Xmastime Loves his Popcorn

You can’t fucking win when it comes to microwave popcorn. Wait to pull it out one nanosecond too late and everything gets burned to a crisp. Pull out too early, you’re left with a million uncooked kernels at the bottom of the bowl. Then you wonder for a second about trying to re-cook those kernels, but decide that maybe not having a job and sneezing into old socks instead of buying paper towels is white trash enough, thank you very much. Before you know it you’re desperately trying to time it, like in “Apollo 13” when they gotta try to perfectly line up with a star and shut the engines off at the exact perfect moment. Gimble-lock. Fuck it up, you skid off the top of the atmosphere and good-bye forever. It’s popcorn; do I need that much fucking pressure? Life’s not hard enough, now I gotta be Alan Shepard?

I loves me some popcorn tho. Crave it at times. When I eat it I can feel it churning in my gut, turning into energy. Just like I tell girls my jizz is gonna feel. I love it old-style, I like it microwaved, I like it in brown bags coated in grease, I like the huge tub they give you at the movies. My #1 right now are those huge bags you get at Wal-Mart for $1. Sumpin bout that popcorn, unreal.

My first memories of popcorn are as a little kid, it would be Friday or Saturday night and “Diff’rent Strokes” would be coming on. My mother would start making a big ol’ batch old style, in a pot on the stove, lil pot on the side melting butter. Did that last sentence break the record for sounding "old-timey?" Maybe? Anyway, me being an idiot, I would never get my bath for the night over with in time to settle in before the show started. Oh no no, that would be the smart thing to do. Me, I’d time it so that as I’m splashing in the tub I could hear the corn popping in the kitchen. Which sounds weird now.....okay, I took baths in the kitchen sink til I was 14 years old. Feel good about yourself now, Daddy Warbucks? Anyways, I could hear my mother yellin I better hurry up, or I’ll miss out on the popcorn. I’d splish and splash, splish and splash, apply cocoa butter aloe vera with sliced almonds while marveling at the sensation of my vas deferens in the water, splish and splash some more, til I knew enough time had passed. Now this is how much of a little faggot I was – I’m come strolling into the room, looking around for the popcorn, eyes wide, spinning my head around.

“Where’s the popcorn?!??!!!”
“Gone.”
“WHAT!??!!?!?” (note to brain: fill eyes with water.)
“You were in the bath. We ate it all.”
“Butbubbubbubut wha!!!!!!!!” (note to brain: fold arms, stomp foot. Invent the Internet.)
“Yeah, well...you’re in front of the tv. Move.”

Keep in mind that this would happen EVERY WEEK, like clockwork. Geez. I’d drop to the floor, a fuming, barely contained raging pile of 6 year-old flesh. I’d stare at the tv for the rest of the night, not blinking, not moving, not speaking to anyone. Eyes forward, totally focused - thinking, of course, this was “punishment” for those involved. Ha! To this day I’m waiting to unearth a whole picture album dedicated to these moments; dozens of shots of everybody making faces etc while my back is turned, staring ahead at the tv. Bunny rabbit ears over my head, maybe a big foam #1 finger, maybe my dad and brother posing behind me with a dead moose. You can see the steam coming outta my ears as they put a cigarette in the dead moose’s mouth and a beer stuck to his hoof, snapshot!

I don’t know what I ever thought I’d accomplish with my attempts at martyrdom. “Gee, look at Greg...pouting and whining so much, why did we have to be so mean and eat all the damn popcorn?!?!?! Why, dammit why!!!...tomorrow we’ll go into town and buy him a rocket ship. Poor kid.”

Same thing whenever I’d get in trouble and be sent to the corner. Oooooooooh, yeah I’d scheme and scheme wait til I get outta the corner, I’ll show them. I dreamed of them answering the doorbell to a policeman holding my tiny, lifeless body in his arms. Noodle arms dangling in the breeze, head tilted back at a 45-degree angle, closed eyes facing the heavens with my little mouth agape. Piece of paper slides ouuta my back pocket; as it slowly floats to the ground we see the words at the top “I Love My Mother So Much: An Elegy in 4 Stanzas” before it settles into the dust. The police officer is barely choking back tears as he tells my parents about the tractor trailer that plowed over me as I wandered out onto the road.

