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Remember last week when I said I watched as much Project Runway as hockey? Yeah, it's time to throw down.

Like most viewers, I watch PR more out of habit and obligation than genuine interest at this point. It hasn't actually been all that interesting since Season 4. When Johnny Neck Tats won Season 3, it officially started the show on its gradual decline although it's still moderately entertaining. My complaints are two, and I imagine they are fairly common. First, the "judging" on the show is little more than a way for the producers to get rid of the cast members who aren't focus-grouping well enough. Actual talent seems to be about 4th on the list of priorities. I know, I know, it's TV. But the competition seems to be less about fashion and more about who can make the "edgiest" audition video, who has the most memorably idiotic haircut, and who has the potential to come up with the most irritating catchphrases. Second, the cast is essentially the same every year. Only the names change. There is a formula and the network(s) stick to it. It's like a Mad Lib. With hipsters.

It's so easy, any viewer can do it. Who needs Lifetime (and its desperate, futile efforts to get PR viewers to watch anything else on Lifetime) when you can plug your own characters into the various roles, find someone who can do a good Tim Gunn impression (I can, by the way), and make your own season right at home. I'll prove it. To make your own season, you'll need:

1. THE REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEALLY GAY GUY
Yes, something like 90% of the male contestants are gay. But each season there must be at least one gay guy who embodies every stereotype – at quadruple strength – that comes to mind when I say "gay fashion designer." Most of the cast are just regular dudes, but the Alpha Gay Dude goes the extra mile. Viewers, no matter how tactful, look at this guy and wonder "Holy balls, where did they find someone that gay?" The answer is that he was manufactured in a laboratory, assembled from parts taken from guys who were not quite as gay. I'm not sure if it's appropriate for us straights to use the term "flaming", but…what I'm saying is, flaming. Gay like a french horn solo in a Mardi Gras parade.

Seriously.

Examples: Austin Scarlett (Season 1), Jerell (Season 5), Kayne (Season 3)

2. THE COMEDIAN
This designer has average talent at best but gets strung along all season – usually one of the last people to get cut before Bryant Park – because he is funny. He makes good B-roll, great soundbites, and keeps the other cast members from murdering each other. The audience loves them, as their humor is not the polarizing type. Flat-out funny.

Where's Andre?

Examples: Santino (Season 2), Chris March (Season 4), Anthony (Season 7)

3. THE CLINICALLY INSANE ONE
Each cast needs one member who is absolutely fucking bonkers. Like "I drink your milkshake" crazy. The ideal candidate talks often about auras and fairies and assorted other pieces of New Age horseshit while engaging in bizarre behaviors that leave the other cast members genuinely fearful. Or it could just be weird, like incomprehensible Elisa who liked to spit on things.

My chi is covered in spit.

Examples: Elisa (Season 4), Stella (Season 5), Malvin (Season 6)

4. THE ONE STRAIGHT GUY
100% guaranteed to bring up the fact that he is straight early, often in the introductory episode, and very often thereafter. They often look like rejected extras from Jersey Shore.

DUDE, KNOW WHAT I LOVE? TITTIES!

Examples: Jeffrey (Season 3), Kevin (Season 4), Johnny Sakalis (Season 6)

5. HOT GIRL
The producers understand that many a boyfriend/husband/etc. are forced to watch this show against their will. So there is one extra-hot female contestant in an attempt to placate them. Their design talents are often considerable, enabling the producers to keep them around to the bitter end. They are always nice, too, so that male viewers can think they are the ideal girlfriend. The kind who would never make them watch PR.

"Althea, Nina wants you in a tighter shirt."

Examples: Alison (Season 3), Emily Brandle (Season 5), Althea (Season 6)

6. MIDDLE AGED WOMAN
Bravo knows its audience, but Lifetime reeeeeeally knows its audience. There has to be at least one contestant upon whom the middle-aged female viewers can project themselves. These contestants range from highly talented (Laura, Season 3) to "Why is she there?" bad (Marla, Season 2; also, hot), although we all know the answer to that.

