I admit it. I’m a bit of a geek. I like to have the latest electronic devices. The only problem is, three months later, there’s always something better. It’s lighter. It’s thinner. And of course, it’s so much faster. Basically, it makes whatever I own look like a worthless piece of shit.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for the advancement of microtechnology. But let’s be reasonable. I think that behind those secure walls of the world’s greatest electronics companies, there’s a vault the size of maybe eighteen football fields. And in that vault, are innovations that would blow your mind. The conversations inside might go something like this:

“So, what do we give ‘em now?”

“How ’bout the levitation shoes?”

“Are you kidding? Their primitive minds wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“Color cell phones?”

“I like it. With the video or without?”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Yeah. Fuck ‘em. They’ll probably cream their pants over the stupid camera phone feature.”

(insert sinister laugh here)

Planned Obsolescence sucks (and so does typing “obsolescence.” Jeeze.)

I’d be surprised if I haven’t covered this topic before, because it really pisses me off. Can’t a guy shop at a Whole Foods market or an independent bookstore without having that funky stench attacking his nostrils? I don’t give a damn if it’s lavender or patchouli. It doesn’t smell right.

You know what the problem is? It’s those damn hippie employees they hire. They burn incense at home to cover up their afternoon bong sessions, so they naturally think it’s cool to light it up when they’re at work. Wrong. Here’s an interesting fact: The same name they use for this slow-burning annoyance is also a synonym for anger. Coincidence? I think not. Incense sucks.

Here in L.A., it’s almost impossible to park for free. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, a mall might permit free parking for 1 hour. After that, you’re shit out of luck. Which brings us to today’s topic: The Parking Negotiator. We’ve all experienced it before. You’ve timed your shopping down to the last few minutes just so you won’t have to pay for parking. But when you arrive at the gate, you find yourself stuck behind the Parking Negotiator, the dickweed who either went over the free time limit, didn’t get his ticket validated, or both. So, rather than cough up the lousy two bucks he owes, he sits in his car and argues with the attendant. Meanwhile, you’re sitting back there watching your time expire. Motherfucker. The Parking Negotiator sucks.

I don’t buy magazines much anymore. Mainly because I can find all the free porn I need on the Web. But I also hate those annoying subscription cards. The least irritating ones just cling to the spine of the publication. So when you attempt to flip to a certain page, you always end up jumping to the center. It’s a pain in the ass, but nothing to cause you to consider manslaughter.

Then there are the “free-floaters.” When you pick up the magazine, they just start hurtling out of the pages like paratroopers on a mission, screaming at the top of their lungs, “Save 70% Off The Cover Price!” You try to grab for them, but they’re too swift, flipping and spinning, then suddenly changing direction and landing about fifteen feet away. What’s the marketing strategy behind these annoying little pieces of paper? Is the act of picking them up supposed to make me suddenly realize what a great deal a subscription really is? Not bloody likely.

You really want me to subscribe to your stupid publication? Well, you’re going about it the wrong way. Instead of having your little paratroopers screaming, “70% Off The Cover Price!” you need them to be shouting, “Guaranteed Subscription-Card-Free!” That’s right. You promise me that those issues that arrive in my mailbox will be sans subscription cards, and you’ve got yourself a deal. Because, in case you haven’t figured it out by now, Subscription Cards suck.

FYI, when the listing says “a three-star hotel for $75 a night,” don’t believe it. I did, and I suffered. The destination? San Diego’s historic Gaslamp Quarter.

When we arrived in the downtown area, we had a lot of trouble finding the beautiful Ramada Inn we would be staying at. That’s because it didn’t exist. Our Ramada turned out to be located in the “refurbished” St. James Hotel from the early 1900s. You might think that sounds charming, and you would be right. For ten minutes.

To begin with, I had the pleasure of fucking around with an old fashioned elevator. First you pull open the door and prop it open with your leg while you slide open the gate, then you lug whatever luggage you have into the tiny car, close the gate, wait for the other door to close, and then you hit your button (an obvious upgrade). After about a two-minute delay, the car creaks its way up the elevator shaft and comes to a jerky stop. Fun.