“But officer” they’d weep together, “how could this have happened, why would he have done this??!!” My mother would reach out, lightly touching the patch she had sewn into my rust-colored Toughskins earlier that day. As the officer would slowly shake his head, about to say we would never know for God works in mysterious ways, my death rattle would shake my final words out as I barely raised my head to look at my devastated parents:

“why come...you never saved....any popcorn...for me....”

Total victory!!! As they’d swoon into each other arms sobbing over losing the son that was always SECRETLY their favorite, the one they really liked the best, I would chuckle and sneer. Tough doo-doo. And of course in these fantasies a miracle would occur, I’d come back to life and my parents would be so overjoyed they’d buy me a big black bear to be my number one pal.

See? All this for fucking popcorn.

Movies 101

I'm thinking I might have to give up the ghost this year and try to be more of a "movie guy." I usually turn my nose up the more young auteurs start blathering re: Fellini/Cassavettes (but not Hughes!), but maybe it's me that's missing out. Oh, I watch MOVIES; but usually it's, you know....a movie I've already seen. Like right now, I'm watching "John Q." Again. Maybe I can take a lesson from my more movie-snobby friends and see what the fuss is about. For instance, I've never seen "Raging Bull." Or "Casablanca." Or "Citizen Caine." Which I'm not sure I just spelled right.

So.

Starting tomorrow, I am going to watch one movie a day. I don't mean "Hoosiers' or "Jaws", I mean something I've never seen before. From start to finish. Feel free to shoot me your recommendations. They don't all have to be deep, life changing numbers, just great movies. We'll see how long this lasts.

Love,
SITCOM GUY

PS - just saw the list of AFI's 100 Greatest American Movies of All Time. Out of 100, I've seen....11. And one of those was "Forrest Gump." ugh.

Beck Was Missing?

This undated photo released by the Florida Department of Law Enforcement on Friday, Feb. 23, 2007, shows 13-year-old Clay Moore of Parrish, Fla. A gunman abducted Moore after approaching children at a school bus stop Friday morning, officials said in Parrish. (AP Photo/FDLE, HO)

Ah, Well.

Was sittin at Starbucks last night sipping on my mocha choca lave we must we must we must increase our bust latte vente cinno and I started watching two of the workers behind the counter. One a tall skinnier-than skinny girl, maybe 19, the other an everyman 18 year old boy with that constant, vacuous look only a teenage boy can have. Each incredibly awkward, gawky, all nervous smiles and bumping into things. I was so jealous. At my age, unless you walk into a room and completely own it with your confidence and self-assurance due to your having the most money in the world and having invented the computer, you're a complete loser who repels women by the sackful. One whiff of awkwardness, someone comes out from a closet and blows your fcking brains out to great applause. But these kids, they were allowed to be normally awkward, each trying to smile coolly at the other. Everyone in the room could tell he was desperatley thinking "whatdoisaywhatdoisaywhatdoisaydidiputondeoderantwhatdoisay???!!?!?!" including the girl, but nobody minded. The girl was terrified at how much she towered over him. But they kinda liked each other and didn't mind or notcie the awkwardness. Very sweet. And more real than the blowhard that storms in braying like a donkey that we all applaud and are being told to emulate. ah well

Also yesterday I found some pictures of my college girlfriend, which I hadn't seen in a decade. Luckily the pictures reveal she was even more beautiful than I remember. Great. JUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUST great. Beautiful, funny, kind, fun, ridiculously devoted to me, and of course I decide to start thinking "...hmmm, maybe I can do better...."

Had Lee's Fried Chicken here in Richmond. Unbelievably good. Incredible. Best I've had in years - only rival to Bojangles. Unreal. Much like our cashier, who I'm pretty sure is the biggest person in the world.

I don't care about the Oscars. I'm not a film guy, I could give a shit about actors, much less a 78-hour production put on to pat themselves on the back. But I must say. Forrest Whitackler's speech, best I ever seen at one of these things. Emotional, forceful, amazing, all without stooping to the usual "for my dead grandmother blah blah blah" we always see. Was spellbound, if he had called me up I would've crashed through the wall for him.