My kids don't call me either. Let's go out for appletinis.

Examples: Laura Bennett (Season 3), Marla (Season 2), Peach (Season 8)

7. THE ASSHOLE
Every season of every reality show ever made has the one asshole everyone wants to choke. The other contestants (and most viewers) spend a lot of time hoping he or she will trip and be impaled on a pair of scissors or Nina Garcia's jagged, angular face. The assholes are often very good and may even end up winning, making them increasingly unbearable until a friend or family member has them euthanized.

God, you are so beneath me.

Examples: Irina (Season 6), Kenley (Season 5), Wendy Pepper (Season 1)

8. THE CARTOON CHARACTER
These are the pure self-promoters, trying as hard as possible to be "quirky" and constantly throwing out ridiculous catchphrases. Like a sitcom character, they fight for more camera time for reasons that have nothing to do with talent. Usually very young and immature. They often go by one name (a la Brazilian soccer players) or some ridiculous moniker befitting their gimmicky appearance.

I refer to myself in 3rd person. Seriously.

Examples: Christian (Season 4), "Suede" (Season 5), "Epperson" (Season 6)

Fill out the rest of the cast with people who are quiet, bland, unremarkable, and pretty good at making clothes. Et voila. You're now a producer.

I watch a lot of hockey and almost as much Project Runway. There is something to be said for style, for being on the cutting edge, and for pushing the boundaries. On the other hand, style has to be appropriate to its intended context, and in the testosterone-fueled world of contact sports that means design choices should adhere to some loose guidelines. Simple, classic, easily identifiable, appealing, and preferably a little bit tough. There is a reason there is no hockey team named the Silly Bunnies. It's all "Rangers" and "Flyers" for a reason. One should…you know…look like a group of professional athletes to be taken seriously. Even if, as is the case with the Rangers, you aren't.

Assuming that most of you don't care about hockey, let me assure you that you can still enjoy this post as long as you enjoy one of the five pillars of the Ginandtacos experience: posting pictures of things and proceeding to make fun of them a lot. So, in no particular order, here is Epic Fail: the Logo Edition.

1. 1996-1998 New York Islanders

Are you intimidated by the Gorton's fish sticks logo?

If so, you will shit your pants at the thought of playing the late '90s Islanders. You will find their logo positively terrifying. Ahoy, matey! Thar she blows. And by "she" I mean the New York Islanders.

2. New Haven Beast

The minor leagues are a great place to find both the best and worst of logo design. Can you guess which one this is?

This looks like they had a contest to let fans design the logo, but with some important caveats. The contest was open only to children aged 6 to 10 with profound emotional disabilities. And the prize money was only $4, so even most of the disturbed kids didn't bother entering a drawing.

3. Kelowna Rockets

Not pictured: A FUCKING ROCKET. This is like a t-shirt bearing the image of the British flag with "SPAIN" written underneath it.

4. Louisville River Frogs

There is so much wrong with this.

Start with the frog squatting as though it is trying to use a particularly filthy gas station toilet without making contact with the seat (I call this "Hover Mode^tm"). Then add Comic Tard font. Then have the anthropomorphic frog tonguing the puck, which, if not a 2-minute minor penalty, is at least frowned upon for sanitary reasons. This all overlooks the more obvious question of why anyone would name a hockey team the "River Frogs." Don't frogs live in ponds?

5. California Golden Seals

The NHL's first attempt at planting a flag in California was the California/Oakland Golden Seals (also the California Seals for a while) produced an artistic palette that practically shouted "It is 1973 and I do tambourines full of coke every night." The regrettable color scheme (check out the full uni – holy shit!), the Art Deco seal, and the inescapable fact that the seal is nature's comedian doom this logo from the outset. Fortunately the idea of having a shapeless blob for a logo died here…

6. Buffalo Sabres, current

Goddammit. Were you not listening, Buffalo? This is popularly known as the "Buffaslug", a horned invertebrate native to upstate New York. They went from one of the most bad-assed (if overly literal) logos in sports to this monstrosity, the love child of a flaccid hot dog and the American bison. For shame.

