Here's the latest "Switchfoot" commercial. (Remember to get your tickets this week to save $$$)
My theory was that a person could do the typical concert commercial with only his mouth, making explosion noises and crowd noises and such. See if you think this sounds typical:
I was going to be a reporter. And I was in journalism school, and I saw this big fire!
Carolyn and I were driving home at night (we were married in college) and we could see it in the distance, near our apartment. A GIANT FIRE! HUGE!
We drove right by it! A whole big building was engulfed in flames! And -- really weird -- no one was around. No cops, no firefighters, nobody. I alertly decided I'd cover the fire for extra credit in my JOURN 371 reporting class!
I ran into our apartment, grabbed my reporter's notebook and pencil, and dashed the back way to the scene! I could feel the heat of the fire, as cop cars and firetrucks arrived!
I didn't want to get in their way, so I stayed back, behind the bushes, watching them! That way I wouldn't bother them! I could see them fight the fire! I could see them yelling at each other! I could see them making gestures, and pointing at me as I lurked in the bushes!
MEMO TO FUTURE REPORTERS: Don't "lurk".
I was apprehended, put in the back of the squad car and interrogated. Turned out I brought my pencil but forgot my reporter pad. The detectives came back to our apartment at 1 a.m., banged on the door, and took my clothes to the lab.
I asked my grizzled, former CBS White House reporter-professor if he'd ever gotten to the scene of a crime so quickly, he'd been apprehended by the cops. He left the room and I heard him laughing in the hallway.
I am not a reporter at this time.
Per your request, here it is. You can go here to purchase one for you. And me.
Here's a great chance to to stay up to date on whether it's Christmas or not:
This is pretty awesome. Joel made a spoof video of my spoof video.
His spoof of my video has better graphics than my video. And his fridge has brillliant artwork, which I'm posting, writ large, below. Joel = Genius.
I've been thinking about making a bracelet for myself -- seriously. It will say, "WWNPD?"
"What Would a Normal Person Do?" I honestly ask myself that a lot. What would a normal person do, in this situation? What should I do to not mess this up, to come across as a human with typical, baseline, everyday, coping skills?
I can't do stuff right. Important, everyday stuff.
I tried to fix a kitchen cabinet door. It had a bad hinge. I went to True Value Hardware and purchased a hinge. I went home and drilled holes for the hinge. It didn't quite fit. I drilled an additional hole, then realized I had the hinge backwards. I drilled more holes, then realized I was installing the hinge upside-down. I drilled some more holes, and then realized I was putting the hinge inside the door when it was supposed to be outside.
Net result: Hinge never fixed, 16 new holes in cabinet. We then moved to Texas.
I can't do normal-person stuff.
I needed a job once, so I applied at this pie restaurant. It was called "Pie-Full Delight", and they needed a waiter. My interview was very impressive. I communicated beautifully, and the owner-lady was taken by my charm and insight, and thrilled to have "such an intelligent young man" on her little wait staff.
I was the worst waiter in the history of pie.
They didn't have the heart to fire me. I left forgotten meals up on the counter. I forgot which tables were mine. I was eventually assigned just one (1) table. I feared messing up again, so I creepily watched them eat until they were sufficiently creeped out to leave.
Within two disturbing weeks, they moved me to a little room in back, where I interfaced with customers no longer. My job? Full-time pie-box folder.
I wasn't very good at that, either.
I took a job at the FootLocker at the mall! At least I'd get a cool ref shirt! They assigned me, as well, to a back room, putting shoe boxes in order. It was tedious, but at least I could tell myself, "Soon, I will be issued a ref's uniform, and that will be cool." And whistle, too.
"Next week, I think," my manager told me, smugly, while he stood there with ref uniform and whistle.
He told me that for four weeks. "Next time -- we'll have your ref's uniform." I asked why they wouldn't move me out onto the sales floor, and he said I needed more Back Room Shoebox Training. I got depressed, and eventually gave up. I never got my ref uniform.
My last day, I used my employee discount to get a super-cool pair of Adidas shoes. My paycheck wasn't that huge, so I think I had to give the manager like six dollars on my way out. We were both kinda sheepish about it.
It started early. In high school, I got a job working at a popcorn factory. "Hutch Big Puffs". They asked me to paint the outside of some metal buildings, but I didn't do a good job. I tried hard, though. They eventually had me sit in a lawn chair, on the factory floord, and scrape moldy labels off popcorn jars. I did this with a putty knife.
It was a 12 hour day. Sometimes, some Harley-dudes would sit with me and we'd all sit and scrape. They talked about motorcycles and guns and stuff. I contributed to the conversation as I could, and, as a flute-player and the President of the Student Librarians Association, I had much to say.
I eventually learned to stop saying it.
Anyway, I'm not very good at much stuff. I'm like a bumbling genius, except for the genius part. The other day I walked home happily from the gym. Then, the next day, my car was gone from in front of our house? Stolen? No -- I left it at the gym, where I had driven it the day before.
I want a bracelet, "What Would a Normal Person Do?", but I'm told a normal person doesn't do that.
Check me out I fixed my problem of losing my keys and phone and stuff and it even looks awesome thanks.
I have a little problem with being absent-minded. At any given moment, I have no idea where my wallet, keys, or phone are. No clue. This fixes it, and even looks awesome.
(True story: I left our checkbook at Walgreen's. The old lady cashier called and talked to my wife. My wife told me. I went to pick it up and got distracted by some Orbit gum. I got home and my wife said the Walgreen's lady called again and I left the checkbook again. I went to pick it up and got distracted by some CornNuts. I got home and my wife said the Walgreen's lady called again and I left the checkbook again.)
1. Rip off a hunk of duct tape long enough to go around your bicep. (For me: Approx. 36 inches. For you: Approx 3 inches.)
2. Wear the tape sticky-side out.
3. Stick stuff to it.
4. Walk around all cool and stuff.
Okay, this thing is driving me crazy. I'm up to, like, 30 or something.
Try and beat me, punk.*
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* -- That's right, I called you "punk", pretty much to your face. Yep.
I've gone a MONTH without coffee!*
I was addicted to it. I drank a pot -- a pot! -- every day before 9 a.m. I felt, quite literally, that I couldn't function in the morning without it, that I couldn't possibly be a good on-air personality without it, that I couldn't live without it.**
I'd been a coffee-guzzler for years. Then, I quit, cold-turkey! From non-stop, "Where's my next coffee going to come from?" to absolute zero!***
It felt great! I did it via my own steely will! I was cheered on by my radio listeners, and congratulated by health enthusiasts!****
Beset with addictions? Be like me. I, Brant Hansen, am a strong man. Addictions? Buh-bye. There's a new sheriff in town! Sheriff Me!*****
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* -- This piece was written on Thursday. I gave up and went back to sweet, sweet, precious, life-giving coffee today.
** -- Turns out I can't function in the morning without it, can't be a good on-air personality without it, and can't, in fact, live without it.
*** -- ...and back to, "Where's my next coffee coming from?"
**** -- Who won't speak to me anymore.
*****-- I have the right to remain silent.
This is a brilliant facial-recognition program. You can't argue with this: I look like a girl, and specifically, Denise Richards.
And if I hear one more, "You know, you look like Daryl Hannah...?" reference, I'll go Jackie Chan on everybody.
Check it out yourself, and let me know how it goes. All the guys I know, besides me, were told they primarily look like, you know -- other guys.
If I'm Denise Richards, I'm unnerved that I apparently look like a guy with a beard.
And here's Nikki's. Note that she also, like me, looks like women.