After 3 days of batting her titties at me, the bartender round the corner I'm madly in love with finally dropped the "B" word. Boyfriend. And since he thinks I'm still a little cocky about learning how to read before the age of 15, God decided to pile on: unlike the last 935 girls I've met who upon mentioning their boyfriend spend the next 20 minutes ranting about what a jerk/dickhead he is and how shabbily they are treated by said paramour, my girl's face lights up and she starts telling me that she wants to surprise her fellah with Cubs tickets. At Wrigley. arrrrrrghhhhhhh! But I see a sliver of opportunity - she says they're driving. "I dunno," I shake my head "that's a LOOONG drive..." "No, it'll be great!" she says "we'll find a way to entertain ourselves." Game over, don't put in another quarter, please turn gay. Ah well.

..and Next Time I'll Write About Doing Back-Farts on His Girlfriend's Linoleum Floor

Staying with my buddy Ryan for the last week has got me reminiscing. Back in high school, Ryan was the coolest cat there was. Had the uber-80's cool Morrisey haircut, looked otherworldy. And had an older brother in a band in DC who would send tapes with amazing bands to Ryan, which he would pass to the rest of us who were stick suckling at the teet of Duran Duran and Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam. Replacements, Dream Syndicate, the Dogmatics etc, Ryan gave us access to a world we didn't know existed. Stranger than the rest of us who could only dream of playing football and being rednecks, he was THE coolest.

The first time he came to my house he had...a ponytail. Ugh. Not even a long hippy one, but like a 4-inch one which somehow seemed gayer. Whatever, he was still cooler than us. Anyways my father was of course horrified with a boy having such a thing on his head, and throughout the weeks Ryan was referred to him as "that boy with a ponytail...christ."

All this changed though when my dad realized that Ryan was, like him, a history buff. Next thing you know he's sitting in a chair regaling my pop with the history of Essex County, on which he was an expert. He in turn would be enthralled with tales of history my father would tell; stories he had tried to share with my brother and I. But you know how it is with fathers and sons; he could've been reading off winning lottery numbers and it's nothing but eye-rolling and "please get us out of here. " So it went from "What's wrong with that boy with the pony tail?" to "when's your friend Ryan coming over?"

The ponytail, however, was short-lived thanks to my little brother. About 4 years old at the time, he walked up to Ryan, young face contorted with confusion. After staring at Ryan for a few minutes, he finally works up a question.

"What's that in your hair?"
"It's a ponytail."
Long pause, still staring...."are you a girl?"
"haha! No, I'm a guy."

To which my brother slowly turns to me and says "then...am I a girl?"

At that moment my mother happened to be walking by, scoooped him up and said "no!", saving the boy from his first bout of sexual identity crisis.

Ryan laughed, but I did notice the thing was gone next time he came around. Ah, such coolness crippled by a four year old. Life.

Redonculous

Will be an interesting soap opera again this year:

http://wfan.com/pages/240568.php?contentType=4&contentId=332252

luckily we will be distracted by my choice to bat Op 9th this year on Reel to Reel. Buddies? Don't give a shit - YOU PLAY TO WIN THE GAME!!!!! I'm a manager first, friend second!

The Blue and the Grey

I've lamented in the past on this site about my not really belonging anywhere. Raised by Bostonians in a small Southern town that accepts you only if you cruised up the Rappahannock with Captain John Smith, I've never felt like I belonged in the South or the North. Not Southern enough, not Northern enough, stuck in that mid-Atlantic purgatory of not liking collard greens and hating clam chowder. Living in the biggest city in the country but not a native, all while feeling more and more isolated from a hometown that I never really felt a part of. But while sometimes I like to give myself an outsider pity-party about this, you do get a certain perspective from this corner. You listen to your friends and you can see all sides. There's people that grew up in big cities and desperately try to connect themselves to small-town South, via music, literature, being a student of its eccentricities and claiming to love cornbread and collards ( a la the people I railed against in my Dirty Bird post), all for wanting some "realness", "authenticness" etc. Why? I wonder. There's some great things, sure, but there's everything else. The tendency towards narrow-mindedness, the heat, the vagueness of culture and choking lack of certain opportunities. Mostly the heat. Glorification leads to dreams of Saturday Night juke joint magic, with no thought to the other cotton-picking 6 days of the week. When you live outside of something, I guess you can pick out the good bits you want and leave the rest. Same with people from the small towns I speak of, who spend their youth snarling and bitching about getting out of this town there were born to. Get to the big city, show everyone they're better than this hick fucking town. Why? I wonder. You'll become the equal of a piece of sand on a beach, lost and unnoticed. You'll long for those cool evenings on the porch drinking iced tea. You picture art shows and important discussions with worldly folks, with no thought to having to work 2 jobs to afford your tiny place, fighting on the train all day so you can get home to fall asleep to "Seinfeld", all the time cursing how you're wasting all the opportunities a city presents. Damed if you do, damned if you don't, the grass is always greener, how do you solve a problem like Maria?

