! Let us take in the past with the present, the present with the past! Let our comments swoon! Let our angers enlighten! Let it all take place, and here! And there! Let us cocoon our spite and embarrassment and the tilted head of one clearly unaware of a camera or its flashing, cocoon it all in a, well, in a cocoon - a cocoon of loyalty and good will and hilarity, inhale into it a flicker of revenge, take it into our systems and breathe out something better. Let it grow!

Long live democracy!

And this, fair readers, is, among other things, what democracy looks like.

Also probably some extraterrestrials.

Watch This!

I'm a pretty avid movie watcher these days mainly because my roommates and I are too cheap to pay for cable and because, one way or another, I can get my hands on just about any new film, mainstream and independent alike, with relative ease. Watching so many films you tend to notice that most of them begin, progress and end in a similar fashion with nothing really that creative or memorable ever being produced. Given that I have little else to write about right now, I thought I would start by talking about some of the amazing and/or orginal independent films I have seen recently that you might not have heard of but should most definitely check out.

The first film I'm gonna talk about goes by the name of Four Lions (2010)and is directed by Chris Morris from across the pond in England. It depicts the planning and execution of a suicide bombing during the London Marathon told from the perspective of the four-man Muslim terrorist cell involved. If after a brief description like that you jumped to the conclusion that this film is likely wrought with loads of tension and controversy, you could not have made a less accurate assumption. The fact that this film is about such a potentially offensive topic is rendered moot simply because only one of this fictional cell's members can be assumed to have an IQ above that of a donkey.

Omar, the clever leader of his inept group of friends starts their quest for martyrdom by travelling to his home of Pakistan accompanied by his idiot best friend Waj in order to gain the religious and tactical approval of their attack from the higher ups. Meanwhile, back in England the dimwittedly doomed Faisal and the reckless, loud-mouthed Barry try to calculate an ideal target that would take as many unbelievers as possible. A clash of ideologies combined with a total lack of common sense leads the group tumbling from an impassioned Jihad into what becomes an uproarious escapade which is nothing short of complete and utter buffoonery.

So if you're looking for a fresh, original comedy that combines the outrageousness of the Hangover with the satire and sarcasm that only the Brits do best, Four Lions should be rushed straight to the top of your Netflix queue.

Note:

You may find it difficult to understand their accents/slang and as result some of the comedy may be lost but try and give it a little extra attention so you can fully grasp the film in it's ridiculous entirety. If you want, places like www.subscene.com have free downloadable subtitles so, however you get the film, just get the English subtitles and put the .srt file in the same folder as the movie and they should run (you may have to turn subtitles on in your viewer).

Just an Observation

I would first like to extend a warm welcome to our newest author jiklawl(jklol), and express my appreciation for his first blog post. Not only did he alert us all to someone who deserves our attention, but he inadvertently introduced us all to fellow author Rakish's celebrity doppleganger! Thick of beard, and clear of mind, such a man cannot fail.

The Slap Heard Around My Left Cheek: Madlib

Last night, my dear, sweet Auntie Lorraine, was a momentous occasion in my young life. It was my first official abnormal psych. exam / food fight. Let me set the scene. We were in Ryan's Irish Auditorium, a fine little Irish auditorium with good burgers and cold Guinness on 2nd ave (the place is not but 20 feet from my other class). It was probably 2:30am and we had settled into the desks along one wall. There I was, surrounded by nerds, sisters of friends and Todd, when out of nowhere I feel someone hug me from behind. I was confused. Everyone I came with was rapt in test-taking. I was even more confused when I turned around and it was just some hungry kid. He started mumbling something about my shirt and how he's from the other dimension. We have a little chat about Freud, ya know nothing confrontational. Next thing I know, I feel some clown picking at my test dinner then BOOM, a full fledged, burgers-launching, Freudian patty slap across my buns.

Listen, I get it. It was a long time coming. I'm sure there's been people in every phase of my life that have wanted nothing more than to come over to the desk I'm writing my test at, hug me, then cop my meal and totally distract me in one way or another so that they might steal my studied and generally well-thought-out responses. Its a natural reaction to my A+ average and colored hats. If, in a court of law, this guy's uncle said "Judge Judy, he was SITTING and had a purple hat OVER HIS FRIES", I bet Judge Judy leaves the bench and asks me something about how one goes about eating while testing or what kind of classroom is this or what exactly is the deal. But I digress. Back to the action.