7. New York Raiders (WHA)

Ahem.

First of all, the team appears to have gotten a stock logo, perhaps from clip art, that has absolutely nothing to do with the team name. Second, the logo appears to have been copied from a competitive men's figure skating team. The Raiders were horrible, but at least they looked faaaaaaaaaaaaabulous.

8. Anaheim Mighty Ducks, "Wild Wing."

Can you believe professional athletes – adults, not children – walked out of a locker room with this on their chests? On purple and teal uniforms, no less? The indignity of playing for a team named after a Disney kids' movie wasn't soul-crushing enough, I suppose, so the owners (shockingly, Disney) piled it on. Unanswered, of course, is the question of how Wild Wing was able to breathe under the ice.

9. Boston Bruins alternate/historic logo

Hey look everyone! It's Gentle Ben!

Look at the look on that bear's face. He looks bemused. Puzzled. Perhaps interested in having a tasty treat from a picnic basket. Apparently back in the day when this logo was devised they figured any ol' bear would do. "The team is called the Bruins. Just draw a bear and let's go to a vaudeville show!" Most people would still be afraid if confronted by this bear, but it looks far more likely to lick you than to tear you limb from limb. These jerseys make me want to scratch Poopsie the Bear (or whatever the hell his name is) behind the ear and ask him if he is a good boy.

Today is the 65th anniversary of Trinity.

We all remember J. Robert Oppenheimer's reaction ("Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds" from the Bhagavad Gita) but I think the lesser known words of the lesser known Kenneth Bainbridge do the job a little bit better: "Now we are all sons of bitches."

Humans have a tendency to overuse superlatives when it comes to history. Browse the non-fiction section of your bookstore and you will find dozens, perhaps hundreds, of accounts of things that "changed the world" or were "turning points in history." This is almost always bunk, but the events of July 16, 1945 at White Sands are among the few that can accurately be described that way. I could talk for hours and maybe days about this subject but I will be as brief as I can: the moment "The Gadget" detonated, the world changed. What happened at 5:29 AM Mountain Time on that day became the dominant topic of conversation and thought for the next forty years and forever altered the way the nations of the world interact. It made World War III unthinkable and, as a result, introduced proxy wars and Marx Brothers-like misadventures of industrialized nations in isolated and unpronounceable places.

Not being a historian by trade, I can only think of a few analogous events. The invention of electricity. The printing press. The Protestant Reformation – Treaty of Westphalia combo. The conversion of Constantine I of Rome to Christianity. Marco Polo shaking hands with Kublai Kahn.

What else? I'm sure I've only scratched the surface of the list of events that legitimately altered the course of human history. There must be more, such as the historic and planet-changing election of Barack Obama.

Two things happened today.

First, after hardly sleeping last night I was having a hard time writing at the office today. I gave up at about 4 PM and came home earlier than usual. It was exactly 100 degrees here today, with a heat index of 103. It was, in scientific terms, balls hot. When I got home I found my male rats completely inert. Rats are crepuscular and tend to be prodigious nappers during high afternoon heat. So today was exceptional only inasmuch as they were completely unresponsive. Like, I had to startle them awake to verify that they were not dead. Here is a reference photo of napping boys. Imagine how it would break your heart to disturb them.

The second incident occurred on an errand run to Target. The store, like many in this area, was in full-blown "Back to School" mode (in July?? Is this normal?). It was well organized, with a college section (dorm-in-a-box packages, Ramen, 55-gallon drums of Valtrex), generic K-12 school supplies, and a section for kindergarten/preschool needs. This final area had a large end display offering "Napping Mats." I assume the local school district(s) have these on the required supplies list.

