Coleman Goes To FitExpo 2018

by Coleman Patrick Ranahan

(Apologies for the semi-blurry phone pics – I didn’t even realize I was going to write about this until half-way through the Expo).

It took nearly three years, but 2018 finally seemed to be the year my schedule wasn’t jam packed or something obscene didn’t interfere, but I finally did it. I went to my first ever… *checks notes…* FitExpo?  Wait, you’re telling me out of the years I’ve tried to go to Comic-Con, failed to go to Comic-Con one year for free (there’s a story), I… went to FitExpo? *Looks around the room… UHHH OK.

I’ve always generally hung outside of cons, never to go in. Not really sure why this is a thing for me, but it is. Comic-Con parties? Sure. Comic-Con dinners? Yeah I’ve been to those. Actual cons? Pffft.

*Halts for a second. I’m gonna explain that Comic-Con story real quick. When I first moved to Los Angeles my employer was paying for the entire company to go to Comic-Con, I got confused by the email that was sent out, and thought I was going to have to pay for my own badge like a dope, and decided that a freshly moved face to Los Angeles couldn’t afford that, so I stayed behind as one of five people still working in the office. *Whispers: We had free badges, I just didn’t realize that, and thus the crowned idiot of 2013 was ME. IT WAS ME.

Anyway, a friend and co-worker had been asking me to go with the last two years and it just never worked out for a variety of reasons but my schedule cleared so I bought a ticket. I had no idea what to expect, other than people showing up and shoveling enough free swag down my pie-hole than one of those Vegas strip assholes constantly slapping their hand, trying to convince me to patronize their asshole establishment like giant assholes.

As a person now carless (old car – bad car), I expected to take the bus over, but fuck a bus at 8:30 in the A.M. (mere laziness rather than walk a mile to the bus stop), I was taking a ride-share. So I called a ride-share over, and right away I knew I was in for a thing when the driver was listening to a hunting podcast. Nothing starts a great car-ride by listening to someone talk about the amount of hunters viciously killed by animals and then also killing said animals at eight in the god damn morning. I did the smart thing and opted for some Alex Lahey in my ears.

I was told to arrive early as possible. As for someone who works nights and rarely goes to sleep by 4 A.M., that seemed daunting, but I somehow managed to do it.  But upon my arrival at the Los Angeles Convention Center, the driver, just had to, and emphasis on a fervent, GOD MADE ME DO IT, HAD TO, comment about the women who were walking around in work-out attire (he got a down-rating he deserved). So… great start to the morning. Thanks Duck Dynasty.

I got my wrist-band and found my way outside to presumably where the line was. There only seemed like a few people, so I thought I had arrived fairly enough. Turns out, that was just the first, not even tenth of the line, and as I rounded the corner towards the South Hall entrance an endless sea of people suddenly appeared in S-curves everywhere. I knew FitExpo had its fair share of attendees, but mother of god and all that is holy proteins, there was a lot of people, and I was EARLY.

Anyway, after finding my friend in the endless sea of groggy and flexing people and waiting for nearly an hour, we were let in, and our first mission was to hit the two biggest booths possible for the free swag. The first one, Optimum Nutrition *Homer Simpson Voice: Op-ti-mum* was easy. We were in and out. The second, for Bodybuilding.com, was a nightmare.

It was like we had made some bodybuilding god angry and it was only fitting that we stood in line for what felt like an eternity. But the best part, and boy do I use this acrimoniously, was when we neared the start of the free swag line, and two colossal tools, two pompous jackasses who thought they were so clever, looked around – side to side, and motioned that they were going to cut through so they could walk on down the floor, and instead planted themselves in front of us. These shitheads just cut us in line after we waited and waited. Without hestitation, my friend looked at me and said, “Well, I take back my douchebag comment” knowing full well these guys would hear us.

They did, and they turned around. “Sorry bro, we owe you a protein shake,” said one of them. Now first off, fuck you. Secondly, fuck you again. What does that even mean, “we owe you a protein shake”? *Makes jerk-off motion. What, are we going to exchange information and you’ll come find us later, pouring protein shakes into bottles like martinis?