Stuck in the middle, I've seen everything, wanted everything, turned my nose up at everything and been back for round after round. The only solace being that for the most part people are generally the same - there are plenty of racists in the North, there are plenty of rude dickheads in the South etc. Not belonging gets worse somehow when you age; the pitiful longing gives way to rage, so you just hate everybody. Always angry and never at home.

"This year was the worst I can remember, except when I was five years old. Pushed open the front door, got lost in the snow." - Husker Du

DJ

Dennis Johnson just died.




http://www.boston.com/sports/basketball/celtics/

Man. Member of my favorite NBA team ever, those 80's Celtics. all those Sundays my brother and I would bring the tv into our room to watch Johnson/ainge/Bird/McHale/Parrish. I'm sure The Sports Guy will say it better so I'll leave the waxing to him. But what a shame.

And yes, not being able to link like normal is driving me crazy too. Bear with me.

27 Years Ago Today...

(reprinted from 2005 with permission from Xmastime)

1980 US Hockey Team: the Babe Ruth of all "Chokes Xmastime Up Moments." If that damn HBO doc was on a loop, I would never leave my house. By the time I've worked myself up about the enormous political innuendo, and the fact that they really were a bunch of kids playing the greatest team ever assembled, I'm at fever pitch when Mike Eruzione talks about Coach Brooks telling them before they skated out to play the Russians "You were born to play hockey. You belong here." At this age, I can barely get through another viewing of the medal ceremony when he calls all his teammates to jump up on the podium with him. Man. Can't imagine this one being topped, with all the periphery stuff going on.

See also: http://www.sheilaomalley.com/archives/006066.html

For Op!

http://www.alftv.net/multimedia/video/beans.rm

dying.

THE KING

I remember reading a quote once from one of his friends that "Elvis could get pussy where most men couldn't get drinking water." It's no news that The King could get all the tail he wanted. But then I read this, the moment he was found dead:

"Ginger awoke around 1:30pm, rolled over, went back to sleep for a few minutes, then called her mother. How was Elvis? her mother asked, and Ginger said she didn't know, he had never come back to bed, maybe she had better go check on him. She washed and put on her makeup in her own bathroom, then knocked on Elvis' bathroom door. When there was no answer, she pushed on it and discovered him lying on the floor..."

I mean, GOTdam! Girl you're sleeping with goes to look for you in the bathroom, presumably to possibly walk in on you taking a dump, and she's like "I better freshen up with some makeup first." Man. cap. doffed. THE KING!

Break a Leg

I was reading this article

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/17257926/

and about to blow my top, mentally writing the next Xmastime screed re: how she's trying to rip my favorite Beatle off when I was stunned into distraction and forgivenss with the thought of "...Steve Sanders is getting work?"

I Still Love Donna

Last night I was hanging out with my buddy Ryan, and he called up on his ITunes an ep I had made about 10 years back. I hadn't heard it in forever and we immediately were rocking out to it, loving it, but then I quickly became ashamed of how low-quality it was; both the sound itself and my awful singing/playing etc. Started railing about what "crap" it was, etc etc. This in turn became MORE shame as I realized, who the fuck do i think I am? I remember how thrilled I was when we cut those songs, how proud I was of them, and now I'm Mr. Record Snob? got me thinking...we all have songs that we love now that we used to hate and vice versa. what's more important, that a song stands the test of time, both in the song itself and the quality of the recording, or that initial burst, the very first time you heard it - that rush of excitement that can never be replicated? Bad quality, mistakes and all, thrown into one big, awesome punch to the gut.

My Top 5 Schlices off Drivin n Cryin's "Mystery Road", my Summer of '89 Water Lane Super Super Super Album Slice-ola

1) House for Sale
2) Honeysuckle Blue
3) Toy Never Played With
4) With the People
5) Ain't it Strange

VEGETABLES UPDATE

...and, of course, seconds after writing all that stuff about vegetables below I walked 3 miles through Carytown, right past about a dozen veggy-friendly salad-loving cafes and restaurants to get my McNugget on at the feet of the Golden Arches. I just can't fucking win.

