Cupcakes: friend or foe?

Roamless Hudson: A lot of restaurants around town now offer cupcakes as a dessert. When I first started noticing this, I didn’t think much of it, but now the cupcakes have become almost ubiquitous. Either way, it’s gotten to the point where it’s hip to eat cupcakes. This is definitely a cause for concern. Fresh, it’s time to rally the troops against this sprinkled menace.



Bone Fresh: The prevalence of cupcakes is only a cause for concern if you’re someone who makes a living off of the lardo fatasses that comprise a large portion of the American population. Far from being a negative, we should be celebrating that it’s becoming hip to eat smaller portions of dessert. The rise of cupcakes stands in welcome contrast to the ever growing plates of sugar and calories that pass for dessert at places such as Applebees or the Cheesecake Factory. The obscenely large monstrosities that are considered portions at such places are enough to give ALL of the proverbial starving children in China week long sugar buzzes, and if consumed by a single person, at once cause a case of adult onset diabetes AND send the person into a diabetic coma.

The reasonable three or four bite cupcake is a perfect finish to a meal, unless of course your favorite deadly sin is the second one.

wusspie: If eating cupcakes is hip, then call me Miles Davis. I absolutely love a tasty, icing covered cake in a cup. Sometimes, they put extra stuff on top too, like a cherry, piece of chocolate, or sprinkles (Jimmies, for some of you folks!). I want to send a message to local establishments and cupcake lovers alike, you rock those delicious treats, you rock on.

Roamless Hudson: You guys have got to be kidding me. Cupcakes? Cupcakes? Cupcakes are what you eat in second grade when it’s Susan L.’s birthday and the teacher is too lazy to actually cut a cake into equal slices. Cupcakes just aren’t something you get at a restaurant.

The proliferation of cupcakes is akin to the reemergence of cassette tapes as the musical format of choice for hipsters (wusspie, I’m looking in your Ted Nugent’s Greatest Hits cassette-buying direction). Cassettes and cupcakes are both completely useless trifles that essentially evolved as gimmicky, unnecessary “improvements” on things that didn’t need to be improved upon (i.e., legit cakes and records).

If eating cupcakes is what you have to eat to be cool, then call me Barry Manilow. Actually, strike that – I think Barry Manilow eats cupcakes.

Bone Fresh: So now we know what this is all actually about. Roamless is still bitter about the fact that his second grade crush on Susan L. was unrequited and he only got to celebrate with the lame in-class party and didn’t get invited to join the cool kids at her pool party (where cupcakes were indeed served). I know that all the attention this blog brings might be therapeutic for you Roamless, but tell it to your therapist, not our readers. And most certainly, don’t take it out on the handfuls of deliciousness that are sweet sweet cuppin cakes.

Roamless Hudson: Aw, come on, man. This isn’t about Susan L. at all. Sure, she was cute. And sure, it was a drag to be one of the three kids from our 24-kid class to miss out on her party. No way was I as lame as Tony or Matthew B. The only reason I didn’t get invited was because all the girls in the class were mad at me for making a big scene about tearing up the note that Susan R. wrote to me. We all knew that Susan R. ate paste, so why should I get blamed for trying to make some kind of definitive statement that I wasn’t going to reciprocate her affections for me? I guess if I had to do it over again, maybe I would’ve taken the mature route and told Susan R. that I liked her as a friend, but couldn’t see things going any further than that. But what was I supposed to do? I was seven years old.

Anyway, if I hadn’t screwed things up, I’m definitely getting invited to that party. After Susan L. asked me to play Chutes and Ladders with her on the first day of second grade, I knew she was into me. So yeah, I don’t see why you have to be brining all this up on your blog.

Bone Fresh: Uh………for once in my life, I’m speechless. I like cupcakes.

Fresh Knows Book Club: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Today we introduce the Fresh Knows Book Club. In this Fresh Knows feature, the gang will discuss great and not-so-great works of literature for your enlightenment. After all, why read when Fresh can tell you all you need to know?

This week’s book: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Bone Fresh: Everyone out there likes to feel smart. But the sad fact is, most people aren’t. Most people however sadly fail to recognize this fact. Which is one reason this blog exists in the first place; if people knew they were stupid, we wouldn’t need to provide answers and direction to them.