These two disparate events got me thinking: Why are humans the only mammal, or close to it, that doesn't rest during the hottest part of the day? More importantly, how much better would life be if we didn't abandon the idea of afternoon naptime when kids leave kindergarten? Just imagine your crappy daily routine with the cubicle hours between 1:00 and 3:30 replaced by a nice, quiet nap? We could all roll out our Dora the Explorer nap mats and just…let nature take its course.

None of us sleep enough. Mammals are not active during the hottest part of the day. Naps are awesome. I just presented three unassailable facts in support national (global?) naptime. We nap until we're 6 and then we're expected to stop. Why? We don't become a different species when we enter 1st Grade. The only thing that changes are the expectations and the schedule to which we are forced to conform.

Nuts to that. I'm tired.

Retro style generally has very little appeal to me. It's what becomes trendy whenever we are totally out of ideas as a society. Hey, let's start wearing 1980s Jazzercise outfits again! Why? Because it's time for a change and this is easier than thinking of something new! Let's watch Mad Men. Being a woman in the 1950s must have been so cool – look at those amazing dresses! What lovely kitchens!

On the other hand, I do have a strong affinity for history. One thing that never fails to fascinate me is the way that Americans of the past saw their future / our present. The 1950s were the height of the naive sense of wonder at the unlimited power of science and technology. Science would bring a future free of diseases and positively laden with bubble- or dome-shaped houses, space tourism, and flying cars to American kids of the Eisenhower era (Disney's Tomorrowland is a particularly famous example of this spirit).

Of course by 1960 the visions of the future had taken a slightly darker turn on account of the ICBM, thermonuclear bomb, and bombers with global range. The nuclear apocalypse became one of the most common themes in fiction, film, and art. Nonetheless, the positive depictions of the future didn't disappear. We were still going to beat the Commies, take vacations to dome cities on the moon, and have robot servants washing our astro-dishes. And of course there would still be flying cars.

Whenever I read about retro-futurism I am struck by the joylessness of our current futurism. I mean, does anyone actually think things are going to get better? Who looks forward to 2050 (or even 2030) as a time of technological wonders improving humanity's lot? We don't seem to think we have much to look forward to anymore – environmental catastrophes, mass extinctions, vanishing resources, political instability, economic collapse, critical overpopulation, and a soulless existence as cogs in a society that is little more than an enormous, filthy, and cold machine.

What optimism we have anymore is short-term; such-and-such will make things better now or in the next few years. No one even pretends anymore that things are looking up in the long term. We know that the melting icecaps, rising oceans, food shortages, wars over oil or fresh water, Great Depression III, and Grey Goo are right around the corner. It's optimistic just to think that the U.S. will still be a functioning society in 30 years let alone one kissed by the wonders of science or experiencing any kind of prosperity.

I have no doubt that my own pessimism colors the way I interpret the social consensus. Am I way off base here? Is there anyone out there writing Disney Tomorrowland versions of America 2050? Do any of you think that things are lookin' up? That 2030 will be a glorious time to be alive?

At least we finally have our goddamn flying cars – albeit $200,000 ones that can only operate from airports, which largely defeats the purpose, guys.

Can I at least get a jet pack? Man, this future sucks.

Among other more obvious historical firsts President Obama is the first president to be driven around in a totally custom-made car. The security and communications requirements have become so extensive – a negative pressure system for chemical attacks, IED-proof armor on the doors, a mine-proof underbelly, Level IV bullet resistant glass, etc. – that the body and frame of a normal limousine could no longer bear the added weight. Customizing a Lincoln Town Car or Cadillac Fleetwood is no longer sufficient, so the current Presidential State Car was built from the ground up. "Car" is a wild misnomer, as "The Beast" (as the Secret Service calls the 12,000-pound vehicle) is more tank than car. While the styling cues and badging mark the car as a Cadillac, the resemblance is only superficial.