What happened next was pretty great. My co-contributors, the CONTRIBUTOR and James (name to come later) were also testing but really just in a burger coma and totally exam STUMPED for lack of proportioned eat/test combo that I was surprised when they seemed to pounce faster than the rat king on a garbage pile. Lets just say that this dude was lucky that 37% blog didn't wear our formal wear to the test last night because this guy would have been Rorschached like no other.

(37% blog formal wear)

While I was looking for my burger (that's right, instead of getting in this dude's face, I decided to go under the desk), the TA came over to defuse the situation. He told James and the CONTRIBUTOR to back off because "I went to Hofstra". Does this mean anything anymore? Last I checked most psych majors who hang out on 2nd ave. and went to Hofstra are wannabe hipster doofuses. James basically said "thats cool, where's Hofstra?" and showed that he had plenty of burgers to go around, more or less nullifying the really just plain rude meal-theft portion of the previous attack. Long story short, hungry kid backed down and told me he couldn't even read my handwriting, recognizing that the some dude was a moron.

What happens in one's head to go from a civil (and admittedly food-jealous) mid-test hug to slapping a tiny, potentially malnourished kid across the meal. Should I be mad that my first food fight was me getting slapped with a burger then worrying about my having to get another? Let me answer that question. I'm not mad. If it had somehow happened any other way it just wouldn't have been right. Only I, That Small One, would get slapped during a test for no reason. Only I, That Small One, would react by diving under the desk. Only I, That Small One, would immediately not really care and just ask for a new test, please, and hey you pass me another burger, stat. It was exactly what it should have been. Thanks, Universe. But still, that dude is lucky it wasn't formal night.

He's Funny: Reggie Watts

Hey what's goin on? I'm James. Some people call me James. Some people sometimes call me JPhils. Nobody calls me jiklawl(jklol). But it was the first thing that came to my head at Pat and Todd's so I'm gonna stick with it. I'm gonna talk about things or people that i think are funny sometimes. So I thought a good thing to start my first official blog on 37 percent blog (shout out to THE CONTRIBUTOR and THAT SMALL ONE for letting me join their awesometown blog by the way) would be something I'm gonna call "He's Funny:____." And today I'm going to profile a comedian named Reggie Watts. Watts is a heavyset, black dude with a gigantic afro and a large scruffy beard. He alone is just hilarious looking but then he starts performing. He's considered a comedian i guess but he's so much more than that. He does loop pedal-based a cappella compositions. So pretty much he's a DJ where he beat boxes and sings in to a looping machine and he works with those sounds to make an awesome, hilarious song thing. I don't know why i'm even explaining this (terribly). Here's him on Conan from a few weeks ago. I think he's on tour right now but he comes around to the UCB (Upright Citizens Brigade theater) when he's in NY a lot. I saw him there last monday. It was absurd. alright here's a link to the vid.
Reggie Watts on Conan

Things That Could Only Happen To Me-The Slap Heard Around My Left Cheek

Last night, my dears, was a momentous occasion in my young life.  It was my first official bar/slap fight.  Let me set the scene.  We were in Ryan's Irish Pub, a fine little Irish pub with good burgers and cold Guinness on 2nd ave (the place is not but 20 feet from my door). It was probably 2:30am and we had settled into the tables along one wall.  There I was, surrounded by friends, sisters of friends and Todd,  when out of nowhere I feel someone hug me from behind.  I was confused.  Everyone I came with was at the table.  I was even more confused when I turned around and it was just some dude. He started mumbling something about my shirt and how he's from Dawwchesta.  We have a little chat about the Sox, ya know nothing confrontational.  Next thing I know, I feel a nudge on my shoulder then BOOM, a full fledged, glasses launching, slap across my face.  


Listen, I get it. It was a long time coming.  I'm sure there's been people in ever phase of my life that have wanted nothing more than to come over to the bar table I'm sitting at, hug me, then slap me across the face.  Its a natural reaction to my small stature and colored hats.  If, in a court of law, this guy's lawyer said "Judge Judy, he was SITTING and had a purple hat ON HIS HEAD", I bet Judge Judy leaves the bench and slaps me too.  But I digress. Back to the action.


What happened next was pretty great.  My co-contributors, the CONTRIBUTOR and James (name to come later) were standing and ready to pounce faster than the rat king on a garbage pile. Lets just say that this dude was lucky that 37% blog didn't wear our formal wear to the bar last night because this guy would have had a spiked helmet to the chest.  