Vegetables

People like to assume I hate all vegetables. This is simply not true...I hate all ASIANS, not vegetables. Hiyoooooooooo!! I actually like MANY vegetables, but I just don't think of them. When I sit down at a table I think of three things: meat, cheese, bread. Well, and potatoes. But the potato was so prevalent in my house that not only did it not count as a vegetable in the eyes of my parents; I don't think it even counted as food. Mashed for dinner, boiled for lunch, baked on the weekend. Potato chops, potato kebabs, potato toothpaste. But the fact is, I like several vegetables.

POTATOES: as I said, a staple. Mashed, boiled, baked, fried, skinned, whatever. Anyone who knows me has heard my screed on what NOT to put in mashed potatoes, so I won't say it again. Only type I don’t like are scalloped potatoes. Ugh. Gross. Maybe cause it has seafood in the name - would I eat catfished potatoes either? Nyet. When I was a young buck my mother would make mashed potatoes, then lay them in a casserole dish. Put several pats of butter throughout along with some paprika, then bake...a crust would form at the top. MMMM!! I remember as a kid saving the crust for the end. "Something to look forward to." Even at age 6 I knew it was either gonna be success in a career, success in a family, or the crust on top of the baked mashed potatoes. Sigh. Life. Also, is there an easier way to make something faux-classy than the twice-baked potato? Have a hot girl coming over for a date and mention you'll be making mashed potatoes? She'll turn up her nose. Baked potato? L-O-S-E-R. But if you tell her you'll bake the potato and then mash the insides before stuffing the guts back in? Oooooohhhh yeah...those will not be the only guts bein got into that night, friend.

GREEN BEANS: like em. Outta the can is fine. Don't make that cream of mushroom/onions shit, just gimme the damn beans. Fine right outta the field too (see: "snaps.") Nothing exciting about green beans, I reckon. Tho I do remember when my mother went into the hospital to give birth to my younger brother and my dad immediatley went out and bought the hugest can of green beans he could find; this fucker had to be like ten pounds, a fucking barrel of green beans. A typical move from a guy of his generation, not familiar with the goings on of a kitchen. "I'd better get the biggest tub of green beans I can find; I have no idea how much these little people eat, and besides what if we get attacked by the British? Hell, I can bury someone in this thing..." of course a decade later when we were selling our house what did we find in the darkest depths of the pantry? Untouched, unopened barrel of green beans.

CORN: same thing. outta the can, great, whatever. Love corn on the cob too; tho to be honest gets lost in the shuffle on a cookout. My head awash in dreams of burgers and hot dogs, I can't be bothered to do cartwheels about the corn. Don't do creamed corn either. Just gimme the damn corn straight up. Can remember many an hour on the back steps shuckin corn, furious re: never gettin all the damned silk off. and wouldn't you be pissed if you're corn, cruising along, feeling good that for centuries you are a big part of keeping generations of species alive, including humans, being a real staple for civilizations, and then you become synonymous with something whose definition is :

"a horny induration or callosity of the epidermis, usually with a central core, formed esp. on the toes or feet and caused by undue pressure or friction."

"Thanks guys," Corn must think. Where where all the corn lobbyists when this went down? wtf?

BROCCOLI: here comes a shocker....broccoli don't bother me. However, I mean barely-steamed, fresh practically raw broccoli. Don't cook it/steam it forever or dump crap on it; raw I'll eat it. Mostly I'll eat it though to get bonus points - "wow, Xmas is eating broccoli! Have another piece of chicken, Xmas!!" It's a performance. I'm a showman - if you notice I'll get some broccoli, make a show of waving my plate around so everyone sees it, then immediately wolf it down. Get it over with so I can settle in and get to the real food. I like my broccoli like I like my sex: raw and tasteless, and just like sex I'll pretend to eat all day if that's what it takes to get that 4th breast.

CARROTS: again...hand me a raw carrot, I'll eat it no problem. But don't fucking start putting it in the food. People love to put carrots in fucking everything. Soup, stew, casseroles, "I can't go to bed until I've put 7 lbs of carrots in everything today." The problem with carrots as opposed to, say, peas, is you can FEEL carrots. Bite into your Shepards pie, BAM! carrot. fuck. Take another bite HEYHEYHEY! ... carrot. Crunch. Worst ever being ordering egg foo young bout a year ago and ta-da!! carrots!?!?!?!?!!!!! thanks a lot Miso Horny. DON'T MIX CARROTS UP WITH THE REAL FOOD! And who came up with carrots being good for the eyes - did they ironically choose carrots for this since the very rabbits that are famous for loiving carrots have big ears? "Ooooh, professor, that's deep....you're right, THIS guy woulda been too obvious...."