Given there are so many stupid people out there, it’s inevitable that a few people will capitalize on this stupidity and the attendant desire of stupid people to deny their very nature. The author of this book is one such capitalist. He’s written a tome with no real depth or insight. Its sole accomplishment is to make the reader think they’ve stumbled upon a great work of philosophy that will enlighten their life and make them a better person. But the fact is, it’s a total hack job. It has been watered down so that people who otherwise wouldn’t even know the meaning of the word “metaphysics” feel like they’ve just discovered the meaning of life. But ask them to explain in more than a few words what the book means, and they’ll be reduced to a blubbering mass of incoherence. Briefly stated, it’s fast food philosophy.



Roamless Hudson: I hate to say it, but I couldn’t agree with you more, Fresh. This book is horrible. First of all, it’s a total drag to read. I don’t see how anyone can relate to the narrator – it’s hard to imagine anyone shoving any more preening, self-absorbed drivel into one book. I don’t care about his insipid thoughts on epistemology, and I don’t care about his lame “inquiry into values.”

The worst part is that he’s completely ruined the notion of riding across the country on a motorcycle. It’s one of the last sort of romantic American concepts – drifting across the open highway with nowhere to go and nothing to do – but this guy has made it all so ridiculously convoluted and tedious. My sister’s boyfriend won’t let me touch his Harley, but if he would, I could ride to Enon and back and write a better book than this by the end of the month.

wusspie: I will have to admit that I was initially intimidated by the prospect of reading such a classic piece of literature and the big words that would undoubtedly accompany it. You know, like, epistemology and zen. But, after a few pages, I started to get in the groove and was really impressed with the author and how easy he made these complex ideas to understand. I found the text so thought-provoking that I haven’t been able to look at the world the same way since reading it… I mean, “What is knowledge?” WHOA. I can honestly say I’ve never asked myself that question before. I find it a little troubling that Roamless and even Fresh did not enjoy such an engrossing read.

Bone Fresh: I’m sure our loyal readers share my lack of surprise at wusspie’s thoughts on this book and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

A point that I forgot to mention initially is that one needs look only to the copyright date to realize this book for what it is: a desperate attempt by aging hippies to cling to the pseudo-intellectual conversations, most frequently inspired by one too many hits from the bong. “maaaannnnn, what if we’re all just specs of dust under a giant fingernail maaaannnn.” Gimme a break, even if you’re high that doesn’t pass for any sort of deep philosophy, and neither does this book.

Roamless Hudson: Another good point. People read stuff like this because they feel like they missed out on the 60’s and 70’s, and they want to get in on the action. I, for one, am glad that I wasn’t around for that crap.

One more thing: I hope I’m not ruining the book for anyone (as if it were possible to ruin something that’s already so dismal), but the ending was completely unbelievable. You mean to tell me that this guy and his son suddenly realize their station in life is to climb on the bike together and jump 18 UPS trucks? And not only that they do jump the 18 UPS trucks, but that they perfectly stick the landing? Get real. I’m calling shenanigans.

Bone Fresh: Wait. What? Dude, Roamless, have you even read this book?

Roamless: No. Have you?

Bone Fresh: No way. Too many stupid people have told me that this is their favorite book ever, so I immediately assumed it wasn’t worth my time.

Roamless: wusspie, you read this one, though – right?

wusspie: Huh? Ice cream?

Join the gang for the second installment of the Fresh Knows Book Club when they tackle Tolstoy’s War and Peace (seriously). You’re encouraged to read up and join in on the discussion in the comments.

Question from a reader #1

A loyal reader, Penultimate Donnie, recently wrote Fresh:

"My wife has been giving me earfuls about my inability to complete the siege on the neighbor’s backyard. Since early March, all I ever hear is “complete the trebuchet or I'm buying a pool” or “if I'd known my husband was going to become a pacifist whenever summer rolls around I'd have married Larry.” No offense to Larry, but he doesn't know a mangonel from a hand operated ballista. I'm not cut out for this constant pressure to keep up with the Joneses. It’s not even fair since they hired Karlštejn Consulting for their siege last summer . . . but I digress.I’m completely stalled on this front, Fresh. Should I complete the trebuchet, lay siege to The Gilroy’s backyard and plant my flag on their pool deck?"