37% Blog's Formal Wear

While I was looking for my glasses (that's right, instead of getting in this dude's face, I decided to go under the table), this dude's friend came over to defuse the situation.  He told James and the CONTRIBUTOR to back off because "I'm from Brooklyn".  Does this mean anything anymore?  Last I checked most the white kids who hang out on 2nd ave. and live in Brooklyn are wannabe hipster doofuses.  James  basically said "thats cool, I live someplace too" and showed that he had 6 inches on the kid.  Long story short, they backed down and bought me a beer, recognizing that the some dude was a moron.

What happens in one's head to go from a civil (and admittedly intoxicated) conversation to slapping a tiny, potentially malnourished kid across the face.  Should I be mad that my first bar fight was me getting slapped across the face then worrying about my glasses?  Let me answer that question.  I'm not mad.  If it had somehow happened any other way it just wouldn't have been right.  Only I, That Small One, would get slapped at a bar for no reason.  Only I, That Small One, would react by diving under the table.  Only I, That Small One, would immediately not really care and just ask for a beer.  It was exactly what it should have been.  Thanks, Universe.  But still, that dude is lucky it wasn't formal night. 

Yours, 

That Small One

  

No Need to Worry, Lil' Dinka is OK

So as many of you have probably already heard through the various news outlets, there was a bit of a mishap at the bar last night. I just want to quickly set the record straight. Despite numerous reports, I assure you That Small One is NOT dead. He came very close to the edge (6ft?), but miraculously pulled through in the end. Thank goodness we got him to the jungle doctors in time.

Genesis

Let these photos (that are not mine) stand as a declaration. I have no intention of contributing any posts to this blog that don't include a negligible amount of ridiculousness and/or Pokemon.

What I'm Listening To

Even the sox and yanks can't make spring training baseball interesting. I admit I was a little excited for the first matchup of the two perennial juggernauts, but a 0-0 tie heading into the 4th inning just isn't cutting it for me. After listening to YES network's less hot, less interesting (likely because she's less hot) sideline reporter blabber about who knows what for what seemed like an hour, the game got muted and itunes has gone on full blast. So I decided to make this post the first installment of something I'm going to call, "What I'm Listening To", with the implication that everyone else should listen to it too.

If this is going to be a semi-regular feature of this blog, I thought I should start it with something special. Lupe Fiasco's long awaited album L.A.S.E.R.S. is about to drop, but as a respected member of the blogging community I already got it. I haven't listened to the whole album yet, but so far I think it might have been worth the wait. Definitely worth checking out. And that my friends is what I'm listening to.

Red Sox-Yankees

Stream of consciousness from the Sox-Yankees spring training game.  Here's where it will start:

I'm startled.  Big Fat Bartolo doesn't look so fat anymore.  He handled the Sox 1-2-3 in the first.  I'm gonna be really angry if Bartolo somehow works out for the Yankees.  Good thing I don't have a car, or else God knows I'd be driving angry.

Mayor Bubbles is homeless.  Someone should give him a job as the public address announcer at City of Palms Park.  That way he wouldn't have to steal so many discmen (discmans?).  I'm still bitter there was no Mayor Bubbles spin-off show (one of the Contributor's better ideas).  Maybe it could have been a reality show where Bubbles tries to steal copper wire from construction sites all over the world.  But I suppose since Bubbles isn't a real person, a reality show is a bit of a stretch.  How about, seeing the success of Bubbles' grocery cart convenience store, the owner of a big box retailer like WalMart makes Bubbles acting CEO.  Or after seeing the King's Speech, Bubbles goes to England to get his stutter fixed.  The possibilities are endless. Lets get on this as a people.

Speaking of the Contributor, he's right now trying to come up with pick-up lines for seniors...in high school.  His best- "So you're a senior...I am too...can I get you a virgin strawberry daiquiri?".  Looks like we're in for a real good night.  And he keeps saying that Sox shortstop prospect Iglesias is smoove.  I wonder if he also has big balls, Larry.  

ALSO: What subset of humanity waits two weeks with multiple craps festering in a clogged toilet before calling a plumber? Come On. This has gone too far.

More to come.

alright, I'm here to set the record straight. This blog is not just for ridiculous pictures and pokemon. This is a real blog, for the real people out there. Read and be entertained. There will be important content. Just not yet...give us time

Here I fuckin am. The one and only. The fuckin' guy responsible for its namesake. Fuck me. Eat shit Pat.

Love,

-Todd

Jake is on the left, Todd in back and Pat is the small one.

The Target

I just want to make this clear.  This blog is directly targeted at Simmon's and Klosterman's upcoming blog site.  We're coming for ya.

http://lyricfail.tumblr.com/

Welcome

This is a blog.  It is a blog by three people.  Jake Todd Pat. Welcome.  We hope you like what you read.