If you wanted to solidify yourself as a Grade-A dumbfuck, you stamped it on your foreheads with a machine press that just about cracked your skulls in half. I very much wanted to force them from the line, but seeing as it was my first Expo, and seeing as how I didn’t want to be the one angry guy who started a fight at a convention of people a hundred times more ripped than I (a human marshmallow beaten with fifteen hammers) in a line for free shit, I let it go.

After we escaped the line with our haul, I came to really learn just how many nutrition companies in existence there were. And Jesus H Amino Acids Christ, to say there are a shit-load is an understatement. I genuinely had no idea. Row after row produced new names and brands I could have sworn emerged from the 2018 primordial ooze like strange fish with legs. Some of them seemed fairly genuine, some Mom & Pop types, some big corporations. Some of them seemed to be for the greater good, and some seemed to have an air of SPRING BREAK BITCHES (Spring-Breaaaaaaak) with techno music and people getting up on stage and doing feats of strength like it was Festivus. Form fitting clothes with designs on them to make it look like the women reps for whatever company were spray-painted on was a strange vibe to me honestly in the era of 2018 but there it was.

My friend rattled off name after name as we walked by or talked to a different Mr. Olympia or workout contest winner like they were NFL wide-receivers, I truly felt out of my depth as a sentient jar of mayonnaise for the first time ever but I went with it.

I tasted enough pre-workout samples to constitute a cocaine over-dose, but at least I didn’t have to buy coffee for a majority of the day. Did you know that you can buy egg-whites that taste like fucking Fruity-Pebbles? Cause I sure as shit didn’t. And they were pouring it out like liquor at your favorite dive bar.

Protein was packed into every single thing you could possibly think of. Bundt cakes (yes, bundt cakes), cookies, bars, and my ears. You could have packed protein into an iron brick and I imagine someone would have probably been munching on it up and down the Expo floor, while muttering about their calves or something. I was amazed. I had truly had my eyes opened for the first time.

When we had finally exhausted ourselves, we venture into a smaller room that seemed to be off the beaten path. There were seminars and demonstrations that noticeably were getting the shaft. I wish I could have given them the time of day but my achy-breaky feet wanted to curl up on the floor like a good book and some whiskey.

When we gathered our wits, we found the food trucks outside the convention hall, and boy were we in for something. 

A funk band donning the purest of 70’s disco was on display for us, and while we patiently waited for our pork melt sandwiches (and my friend took off his vest to see if his shoulder muscles were still there), treated us to renditions of the finest 70’s funk you can imagine. Within eyeline, mere yards away as you walked back into the convention center, was a slackline competition bouncing around to the funky beat while a guy on top of a post narrated their every movement. Perfect lunch entertainment.

I mean, not to beat the New Year’s Resolutions thing to death, but if you wanted some motivation going into the New Year to get into shape, visiting the FitExpo will give that to you in spades. I didn’t expect the crowd size to be so large, nor did I expect to find out a new wealth of nutrition companies, but I managed to find that maybe I should pay a little more attention to these kinds of things. I’ll never be some Olympiad, not with my seemingly shadowy carpel-tunnel or creeping non-diagnosed arthritis plaguing me as of late, but if I can keep an eye on the science of all these things, maybe I can better myself in just some slightly interesting ways. Or I could forget it all tomorrow and run head first into a tree, who the fuck knows.

—-

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If you liked this post, consider donating to Coleman’s Patreon here.

Top 17 Films of 2017

Normally I would release a Top (insert number) of year favorite film list, but this year, between work, editing my new short, and some other commitments that’s going to take awhile to release. It’s really an editing exercise for me anyway.  Here is my top 17 of 2017.

  1. Blade Runner 2049
  2. Call Me By Your Name
  3. I Don’t Feel At Home In This World Anymore
  4. Lady Bird
  5. Spider-Man: Homecoming
  6. Molly’s Game
  7. Lady Macbeth
  8. Star Wars The Last Jedi
  9. Dunkirk
  10. Get Out
  11. The Killing of A Sacred Deer
  12. Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2
  13. American Made
  14. John Wick Chapter 2
  15. Wind River
  16. Split
  17. Personal Shopper

Honorable Mentions

  • Mr. Roosevelt
  • Atomic Blonde

Top 5 Albums Of The Year

By Coleman Patrick Ranahan

Oh god, oh no. It’s that time of year again. EGADs. Run for the hills. Batten down the hatches. Throw steak knives at your loved ones (don’t do that). I don’t really write about music a whole hell of a lot because, let’s face it, I’m an idiot when it comes to the true depths of modern music.