Built on the platform of the GMC Topkick – a commercial vehicle used as a platform for fire trucks, ambulances, and dump trucks – the PSC has eight inches of titanium armor in the doors, bulletproof glass nearly a foot thick, and generally looks more like a bunker than a car as this Life Magazine photo illustrates:

The exterior bodywork had to be designed carefully so that the vehicle could fit inside a C-17 Globemaster, which, for the record, is really fucking big. The President is not allowed by the Secret Service to be transported in vehicles provided by other nations, which is logical given that he often ends up in dodgy places. Thus wherever he goes, the car goes. The engine is classified but is known to be a very large diesel, which breaks with the tradition of all previous presidential carriages. It also indicates that the Secret Service is minimally concerned about high speed (although I'm sure it's plenty fast) and very concerned that the PSC is able to batter its way through barricades, climb small obstacles, and push other vehicles out of the way. The high-torque diesel is ideal for all three applications.

It is a sad commentary on the current state of the country and of the world that the president must be trucked around in what amounts to a impenetrable bomb shelter on wheels, but that is where we are at in 2010. It is not where we have always been – although in fairness, a couple of assassinated presidents might have benefited from protection of this kind.

The first president to ride in an automobile was William McKinley, although it was a brief novelty ride in something considered far less reliable than a horse in 1900. The first to use on a semi-regular basis a car purchased by the Federal government for the president was McKinley's successor, Teddy Roosevelt. The car was a steam-powered (!!!) Stanley. Hey, if Robert Fulton's brainchild was good enough for a locomotive, surely it belonged in automobiles as well. TR's successor William H. Taft was the first to own a personal vehicle; he squeezed his corpulent hide into this sweet-ass White Model M Steamer:

The first vehicles that indicated the realization that the president required customized vehicles was unsurprisingly FDR, who received two massive Cadillac convertibles in 1938. They accommodated his physical needs and made some basic security concessions as well. This was upgraded to the first vehicle specifically customized on order from the White House, the "Sunshine Special" V12 Lincoln convertible procured in 1939. This is after he already survived one assassination attempt in an open-topped car. Smart.

Post-War presidents had a succession of opulent Lincoln convertibles, none of which, being convertibles, offered much in the way of upgraded security. Communications, at least the wireless kind, were so rudimentary that there wasn't much to put in a car at the time, so the presidential cars were essentially just really nice cars. Kennedy's soon-to-be infamous Lincoln – a landaulet, a strange convertible-limousine hybrid – featured telephones based on two-way radio technology, which was quite advanced for 1960. This photo clearly shows the bizarrely placed "jump seats" in which Governor Connolly sat during the assassination in 1963.

After that unpleasantness, the Secret Service started to realize that convertibles, even with the top up, were a horrible idea. In 1969 the White House finally received a bulletproof and armored Lincoln limousine which was used by Nixon, Ford, Carter, and Reagan – including the latter's assassination attempt in 1981. Reagan switched back to Cadillacs in 1983, although I can't locate information about why. There may be a reason or it may mean nothing in particular. But his new limo was enclosed and heavily armored. Armor upgrades in the 1989 Lincoln delivered to George H. Bush necessitated a transplanted Ford Truck V8, the first indication that the armor requirements of the presidential limo were beginning to tax the limits of standard car designs. Clinton received a Cadillac Fleetwood-based limo in 1993 and his successor took possession of the last limo based on a "normal" car in 2005: a Cadillac DTS-based limo which is still used as a backup by the current president. The Secret Service reportedly was unhappy with the performance and structural integrity of the Bush DTS, as the amount of equipment added during customization badly strained the passenger car underpinnings of the vehicle.

It would be nice if President Obama and his successors could hop in a convertible and wave to parade crowds, but it appears that those days are over. On the bright side, however, it would take a tactical nuclear strike to put a scratch on the passenger compartment of the new Presidential State Car. And there's probably some classified piece of security equipment to protect it from that too.