Roamless Hudson: I have no idea what this guy is talking about. All I know is that he sure as hell is no Ultimate Donny. The last time I’ve heard the word “trebuchet” was when I was playing Age of Empires during my sophomore year of college. I’ve got nothing here.

wusspie: What? Who is this guy? Why in the hell am I even attempting to participate in discourse with an obviously insane individual? Plus, this blog isn’t called Hey wusspie, Give Us A Semi-Intelligent Hypothesis, it’s called Fresh Knows.

Bone Fresh: The obvious ignorance displayed by the responses of my fellow contributors to this question just emphasizes why their thoughts are not the primary focus of this blog. But, they’re not the only ones deserving of criticism here. I have to ask the original questioner, what sort of girly-man are you that you can’t get off your ass and finish a basic project like the construction of a simple war machine such as a trebuchet.

Perhaps you expected a sympathetic ear when you posed the question, but I’m solidly on your wife’s side. Having previously constructed one myself, I can honestly say that trebuchets are rather easy to build, and you don’t need to outsource the job to a fancy Scandinavian firm in order to prevail in any suburban assault you might wish to wage. Keeping up with the Joneses is the name of the game when it comes to warfare, even of the backyard variety. You cannot allow there to be a trebuchet gap!

Why you’d even contemplate permitting such a gap is beyond me. It is precisely during the summer time that you want to have a pool handy. So unless you’re a pasty skinned agorophobe, I don’t know what to make of your reluctance to conquer the neighbor’s pool. Sure, they can be difficult and expensive to maintain. But that’s all the more reason to force the neighbor’s to do all that work for you as your vassals.

An important consideration though given the physical forces at work with a trebuchet is the fact that you should not attempt to launch any sort of projectile that will deform in mid-flight. Rather than landing in the vicinity of your intended target, such projectile will more likely land near you. So unless you want to spend more time putting out fires than causing your enemy to do so, I would advocate not attempting to toss any balloons filled with jellied gasoline. This presumes of course that you’ll have the good sense to take my advice and immediately get to work on the trebuchet.

Of course you’re free not to. But in that case, let me know where you live, so I can come and lay claim to your house, unsatisfied wife, and neighbor’s obviously under-defended pool.

Is soccer a sport?

Roamless Hudson: Recently, I ended up kicking it for an evening at Ruby Tuesday’s. I had a decent time, but one thing I found a bit bewildering was a relatively large group of Columbus Crew fans, who apparently have made Ruby’s basement their home for watching Crew matches. I don’t get why so many people seem to be Crew fans.

The thing is, soccer really isn’t a sport. I went to a Crew game once, about four years ago. It was a tightly contested match between the Crew and D.C. United. Just as I had finally gotten a decent grasp upon the fact that the clock counted up, not down (which is completely irrational on its own), a United goal tied the score at 2. A little while later, with the score still tied at 90 minutes, the clock kept running up, and I thought, “Great, we’re going to sudden death overtime.”

But it wasn’t overtime – it was “stoppage time” or something like that. At right around 96:31, without any kind of apparent warning or buzzer, the players from each team sort of smiled, half-victoriously threw their fists in the air, and ran off the field. That was it: a tie game. No winner. No loser. Just a bunch of lame soccer players running off the field, celebrating as if they’d actually accomplished something, when instead they’d only wasted what could’ve been a perfectly fine evening. Give me some resolution. Any sport that ends in a tie isn’t a sport. Soccer is a joke.


wusspie: I can understand your confusion, Roamless, on what is or isn’t considered sport… I mean, you’re a Cleveland sports fan afterall. I’ve always doubted your judgment, and if your recent question concerning cornhole wasn’t enough to substantiate my concerns, you still insist that Anderson Varejao isn’t a stiff. But, now you’re doubting the veracity of one of the oldest and most celebrated sports in the existence of human civilization: soccer, or more appropriately, football. You claim to have a loose grasp on the rules, let alone strategy of the game. How can you then legitimize your idea that it should not be considerate a true sport? Also, the idea that a game has to end in one team being victorious is a product of your utter Americanization and lack of detecting nuance. Life is not always black and white, Roamless. There is definitely something to be gained by competing in a well-played, evenly contested match which results in a tie.