I once asked if someone knew about a popular band (at the time – and no, I’m not telling you jerks what it is) in middle school, like it was sliced bread and the stupefied response like I was just emerging like Rip Van Winkle from a twenty-year bender. But this year I just felt like writing about my top five albums of the year, namely because a few of them aren’t probably going to be in people’s purview, and namely I’m just fascinated by the list.

My taste in music seems to be ever evolving, what I once listened to five years ago is not even close to what I listen to now. And good, I don’t want to get boring (despite being a boring person). I like throwing in something new. So maybe you’ll give one of these a listen, if you’ve never listened to the more obscure artists, maybe you will after. Here ya go, ya bastards.

5. Kendrick Lamar – Damn

Yeah, you’d be kind of an idiot to not include one of the best rap albums of the last few years. I mean, Damn, Damn, Daaaaaamn. (Sorry, the ghost of Gene Shalit is haunting me right now).  But yeah, you know it’s good.

4. ZZ Ward – The Storm

I discovered ZZ Ward just earlier this year while working and became immediately entranced by her combo of blues, rock, and R & B. The album has plenty of fantastic singles and shifts gears when it needs to. It’s a really stellar album that I’m glad came out of left field.

3. Lorde – Melodrama

Lorde has fantastically avoided the sophomore slump with something so eloquent and graceful. Lorde is evolving as an artist and so far it only seems the like the trajectory is up. Green Light, though fantastic, seems a little bit like an oddball on the album, but it still works. It still all gels together. Lorde is my jam. And I’ll listen to whatever the hell she wants to do next.

2. Alex Lahey – I Love You Like A Brother

Honestly, I was an inch away from putting this as my favorite album of the year. The up and comer from Australia has infused Aimee Mann style lyrics to such a fun and thumpin’ tune I was a fan from the first listen. It’s hard to name a single favorite on this, as I pretty much enjoy them all, but some of the lyrics to things like ‘Backpack’ and ‘Awkward Exchange’ and ‘Perth Traumatic Stress Disoder’ tell me we’re in for some great albums from Lahey ahead and I hope she develops a great following. Loved, loved, loved this album.

1. Kesha – Rainbow

Kesha has taken the chains holding her back and shattered them into a thousand pieces. If you wanted an artist to completely break free from her past archetypes while also embracing the pop soul she started out with, it’s all here in ‘Rainbow’. Kesha moves from genre to genre, pop, pop-rock, country, ballads, anything and everything you can think of is there. And she can do it all. There’s absolutely no reason to doubt the talent that Kesha truly has, and having seen her in concert in November, I can tell you, she’s a certified rock-star. The best album of the year is Kesha’s ‘Rainbow’.

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Move Over Baby Driver, The Great Heist of 2017 Is Here

By Coleman Patrick Ranahan

Sorry folks, it isn’t done with boppin’ tunes and an attractive lead, but with tomfoolery and a bunch of idiots. The great bank heist of 2017 wasn’t done with speeding cars and a bunch of pscyho’s in my back seat, it was half-assed with two blubbering fools with a futuristic laser rifle. It didn’t happen in the streets of Georgia or the real, gritty streets of Los Angeles in the dead of night, it happened of course, in my head.

But let’s hold up for just a second. What could have possibly have lead to such a dream? And how did it go so wrong? Meet me, a college-grad with a job as a YouTube Channel Manager in beautiful Los Angeles, California. I may not have a roving herd of PR flacks, agents, and a posse of idiots running around, but I got a good thing going. How did I develop such a psychosis to lead to a bumbling bank heist?

What my dream didn’t tell me were the spaces in between, the finer details. How did I just happen to come across a futuristic laser rifle that would allow me to break into bank ATM’s in the first place? Why was my one particular friend my partner in crime? Did I have a meet up akin to ‘The Wire’? I’d love to imagine being on the docks of Los Angeles, shrouded in a dark coat, waiting for my mysterious laser rifle to arrive, only to likely trip on a small rock and eat a puddle of rainwater (in this version of LA we get rain all the time). How did I develop these contacts? Was I on the *finger quotes* “Dark Web”?