Then I got to experience the room itself. Yes, it had all the amenities listed on the Web site. Unfortunately, they were crammed into a room so small, the coffee maker had to share space on the night table with the clock radio, modem, two coffee mugs and a container of sugar packets. There weren’t even enough outlets to plug everything in. I had a choice: either heat up some water for my tea or know what time it is. Good thing I had a wristwatch.

Believe it or not, Hotels.com didn’t list all the extra features of the room: the radiator that doesn’t radiate, the air conditioner that somehow manages to amplify the sounds of the street below, the toilet that requires at least four flushes for anything larger than a raisin, and the shower that had two temperatures: ice cold and third-degree burn.

I also got some free entertainment. At around 7 A.M. I awoke to the pleasing sounds of a multi-million dollar building being constructed next door: bulldozers hauling, hammers pounding, cement mixers backing up (beep beep beep beep beep). And that was with the windows closed. But it was morning and I had so many things to look forward to. Like checkout time. Hotels.com sucks.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to write one of these entries every day? Well, it ain’t easy. Don’t get me wrong. Nobody’s holding a gun to my head (please, help me.) It’s more of a challenge for me. In any case, I’m taking a little vacation, so don’t look for anything new until Monday. Why? Because Writing This Every Day sucks.

It’s 10:30 P.M. here in Hollywood, California. I’m wearing a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt and yet…I’m sweating like a fucking pig! What the fuck? Will somebody please turn the heat down? I’m frying here. I guess I’ll just peel my underwear off my ass for the third time and go to bed. Humidity sucks.

I can’t believe how hard it is to find a decent greeting card these days. If it’s not a crappy poem, it’s a bad joke. If it’s not a moronic illustration, it’s a lame picture. And then there’s the whole e-card concept. Same lousy ideas, but now they’re animated. So why do we continue to pay for this drek? Because there’s only one thing that’s even more unbearable: Homemade cards. Greeting Card Companies suck.

Recently, I found myself in a Target store located off the Ventura freeway. After picking up my essentials (an assortment of $10 DVDs), I went to go wait in line. Of course, I expected to be greeted by the usual discount-store employee. You know, the high-school drop out with the eyebrow piercing, the elderly man who didn’t save enough money to retire on, the depressed single mom with five kids who’s counting the minutes ’till her next cigarette break. But the person I encountered was much more unusual.

“How ya doin’?”

I looked up to find myself face to face with what could very well be a real mafioso. I smiled at him and then he started to ring up my order, all the while chatting up a storm in his thick, Brooklyn (New Jersey?) accent. This guy had “The Sopranos” written all over him.

My mind started racing. Who is this guy? Why does he love his crappy job so much? What amazing story brought him all the way over to the West Coast? And then he hands me my bag and says “Thanks,” (or was that “‘tanks”?) and sends me on my way. But wait, just as I was about to leave, something on the counter catches my eye: Business cards. Apparently, this guy isn’t just an East Coast transplant. He’s an aspiring actor, a member of SAG. He’s even got his own tagline. “A real wiseguy.” I feel sorry for him. Hopeless Actors suck.

So, I went to CompUSA today to look for a USB Flash Drive for Father’s Day. After wandering around the store, I finally found what I was looking for behind the Photo counter.

A foreign looking man walked up and asked if I needed any help. Silly me, I assumed when he offered, he would actually be of some assistance. I asked to see one of the FlashDrives for $49.99 (My sister didn’t want to spend anymore). He hands me a 64MB FlashDrive. It’s CompUSA branded.

“Who actually manufactures your memory?” I ask.
“You just put it into your computer and you can move things on and off of it.”

Okay, I obviously wasn’t going to get anywhere with this guy. So, I look at the packaging for a while and then I hand it back to him and I say, “Okay, I guess I’ll take it,” after which, he proceeds to place the FlashDrive back into the case, lock it and walk away. I’m thinking, he must be getting another one from the back. Nope. He moves on to another customer.

So, now I’m standing there thinking I should just leave and go somewhere else. But, frankly, there is nowhere else. Then I notice this orange sign on the display case: FlashDrive $49.99. So, after the salesclerk is done with the other customer, I ask him about the sign. He looks at the sign and then opens up the case and hands me a 128MB FlashDrive. Twice as much memory for the same fucking price. The motherfucker didn’t even let me know about the sale. Come to think of it, he probably didn’t know about it himself. Incompetent Salesclerks suck.