PEAS: surprisingly, I like peas. Growing up, all I knew were the frozen ones: big, dark, round. Still like em, but I've grown to like them outta the can too. I'm fine with peas, but don't start putting those little round onions in with them.

TOMATO: tomatoes are okay. I like the little round ones in a salad. I don't like them on a burger, they just get hot and slimy. I'll take it off, along with the lettuce and eat it after the burger. "Salad." Mayo that's dripped off the burger onto your hands/mouth/plates? "Salad dressing." Britney's drapes finally matching the carpet? "Priceless."

SPINACH: I'll eat spinach as long as it looks like lettuce. At least try to fool me. But I grew up down south where they take it and insist on beating it too a pulp, making it look like baby-shit with vinegar. Also have bad memories of elementary school lunches, dudes stuffing it in straws with other smushed vegetables and playing with it. Ugh. Never understood the game of "let's gross each other out with food!!" No thanks.

SALAD: we can throw together lettuce and cucumbers here. I like a nice salad. Gives me something to chew on while waiting for the food to come. I remember my first ever salad bar as a kid, at The Steak House down home. Burger and baked potato on the way, we'd hit the salad bar. Rote by regimen: lettuce, some round tomatoes, croutons, cucumbers, shredded cheese, and then 11 pounds of bacon bits. Nice. My favorite dressing now is ranch, which I didn’t know existed til I went to college. Growing up I thought "salad dressing" was "french dressing." No idea why, but that's all we ever had at my house.

There's a bunch of others I DONT like, but I feel like I can make it on the above vegetables no problem. Well, if I ate them more than once a century. When I was about 7, a neighbor bought the lot next to us. About 2 acres I guess. He made a deal with my brother and I: if we helped him clear half of it for his garden, we'd have free reign to play all we wanted on the other half. So after many Saturdays of digging/clearing/dating, my brother and I had what would be for ten years our existence. Seemed bigger than a football field; we'd spend bought every second of our days playing either baseball of football on it (basketball goal was already in the backyard.) We had our own young bucks' paradise, and it is not lost on me that it was all possible because of vegetables. Sweet, awful, leafy irony.

(Insert Dick Joke Here)

Succintly written by Helen Thomas. I'm amazed how this guy ever rose to such power - he's never been anything more than a growling bully. When are people gonna finally think "hey...why are we so scared of this guy? He's never succeeded at anything other than bullying his way into positions of power (eg being named to head the committe to name a vice president and then coming up with....Dick Cheney); hell, with his 83 heart attacks I would think a loud BOO!!! would end him."

I mean christ, on top of getting into Yale solely because of a favor his girlfriend's boss cashed in a favor for him and then immediately flunking out, this jackass is rivaled only by a few choice Elgin Baylor runs in the "bad choices" race.

Anyways, don't wanna get overheated, Helen says it all best.

A Moment

The last few hours have been hard on me. Everyone's screaming at me that now I have to dump Britney from the top spot. everyone's aghast I'm even contemplating otherwise.

But.

Fact is, Britney needs me now more than ever. I made a commitment: she has until June 1 to get her act together, and I mean it. Unless she gets back with K-Fed, I am willing to walk WITH Britney though this particularly rough patch. Hey, she got her head shaved. Weird? Yes. But it'll grow back. The hair will grow back, the weight will come off and she will come out of this haze. And when she does? She'll know that Xmastime was here for her; not only during the glitzy $$$ "record my demo" days, but at her nadir. I will wait, I will give her the most of my compassion and hope for the best.

"we met, we lived and dear we loved" - Hank Williams' suicide note.
XMASTIME

Third and Long

Caught some of an interesting doc on ESPN Classic last night based on Bill Rhoden's book "Third and Long: The Trials and Triumphs of the Black Quarterback." Centers mostly on James Harris, but much of the end is about Doug Williams, who of course won Super Bowl XXII, becoming the first black qb to win the Super Bowl (and he won the MVP to boot.) I don't really remember a big hullabaloo at the time time about him being the first black qb being a huge deal. I was 15, white, hated the Redskins and had not played a single second of athletic competition without playing with and against black kids. But while watching, something occured to me....in 1988, when Williams won, is there any way that you would think that 19 years later he would still be the only black qb to win one? Is it surprising that since then we've had a winning black coach, but not another qb? Had never occured to me til last night and was very surprising to me.