But let’s fast forward to our finest hour, as my partner (a real life friend for some reason) and I decide to try it out for the first time and actually break into a local ATM. None of us know what we’re doing (naturally – and of course – as always). We try everything we can to figure out how to cut open the front of an ATM machine, but at this point, we’re just painting with a broad brush and making the ATM look like a burned Picasso. We get seriously frustrated and shoot the ATM’s camera right in its little damned, arrogant (?) eye, and we thankfully leave. (Sorry about the mess, Chase).

It didn’t work out the first time, we were complete fools. We couldn’t have possibly dropped the ball more than that, but did that deter us? Did we pack it in and decide, “to hell with it”? NO, OF COURSE NOT. For we are the great ATM Bandits of 2017, we have a god damn’d laser rifle, and we need to close out the year in style because ‘Fuck You’ Donald Trump (I’m not sure what he has to do with this but I had to sneak one in there).

Our second attempt at thievery was upon us. So back in we go, except this time, we use our bank ATM card to get into the building as one does when the building is closed. Hmm, seems like a terrible way to get caught, no? (The chorus shouts back: YES!). How did a chorus get in here? Now who is the one sneaking around??

As we were surely attempting a sound #2 (hold your jokes please) heist, a group of out of town tourists came flocking in, desperate for cash. My crime partner and I froze, as if we were just having some troubles, none the wiser. Everyone, in their Hawaiian shirts and touristy hats (so many hats) fought over who got to use the ATM first, and we decided to just sit there and sweat. We did afterall, have a futuristic laser rifle, capable of cutting into ATM’s, but we were gentlemen, and decided not to cause a scene while Bob and Margaret were retrieving their twenty-dollar bills. As the tourists left, my crime partner and I looked at each other, the dream ended, and I woke up laughing. I’ll never know if we got to pull off the greatest bank heist in recorded history, but it sure was dumb as hell trying to figure it out.

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Tom Steyer – You Idiot

by Coleman Patrick Ranahan

Tom Steyer: billionaire, is an idiot on a galactic level. Like, not just the kind of idiot you point and laugh at on the street. I’m talking, “This guy is about to fall down the escalator, drunk” dumb.

One of what are an incredible amount of notable scenes from Christopher Nolan’s film ‘The Dark Knight’: The Joker, whom took “half” of the Gotham mob’s money; burns it in the center of a giant warehouse. Tom Steyer is definitely not the Joker (thank god), nor the Russians whom the Joker taunts in that very scene, but while not in face paint or wearing a purple jacket, Tom Steyer is gleefully burning his money. He just needs the warehouse.

“All you care about is money…” the Joker exclaims. Now… enter Tom Steyer. *Looks at the bottle of wine I’m drinking… I should probably put this down. Nobody’s gonna give a shit about a Dark Knight comparison… sigh. Whatever. Fuck you. *Oh god, did I already drink half the bottle? Oh yeah, the Dark Knight comparison didn’t really matter. Where was I?

If you watch cable television, or news programs (god help you) from MSNBC, CNN, et al, you’ve probably noticed the Tom Steyer ad. There he sits in his chair, while dramatic music plays, like a drunk Mr. Rogers, and invokes the word “impeachment” while Steyer rambles on and heavily doctored graphics fade in.

This is the kind of dumb shit you see on the street, with dumb fuck idiots plastering Hitler mustaches on Obama or whatever dumb fuck thing you think you could dumb fuck human beings could photoshop on a face.

This is the kind of thing you would see petty Republicans do because they don’t have anything better to do, like baseball fans when they make awful, bad shirts meant to invoke rage on the opposing team when you visit near the stadium on the street (looking at you Chewing Gum field). Tom Steyer is the Democratic version of that, and his airing of his “ads” do nothing but harm the public discourse.

Is our President a meandering child accused of multiple sexual assaults? Yes.  Is our President someone who taunts the disabled and values strength over substance and character? Yes. Is our President a terrible person? Yes. Do I think he’s easily the most corrupt, horrible individual to hold the mantle of the highest office on planet earth and appoint what I call the Nightmare Cabinet? Certainly.