Roamless Hudson: How dare you bring the Wild Thing into this? But yeah, I’m an American, and I like that sports are, in fact, the one thing in life where we can have black and white and winners and losers. Sports let us experience some sort of catharsis, and it’s only when we get to experience the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat that we get that catharsis. Ties are nothing but a waste of time.

Somebody smart (not Fresh) said that sports in America are what keep the states from going to war. Ohio’s able to prove its superiority to Michigan year after year on the football field. Boston and New York get to drool over themselves all year and keep from getting more uptight than they already are. And Clevelanders are kept in a state of permanent forlornness . . . and without that we wouldn’t have Pere Ubu, would we?

But Europe and South America, the purveyors of your refined and sophisticated futbol, have perverted this idea of sports as a usefully cathartic contribution to society and turned into an occasion for ridiculous violence and general insanity. You have fans regularly rioting and occasionally attacking or even killing players, coaches, and referees. You have matches played to empty stadiums for fear of what fans might do. You have ugly public displays of racism. Sports are supposed to be good for society, and soccer’s actually detrimental to society. Get rid of it.

wusspie: Throwing out references to obscure Cleveland rock bands isn’t going to intimidate or throw me off the scent, Roamless. Your argument concerning rowdy fans is a testament to the peoples’ dedication to the game. It’s as if every international team has its own huge, kickass Dawg Pound, willing to take it to the streets to prove that they love their team and their sport.

Finally, let’s get to pure basics, sport, as defined by Merriam-Webster, is a physical activity engaged in for pleasure. If soccer doesn’t qualify as a sport, based on that definition, then I don’t know what would. So, pretty much any activity can be considered a sport, like… oh, let’s say sex, for example. I’d like to think that there are never any losers in that game.

Bone Fresh: The “soccer is not a sport” argument is a favorite of unenlightened, jingoistic Americans everywhere. And while I’m not surprised that you take an extremely moronic position Roamless (see wusspie’s citation to your previous cornhole question), this one seems to be a new low even for you. Highlighting your narrow-mindedness is the fact that you look only at a single game and fail to take into consideration an entire soccer season, where points are allocated for wins AND ties.

Wusspie has done most of the heavy lifting so far, and he’s really left me with nothing much to say other than: he’s right and you’re wrong. The Merriam-Webster definition is a good start, but is hardly sufficient. A sport is any physical activity that has objective criteria for winning. So if someone could see about correcting that in the dictionary, it would be helpful to idiots around the country.

But, if you want to continue to be wrong, you won’t be the only one. You’ll fit right in with all the others who think that outside the borders of our country there be dragons.

Should I cornhole?

Roamless Hudson: Last weekend, I was at a drinking establishment on the northwest end of town with a group of three friends. While I was seated at the bar enjoying an ice-cold beverage, one friend excitedly ran in from the outdoor patio and exclaimed, “They have cornhole here!” He insisted that the four of us head out to the patio and play the game. My instinct was to decline, partly because I was comfortable at the bar, and partly because I’ve never actually played cornhole and wasn’t inclined to start. I’ve seen hundreds of people playing the game on sidewalks from Dayton to Athens, but I’ve always managed to avoid playing. Anyway, by the time we went out to the patio, another group had already taken over the cornhole playing area. My question for your, Fresh, is should I just get over my reluctance and join the mass of rabid cornholers that seems to be growing exponentially?


Bone Fresh: Roamless. While I would normally take you to task for your reluctance to try new things, in this instance your hesitancy to try something you were not already familiar with worked to your decided advantage. The fact that cornhole has spread across the state and country with a speed comparable only to an invasive species, such as say, the emerald ash borer, speaks to one terrible fact. People are stupid. What was once a derogatory slang name for a sexual activity is now something that people loudly and eagerly proclaim their willingness to do in public. If only it had stayed in the bedroom.

wusspie: Sounds like somebody doesn’t know how to have a good time. What’s the problem with some good old fashioned, shirtless fun with bean bags, beer and inclined planes?

Bone Fresh: You’re right, somebody doesn’t know how to have fun, or, make that somebodies, i.e. the people playing cornhole. It’s basically a simplified version of horseshoes…for people who can’t process the oh so complicated rules of THAT game. People play cornhole for one simple reason: they’re unable to entertain themselves and make even the smallest of small talk.