On account of an 11-hour drive late Thursday and a wedding to attend today I regret that you were not able to wake up to some NPF this morning. To make up for this failure on my part, here is a photo of the world's tallest man (Bao Xishun of China) reaching into the stomach of a bottlenose dolphin to remove a potentially fatal piece of plastic it swallowed.

I would love to have been at the meeting where Chinese veterinarians and medical professionals were trying to figure out how to save the dolphin using the latest medical technology until someone stood up and said "All we need is a guy with 50-inch arms and an economy sized tub of Vaseline!"

Fortunately for the dolphin, China has both.

Octopus-armed NBA player Cliff Ray was called upon to perform the same life-saving service for a dolphin at a California zoo in the 1970s. Whether the Chinese were aware of this incident is unclear; this may be a case of simultaneous independent discoveries of something brilliant.

From the 2006 World Cup (ps HOLY CRAP I have been doing this for a long time).

This is what makes soccer so farcical and unwatchable to the average American:

1. Player One slide-tackles Player Two, making minor leg-to-leg contact

2. Player Two goes limp and crumples to the turf in a near-perfect (and no doubt well-rehearsed) re-enactment of Frame 323 of the Zapruder film

3. Player Two grabs his calf/shin/ankle and makes a grimacing face as though he is attempting to defecate a shattered beer bottle

4. Player One throws up his arms, gesturing a combination of "I'm innocent" and "This man is an enormous vagina" to the crowd, followed by "Surely you aren't buying this horseshit" to the ref (who is always from a neutral yet vaguely dislikeable country, usually Argentina)

5. A team of doctors rush over to Player Two with a stretcher, neck brace, donor kidney, gas cromatograph, and the Jaws of Life.

6. After carrying Player Two off the field on said stretcher, he waits until the crowd's attention is diverted back to the game before getting up, walking it off for about 10 feet, and then "heroically" re-joining the action moments after his near-crippling injury.

Let me add a couple of questions that continue to plague me:

Why is there a clock? It operates in the wrong direction and seemingly at random, being ignored by everyone on the field and seemingly having no effect on the game whatsoever.

Why do goaltenders wear neutral colors?

Why are fans allowed to employ whatever kind of noisemaking implement they choose? This would be like having a basketball game where everyone in the stadium had a whistle.

Why are substitutions treated like the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns?

Help me understand, soccer people. My brutish, ignorant American mind does not get it.

So I grew a 56-day playoff beard for the Blackhawks and I was not about to shave it without maximizing the entertainment potential inherent in facial hair. It seemed appropriate to honor my favorite presidential facial hair, that of Chester A. Arthur.

Please try to control yourself upon discovering how attractive I am.

Most people with a half-decent interest in presidential elections know that facial hair has mandatory between approximately 1850 and 1920 but almost nonexistent outside of that time period. HuffPo has a short slideshow refresher course on some of the more impressive instances of Executive beardage, or you could stop being a dilettante and go for the ridiculously thorough catalog of mustaches, beards, sideburns, and stray mole hairs among presidents as well as presidential candidates by Nicholas Whyte.

While Mr. Whyte does note that no "serious" candidates have had facial hair since 1948 (Thomas Dewey) there have been some quasi-serious ones. Libertarian candidate Bob Barr was nominated by the American Mustache Institute (which apparently is real) for its (I shit you not) "Robert Goulet Mustached American of the Year Award" in 2008.

This is an actual thing.

What is behind the modern aversion to facial hair? Yes, mustaches make 99.9% of their wearers look like registered sex offenders, meth dealers, or state troopers. But older men can sometimes look more stately with a beard. Something odd like bushy sideburns could also make a no-name candidate stand out from the pack. I am not holding my breath, but I hope that facial hair becomes politically acceptable again at some point in the reasonably near future. I don't want to live in a country that wouldn't elect James A. Garfield on account of his massive, bushy beard or, even worse, a political system that would scare him out of growing one in the first place.