By airing these ads, we’ll be subject to wave after wave of idiots with money now that should they suddenly disagree with the President, and airing for their impeachment. If you’ve ever wanted to argue for why your DVR should skip past commercials, here’s your prime example. (Unless you of course sneak this ad into a god damn Marvel commercial or something).

The counterargument is, maybe idiots with money don’t air ads, but I think we all know the likelihood of that happening isn’t high. Either way, Tom Steyer is making us roll our eyes into the back of our heads like the amount of people that should have died from watching The Book of Henry.

Tom Steyer could be doing much better things with his money (like peddling my god awful millennial sushi for instance), I think we could all agree with that. He’s not funding candidates, he’s not funding real activism causes, but instead burning his senseless ad dollars in areas that aren’t truly making a difference. This doesn’t move Congress closer to a vote, this doesn’t move the Senate closer to a vote. This just stokes the tribalism for a cheap thirty seconds.

I roll my eyes every time I see one of them. I don’t like the sitting President at all, but he could instead help prep for 2018 and 2020.

You want to make a real statement? Fund progressive candidates. Fund activism causes. Fund things that will help lead to the stemming of global catastrophe.

Tom Steyer, you’re armed with billions of dollars. Join me, and stop your senseless waste of money on ads the Republican controlled congress, Senate, and White House will shrug off just like they shrug off gun violence victims, potential victims of the ACA repeal, or accused child molesters.


You can find me on Twitter @colemanranahan.

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Kesha – The Antithesis

By Coleman Patrick Ranahan

(Photo Credit – Vulture)

I’m not a man who attends a great deal of concerts. I can literally count on one hand how many actual concerts I’ve been too. And no, my siblings middle school choir concerts do not count, YOU CAN’T MAKE ME MOM.

It struck me Wednesday night, through the gap of a gay couple kissing in the audience of a concert at the Palladium in Hollywood, as Kesha commanded the stage, this was the most positive event I have been at all year. Not just simply because of the surrounding circumstances, a terrorist attack in New York, six hundred people shot in Las Vegas, an administration that runs around like a drunk toddler into a batch of legos.

All spectacularly bad photos below this sentence are taken by me.

I was surrounded by what had to be close to three thousand people packed in side by side at the Palladium. Some, were dressed in fancy outfits; custom, some painted, a man passed by me in gold spandex and sequin cape with a top hat, and some donned eye paint and glitter-beards. Anything and everything you could think of, we had it. Kesha’s army was here, her “animals” she lovingly called us. I was in a mere green button-up but I kind of wished I had dressed up.

Likely this will sound hyperbolic, but it had the vibe of the emerging flower power/sexual revolution 1970’s, but in the modern day. Or at least that’s what it struck me like as I was watching everything unfold in front of me from the back of the Palladium.

I didn’t wear anything fancy, though I sported a fancy attitude (some may contest otherwise), but I felt surrounded by the most positive energy I hadn’t felt in quite some time. It was astonishing, singular, and only of that moment. And it registered to me immediately upon stepping into the circular disco style floor of the Palladium.

Kesha’s choice in her opening band, Savoy Motel, a band I had never heard of before, showed an upbeat, fun 1970’s vibe with enough electric guitar solos to make AC/DC blush that seemed to coincide with Kesha’s jailbreak into the artist she’s evolved into.

As Kesha took the stage, she had a confidence, a swagger, a smile. She belonged up there. She loved roaring into the audience, even at one point taking a drink from a flask and “baby-birding” it into the audience. And we all ate it up. And with the presence of a super-star, gave the audience a little bit of everything. She could have asked us all to sucker punch each other in the face and we might have done it.

Without mentioning Donald Trump by name or by occupation, Kesha laid out that all were welcome, all were accepted, and to not let anyone be disparaged by their race, gender, sexual preference etc. The whole room didn’t have to hold their breath to know what she was getting at, we all knew.

The more unshackled Kesha became, the more it emanated into the room.

Whatever the days that come ahead, whatever nonsensical tweet storms our President decides to tear into like a proverbial six-pack that an alcoholic desires, I’ll most definitely remember this night. It wasn’t by any means an absolutely wild night, it was just a stark contrast of what we can be versus what our nation has grinded itself into right now.