The logistics of the game are simply not suitable to conversation, at least not with anyone you’d actually want to talk to. You stand on the utterly opposite end from your partner, ostensibly the person you’d most like to converse with. Instead, you’re forced to interact with some random stranger, who, given the fact that he is playing cornhole, is probably someone you’d never want to talk to in the first place. The distance between each hole (or as the case actually is, between each pair of dill-holes) is so great that it effectively isolates everyone playing from whatever socialization is going on around them. Which, in the end works out better for everyone else at the party.

And while it’s a game engaged in almost exclusively while drinking, it is most certainly not a drinking game. It’s just a lame activity used to pass the time. But hey, you can play it if you want. You're not the best conversationalist anyway.

Is it fresh to pop?

wusspie: I am of the belief that an upturned shirt collar enhances one’s attractiveness and relative coolness. When I see a young gentleman with the collar on his shirt, usually of a polo variety, “popped,” he is generally accompanied by a beautiful girl wearing Ugg boots and/or a posse of similarly dressed males, all seemingly intelligent and certainly well-groomed. I have always wanted to be a “cool dude” and I think this is an appropriate first step in reaching that goal. Fresh, what do you think about my idea?

Bone Fresh: Wusspie. I understand your desire to be one of the “cool dudes,” and I recognize that you do need all the help that you can get on that front. So it makes sense for you to always be on the lookout for anything that might increase your social standing, however moderately. I'm not surprised that you've identified the popped collar as something that might attract attention when you’re out on the town.

And you’re right. It will attract attention. Everyone at the bar with even a modicum of intelligence (and not otherwise in an alcohol induced stupor making them unable to wipe their own drool from their lips and rendering them capable of thought rising only to the instinctive impulse for self-preservation) will immediately be able to identify you as a grade-A, unmitigated and unredeemable douche bag.

Next time you see one of these “seemingly intelligent” males, clad in such ridiculous attire, take another close look at him. What you identify as intelligence is actually the completely baseless self-confidence that results from his own ignorance of the world and the customs of regular society. His is stupidity that goes beyond that which arises naturally in a person and is instead a result of active rejection of all forms of critical and independent thought. Only someone so actively oblivious would willingly sport a fashion so gaudy, useless, and consistently and uniformly derided by both the stylish and style-less.

Roamless Hudson: I think I agree with Fresh on this one. Just yesterday, I was chillin’ at the pool when I noticed a dude across the way gathering up his things to head off to somewhere even cooler. After he pulled on his polo shirt, he left his collar up, as if to say, “I don’t even know I’m supposed to unpop this piece of fabric.” What really got me on this one was that he carefully spent a few hours perfecting his neck tan, only to cover up the fruits of his strenuous and consuming labor. So, wusspie, keep the collar unpopped, if only to reap the rewards of your neck tan.

wusspie: Well, Roamless, you’ve just pointed out a positive aspect of the popped collar: functionality. During the summer months it can be used to deflect the harsh rays of the sun from the delicate skin on the back of your neck. In the winter it helps to block cold and bitter winds that can sap precious body heat. And to be perfectly honest, Fresh, you’re not always the first person I consult on matters of style… I was just hoping, in this case, to get an unbiased opinion from someone I consider trustworthy. I should have known better.

Bone Fresh: The fact that you don’t consult me on matters of style and the fact that you’ve even for the briefest of instants considered sporting the popped collar both speak to the same element of your character: you’re not always the brightest bulb in the box.

But, believe it or not, you’ve actually inadvertently stumbled upon the one legitimate reason for the popped collar. (I personally don’t believe it, but I guess even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while.) That is, protection from the elements. Indeed, the first recorded sightings of popped collars were upon tennis professionals who turned them up to prevent sunburned necks.

This limited functionality is not a justification for the popped collar in social situations however. After all, it is only after the sun has gone down that the collars come up. When was the last time you needed to protect your neck from UV rays while swilling cheap domestic beer from a thin plastic cup in a crowded meat-market? And I’m willing to bet that those who currently wear popped collars only play with balls far from the well manicured grass courts of Wimbledon.

You’re more than welcome to not take my advice and in fact, doing so would probably be doing everyone else a favor. They’ll know to avoid you at all costs, an option I regrettably never have.