Hi, guys. Long time no whine. I’m just popping in here to rant briefly about how much I hate this ad the cumbersomely named New Yorkers Against Unfair Taxes is running against Governor Paterson (NEW JERSEY!)’s proposed tax on bottled drinks like soda and juice.

Oh my Christ on a tiny little crutch. Seriously, she might as well be saying, “How dare you infringe on my right to feed my child highly processed corn sugar in liquid form! Respect mah authoritah!”

Now, I don’t watch a lot of commercials. I have a tifaux, after all. And even though my new HD box (YEEEEESSSSS, HD BOX) is kind of glitchy and bitchy and likes to randomly NOT RECORD THE SOUP, I still record almost everything and watch it at least a little delayed. But I do occasionally watch live TV. Take, for instance, last Sunday, when I watched like seventeen consecutive hours of USA’s Law & Order: SVU Ripped From the Headlines marathon. And I saw that commercial like thirty times. I was ready to punch that whingeing hag by the end of it. God, lady. Suck it the fuck up. Don’t make me list all the things I can see in that kitchen of yours that indicate you can afford an extra five frigging bucks a week. Give your kid water. Mix your whiskey with seltzer, like I do. Brew your own damn iced tea. Or just save up the bottles and get the deposits back. Voilà, taxes canceled out.

And tell the American Beverage Association, which paid for that ad, to shove it. Same to the state of Iowa, with their billion dollars a year in corn subsidies.

P.S. Friends, I promise my shameful hiatus will end soon. I plan to write about Justified and In Plain Sight quite soon, and at the end of the month the fourth season of Friday Night Lights will begin airing on NBC, and I’ll start up the recaps again. Sorry for sucking lately.

Again, not a lot to give you today — but here’s some “How to” stuff from your friends at Hulu and the “Howdini.”  It’s like Houdini.  Except “how.”

I’m so tired.

Anyway, first up, how to make mini-quiches.

Second, and more importantly, here’s how to housetrain a puppy.  This is recommended viewing, whether you have a dog or not.

Before we bemoan the state of television — or specifically reality television — I guess we should be happy we don’t live in Japan. For instance, this clip of a monkey getting freaked the hell out by a popcorn machine.

This video made me very sad. So I’d like to remind all of you who have the chance to vote down the various horrible, divisive ballot measures that will be before you next Tuesday to do so. Californians, that’s no on 8. Arizonians, no on 102. Floridians, no on the Marriage Protection Amendment. Arkansans, no on the adoption ban.

Basically, the world sucks right now. How about everybody votes not to limit the civil rights of people in love and the capability of loving parents to foster and adopt children in need of families? As Dionne Warwick reminds us, the world needs love. The economy needs it, too.

It’s not often that I’m sincere. So, um, pay attention. Vote. My roommate and I will send you an “I Voted” button if you want one. Thanks.

As I perused the television news today, I found a photo of Rory Cochrane. At first, I thought “who the hell is that and why does he sound so familiar?”

Then I realized it. Rory Cochrane is the dude from Empire Records who stole all the money and was locked in the office the whole (or most of the) time. Apparently he did a stint on CSI: Miami (he died or got transfered or got deported) and now he’s going to be on the next season of 24.

The strange thing is this: dude’s gotten older. Not old.  But older.

And there’s nothing wrong with aging.  I’m doing it as we speak. And, for the record, I think he’s infinitely more handsome now than he was when he was making Empire Records. But, seriously, can you believe that that movie was made in 1995? And even in 1995 he was kind of the Ian Ziering of the bunch age-wise. The I’ll-suspend-my-disbelief-ever-so-slightly guy who seemed a bit of a stretch to fit into an adolescent drama.

Jeez.

Empire Records, man. With Ethan Embry and that soundtrack with The Cranberries and Coyote Shivers.

Needless to say, my birthday’s next week and I’m going down my usual spiral of shame and anxiety. Pay no mind.

Happy Wednesday.

It’s pretty to look at, but at the end of the day it doesn’t leave you with much to think about.

Listen, I like reality TV as much as the next obese, intellectually lazy glutton. It’s a fact.

I watch Survivor even though it’s way past hip. I’ve been known to keep up with what’s going on during the current season of Big Brother. I’ll even catch up with Dancing With the Stars so I’ll have something to talk about with my mom.

But the writers strike is really testing the boundaries of my brainlessness. I mean, I found myself watching the premiere of the Real World/Road Rules Challenge (The Gauntlet: Part Three, if that means anything to you) and wondering who in the hell these children were, why they were drinking so much and whether the crew supplied them with the proper prophylactics. God knows we don’t need another generation of angry, sweaty emotion machines supplying MTV with more product.

What I’m trying to say is that there is a lot of crap on TV right now. If the strike weren’t going on, we could be watching Milo and Hayden acting on Heroes and wondering if it’s weird for them to be dating AND pretending to be uncle and niece. And projecting the whole Jim and Pam situation onto our real lives. And not-so-secretly wishing that Tina Fey would be our awesome older sister/best friend.

But no. All we’ve got is American Gladiators, that stupid lie detector show and a lot of time to sit alone and weep.

So here’s a poll. Because I can’t think of anything else to offer you.