And in that small room, that meager slice of life in Los Angeles, that room of people chanting ‘motherfucker’ back to Kesha as she strided around the stage, it felt like happiness, and that Donald J. Trump, is something you can’t roll back.

If you enjoyed this column, consider kicking a few bucks Coleman’s way by contributing to his Patreon account. You can also follow him on Twitter.

The Constant Humiliation of Sean Spicer

(Image by Molly Reilly/AFP/Getty)

By Coleman Patrick Ranahan

White House Press Secretary – Spokesman for the President of the United States and the Executive Branch of the government.

Now, imagine a man, who on behalf of the President of the United States of America, the leader of the free world, one of the most powerful people in existence, came before an entire nation and his first words weren’t that of hope, a shared compassion, a message of unity, but instead were that of a scorched earth, a message not of coexistence and raising others up, but that of something so critically stupid, so beyond the pale of what matters in the mind of the modern American, that the sight of the American message disappears.

Crowd sizes – the great trivial pursuit. Sean Spicer’s first press briefing was one for the ages. He gripped the lectern hard as he railed on about the bust of Martin Luther King Jr, and then transitioned to crowd sizes. Barely catching his breath, he leapt from one sentence to the next, as if a open mic comic was trying to remember his jokes, trying hard to please, trying not to eat it in front of a whole nation. Except his words weren’t just his, they weren’t personal. They were that of the man with most powerful nuclear arsenal on the face of the planet, mere yards from where he stood.

Comedy as they say, is the age old equation of tragedy plus time. But in Sean Spicer’s case, it’s all tragedy, and none of the time.

Tonight, Sean Spicer was paraded around a crowd of celebrities at the Emmys, treated as if he were Melissa McCarthy’s joyous, bombastic, painfully accurate impression. People laughed, Spicer made light of his own tenure, pictures of celebrities openly gaping at the appearance of someone who beckoned to Donald Trump’s call to chastise and threaten the freedom of the press on an annual basis, openly lied about the repeal of American healthcare, and told lies on an annual basis.

That very press by the way (you’ll notice this is a nerve for me), whose existence has yielded countless corporations and government officials doing things we wouldn’t even know about it if we didn’t have a free press. It’s exposed heinous killers, generated thoughtful discussion on social issues, and exposed dangerous, dangerous practices of all kinds. And they laughed.

This isn’t Melissa McCarthy chewing gum in front of a podium. It’s not Stephen Colbert’s over-the-top Republican caricature. This is the man communicating on behalf of the federal government of the United States, who openly targeted reporters,  congressional leaders, and advocated the for the heinous collateral damage killings of family members of enemy combatants. It’s not that he’s not allowed to make light of himself at some point in the future, it could come in time, but the wounds he and the administration inflicted are so fresh, it’d be like watching someone stand over you, having just stabbed you, going, “Sorry the blade wasn’t dull enough…”

“That’s what you sign up to do,” he lauded on Jimmy Kimmel’s late night talk show, alluding to saying whatever needed to be said for Donald Trump.

Callbacks to World War II are easy, but when some German soldiers were asked as to their participation in the countless slaughter of Jews and Europeans, some soldiers replied that they were just following orders (commonly known as the Nuremburg defense). That’s one thing that has always stuck out to me, in the worst war of all time, the simplicity of “we were just following orders.” Sean Spicer isn’t a nazi, but he worked for a white supremacist sympathizer.

Never mind the countless damage this President has done to the United States reputation, never mind the withdrawal of the United States on the world stage, a hollow shell of a man stood before us for months, his character voided out and presented like an art show, welded together. He chose to be a puppet of the United States, to be directed however he pleased, drawing a paycheck from the American taxpayer, and willing to openly lie like a bad car salesman on his last legs.

I guess it’s indicative for Sean Spicer to want to fraternize amongst a group of pretenders. After all, the biggest pretender of the world holds the title of President. But it’s not hard to smell the opportunist in the room, the one who reeks of doing whatever it takes to get him into that bumpin’ Hollywood club. Not all of them wear stupid hats, leather pants, or are trying to shove their business card down your throat, this one just happens to have a fitting tuxedo this time around.

Sean Spicer as the mouth piece for the President, damaged the country, damaged the press, and damaged himself. He was willing to be openly flayed, humiliated, and torn apart in front of a whole nation, all in the name of appearances.

