Dave Caolo

… for ignoring email until 1:30 PM.

Today I saw a commercial for Apple Fries at Burger King. Essentially, they’re apples cut into the shape of french fries and stuffed into a small, cardboard box with a Burger King logo, just like the ones they use with real french fries.

It begins with a familiar scene: A reasonably nice-looking woman stands in her IKEA kitchen while her 11- or 12-year-old daughter does her homework at the counter.

Much like the wicked old hag in the story of Snow White or Satan himself disguised as a snake in the Garden of Eden, the woman presents her daughter with a shiny, red apple.

“Here’s your apple, honey” she says, as if the girl had requested it. The girl refuses. “Come on,” she says. “Apples are good for you.”

The girl twists her face into a look that says, “You are lucky, woman. Lucky that I’m completely dependent on you for food, clothing and shelter or I’d be such a ghost. The clock is ticking and soon I’ll be liberated from this hell hole and living an independent, self-sustaining and totally apple-free lifestyle.”

Unperturbed, the woman reaches into the knowledge base of parenting skills she has constructed over the years and pulls out the perfect tactic for this situation.

She cuts the apple in half.

“See? I sliced it for you,” she says.

“No,” the girl says.

Defeated, the woman turns away and emits the kind of exasperated sigh typically reserved for the director of an under-funded homeless shelter that’s been forced to close, the beat cop at the start of his second consecutive double shift and the upper middle-class, stay-at-home mom whose daughter dislikes apples.

Just then, a man enters the room. He’s dressed in a pantomime Burger King costume, complete with a grossly over-sized head, giving him the appearance of a rental clown with Hydrocephalus.

While the woman is happy to see him, I get the feeling that he spends his time out of the costume assembling another suit … made of human skin.

He produces the box of french fry-shaped apples to the delight of the girl, who begins eating them immediately. Well, almost immediately. It happens quickly, but if you pay attention you’ll see a look in her eyes that asks her mother exactly where she thinks she gets off by expecting her to eat anything that wasn’t delivered in a cardboard box by a fast food mascot.

I mean, really.

Hey, Alex. How’s it goin.

Seriously, what is this supposed to be? It looks like the scraps left over after my kids have been cutting construction paper.

Taking this server on a road trip today. Wish us luck.

A test of the iPhone WordPress app.

During this week’s financial conference call, Apple CFO Peter Oppenheimer revealed his company’s intention to exectute a “product transition” sometime before September.

Apple typically refreshes the iPod lineup in September, and back in March I predicted the death of hard drive-based iPods. We’ll see if this is it.

iPhone pinewood racer

My boy is cool, even while in The Bitch Seat.

Last year, the Squirrel Nut Zippers broke their hiatus and shocked fans by playing a few shows around the US. The tour has continued into 2008, and last night I was lucky enough to see them at The Beachcomber in Wellfleet, MA.

Despite being a bit cramped on the tiny stage, all 8 Zippers were comfortable and loose. Jimbo joked with the capacity crowd and Katherine looked and sounded great in a floor-lentgh, red velvet cape and the tiniest dress I think I’ve ever seen.

They burned through favorites like Good Enough For Granddad, The Ghost of Steven Foster, Put A Lid On It, Suits Are Picking Up The Bill and Club Limbo. While most of the crowed seemd to be there just for fun, there were a few of us who knew the words to all of the songs. Still, the songs Hell, My Drag and and Prince Nez drew enthusiastic cheers from everyone.

I waited more than ten years to see this band, and it was worth it. They were super tight and polished. I took a bunch of crappy photos with my iPhone; the best one is above.

If you can catch this tour, do it. The Zippers are back and they sound fantastic.