And now he’s back, chatting with late night talk show hosts, comedians, actors, taking selfies, making light as if his targeted press conferences meant nothing, that it was all part of the game. Except Sean Spicer isn’t Omar Little. He’s not sticking up other drug dealers, being the rebel with cause, he’s worse than the entity he tried to vilify.

If you enjoyed this column, consider kicking a few bucks Coleman’s way by contributing to his Patreon account. You can also follow him on Twitter.

Et transitus

By Coleman Patrick Ranahan

Hello,

My name is Coleman Patrick Ranahan. And things seem to be… in transition. I am not who I once was. And I am not the person I was ten seconds ago. And I am most certainly not the person I was when I graduated high school ten years ago. Which is how we arrived here, at this asinine post, a modern Coleman, if such a thing could exist.

This isn’t a starter pistol, there aren’t runners in position. The runners have already leapt out of the gate and are halfway gone. This is mise-en-scene. The camera was rolling and the director is drunk.

In 2017 if you had asked me if I was ready to start writing twice a month at the minimum, trying to construct something funny, I would have said, “Sure.”

Sorry, I think I caught myself off guard there. I mean yes – positive – OK. A couple of years ago? Absolutely not. Moving down to Los Angeles? No. Living in a house with ten to thirteen people? Negative. Sleeping on a pile of towels and a deflated air mattress, maybe after a few beers. Not even living in a single room in Santa Monica. It just wasn’t the time.

But things are transforming, taking shape and flying upward (I hope). I have kidnapped the hippogriff and I’m going for a joy ride. No seatbelt fastened (which I don’t think is a feature on the 2017 model). I may not be a rebel, wearing leather jackets (I have one it’s just too god damn hot out), smoking cigarettes (yeah, see?), or fighting the Empire, but I have an itch that I need to set fire to.

Now… having written all of that it seems silly to apply that to a humor column (or… an opinion column with humor in it), which, it is. But this desire to start producing, start writing, start filming, doing everything has reached a pinnacle. There’s no going back now. I am sick with something, some innate, idiotic, magicians trick. It’s the rainbow colored scarf I keep pulling at out of my sleeve but it just doesn’t seem to end.

It’s the means to a temporarily satiate, and I don’t necessarily mean monetarily (but please give me your money, preferably in buckets). I can’t focus if I don’t write.

You know how Superman as a kid started flipping out when his powers first started manifesting (and good fucking god I am not actually comparing myself to the most supreme being in the universe – as we all know that is Keanu Reeves), it’s like that. It’s endless noise circling my head. I can’t get to sleep. It’s like someone turned the crowd noise up in a stadium, in the middle of the night.

Sure, I could go to some event on a Thursday night (fuck you Wednesday), get frustrated, and rip some intern’s head off like a dandelion, but this is what I do to get through the day. It’s disgusting.

My writing isn’t quaint, or particularly thought provoking. It doesn’t make some grand gesture for the twenty-first century. I’m not solving any big moral quandary (cut to – X post later where I pretend to have insight) or providing analysis. It’s just the way I get through my day because whatever else people fill their lives with is a void for me. It’s just exists.

Which brings me to the point of this blog, or site, whatever you want to call it. I’m attempting to fill something here, not just a few more words on the page of course, but something in myself. (This is all walking a dangerously close – pretentious line).

Life is in transition, 2017, America, a new job, my brain, my writing, my filmmaking, me. Things are evolving, and I’m not quite sure where it’s taking me. But I’ve reached a point where I seem to be comfortable with a new song and dance (groundhog! – a musical reference I’m sure will be lost on most). I finally feel like letting some things escape.

Not all of it will be pretty, wrapped in a neat little bow (if I wake up with a bow on me I will have questions), or always properly expressed. I liken whatever it is I am to my poker skills. Sloppy, but when I win, I win big. Unsure if I’m winning right now, but I’m ready to start pushing in some more chips.

In particular to this blog, we’ll be covering a wide variety of topics, really it’ll be whatever the hell I’m feeling, maybe it’s something about life in transition, maybe it’ll be politics, or maybe it’ll just be about that time I didn’t realize the Best Buy check-out girl was hitting on me and I stumbled out of the store like a wounded gazelle trying to … sorry did you hit the snooze button already?

I hope the writing on this site entertains, and maybe, just maybe spurs a thought in your head, but we’ll see what happens. It’s a means to sort the noise, and if it can both ease my mind and put a chuckle or a “Wait, what?” on the mind, I’ll be OK with that. Until then, welcome to the Certifiable.

If you enjoyed this column, consider kicking a few bucks Coleman’s way by contributing to his Patreon account. You can also follow him on Twitter.

What To Do When Your President Is A Nazi/White Supremacist Sympathizer?

by Coleman Patrick Ranahan

(Photo by Chip Somodevilla – Getty)

Ok, so your President was just revealed as a Nazi sympathizer. A wide range of emotions are going to come out. Mostly rage I imagine, but there may even be some tears and bargaining.

But the question now becomes – What do you do?

I’ve come up with a handy dandy list.

  1. Scream.
  2. Scream louder.
  3. Scream at a small bush.
  4. Apologize to the small bush.
  5. Watch Schindler’s List.
  6. Apologize to Schindler’s List, profusely… like to the whole blu-ray case.
  7. Call your Congressman/Congresswoman (don’t forget the part about the President being a Nazi sympathizer, don’t just chat about pie or something, though pie is delicious).
  8. Rage, rage some more.
  9. Figure out that you should probably censure the President.
  10. Censure the President (then have pie).

Think you’re done? Nah. You’ve still got some work to do. BECAUSE THE GOD DAMN PRESIDENT THINKS THERE ARE VERY NICE PEOPLE IN THE WHITE SUPRE— Sorry I think I just had a small stroke.

One thing you can do to ensure this happens again in the future is to tell future progeny and small yelling machines (I think those are called children) that Nazis and White Supremacists are evil and generally just bad people. Educate them. If you think they’re old enough, show them the horrors of World War II. Don’t hold back images of what happened. They deserve to know. They deserve to not be dragged into the rise of something like that ever again. They deserve to be small yelling machines and not have to worry about whether or not Jeff next door lit a torch, parted his hair like a douchebag (spoiler alert – total douchebag) and went out marching cause he think his shit haircut makes him a better man. Jeff is not a better man. Jeff is an asshole. Fuck you, Jeff.

Few Presidents in the history of the United States have actually faced censure. Congress has tried before, Bill Clinton came close (phrasing). Abraham Lincoln (the party our current President claims to hold) almost ran afoul of it. One notable President to actually be censured? Andrew Jackson. Andrew Jackson was also a documented dickhole.

There are few and far things in between to send a strong message to the President of the United States about. I generally tend to think condemnations are a waste of time and money unless you get someone to resign from office, but since the President of the United States seems so hellbent on getting something through Congress why not sign (or sigh), seal, and deliver the biggest ‘fuck you’ in American politics besides asking him to resign? You may not agree with everything, but there is one notable exception, Nazis and White Supremacists. No matter how far you turn, no matter how much you look away, they’re lurking in the shadows like evil cartoon characters, sharpening their knives and waiting for the day someone is elevated that will let them run amuck. This is that time.

It only takes about five minutes of watching a National Geographic Special or a History Channel hour (back when they did history, I have no idea what they do now – Auction off cats?) to know that Nazis and White Supremacists are bad. Ed Norton made a movie about being a Nazi turned not Nazi.

Don’t be bad. Don’t be a Nazi. Don’t sympathize with Nazis and go, “Well Jeff seems alright.” Jeff is not alright. Jeff is a deranged lunatic who will come to your house with a dusty tiki torch that he stole from your stepdad’s basement that he claims to have fueled with “liberal tears” and scream until he’s red in the face because he think’s he is genetically superior. Jeff can crawl back to his hole from whence he came, remove that awful white polo, take a hint from history and make the world a better place. Fuck Nazis, send the President a neat little letter with the word “censure” on it, and have some pie.

If you enjoyed this column, consider kicking a few bucks Coleman’s way by contributing to his Patreon account. You can also follow him on Twitter.

Hi!

Hello internet,

I will start writing my columns starting in the next month. If you would like to support a budding humor writer or just a giant idiot in general, you can donate to the Patreon page here.

You can follow me on Twitter.

I also directed a feature film Lost Signals which you can buy or rent here.