How the Fuck Long HAS It Been Since I Had a Girlfriend? (A Haiku)

I have never gotten an email from a girlfriend. Or a text, or an IM.
I have never gotten a call from a girlfriend on her cell phone.
I have never had a girlfriend who had a computer.
I have never had a girlfriend who knew who won the 1996 presidential election.
Or knew if OJ did it.
I'v never had a girlfriend say "Never forget!" re: 9/11
Or known Alaska and Hawaii to be states.
Okay, ain't been THAT long.
I have never had a girlfriend who ordered pizza with cheese in the crust.
I have never had a girlfriend who has heard the name "Derek Jeter."
I have never been to a girlfriend's website, myspace page or been her Friendster.

I feel like an old man, frozen in time - like Mr. Burns saying "there's a NEW Mexico?!?!?!" Like I'll be startled next time I unwrap a lady in my boudoir "There's no hair! and what happened to the back of your drawers?!??!" Or like my grandmother, who upon walking in while we were watching "I Love Lucy" said "Desi Arnaz has a tv show?!" Wow.

And yes, I just combined my grandma, a brazillian and tongety-tong tongs. Voila!

Today's Immodest Proposal

Obama saying the troops have "wasted their lives." Kerry "insulting the troops." Whatever Biden says any time he pops up in tv. Fact is, if you are a candidate for President, in this era of parsing and semantics, you WILL say something that the other team will pounce on and use to show what an awful, freedom-hating American you are. Dems have the hot candidates right now so they're in the glare; soon as Elizabeth Hasselbeck announces for the GOP she'll be a target.

So why not get the shit the fuck over with? It is inevitable - you WILL be humiliated with each misspoken word, so why not get it over with early in the season? Like college football: a loss in September means you have plenty of time to come back and win the championship, but a late loss? Fatal. So if I was Candidate John Doe, here's what I would say today as I announce my candidacy:

"Thank you, thank you for coming. First of all, let me be clear: I hate the troops, do not support them - they fight for the very freedom that I despise. I hate niggers and hey, if the spics wanna come over and sell tomatoes so that my gay son doesn't have to, then hey, Allah Bless 'em. Yes, I know I voted for the war, but only after I didn't vote for voting for the war, thereby giving the President the power to go to war, which I voted for before I voted for the right to voting. Fool me once, won't get fooled again, fool me twice, well, who cares since the Holocaust never happened anyway. Speaking of knishes, there are in fact 2 "e"s in "potatoees." Anyways, I gotta go fuck my 14-year old poolboy before hitting an abortion pep rally. Those abortion doctors aren't gonna applaud for themselves!!! Again, thank you and I look forward to leading this loser country, and I'm pronouncing that as "cunt-ry" cause I hate women. Peace and chicken grease!"

There. All your possible gaffes, out within 30 seconds. Year from now no one even remembers, and there's only one way to go: up.

Hold up.

Worlds colliding.

Awful picture, though...raggedy ketchup, bottom-of-the-fry basket mcnuggets. And no, I wasn't randomly searching for "McNugget Hamburgers"....got it from "A Hamburger Today." Though yes, I did try "McNugget Shake." mmm.

Couple More Years, We Can REALLY Suck!!

Oh, goody!! Now 3 of the biggest powers in the world are joining forces, basically saying screw the US, we'll make do ourselves. This is what happens when we crown a king, when we let our king send us off to wars for his (and his cronies) own financial/political gain, all while telling the rest of the world/UN to go fuck themselves. Cause hey, we're cowboys! From Texas!!! We kick ass! We take names!!!

And of course, these other countries must be crazy; we're America, we are inherently and morally right, no matter what. We are always in the right just, you know, because. This whole attitude we've all grown up with seemed great at the time "We're America, of course we're the best!" But events of recent years actually remind me of the senseless, spoiled uber-rich girls I see on "The Real Housewives of Orange County" or MTV's "Sweet 16" who claim that it's okay to demand such lavishness and excess because "I deserve it!" Really? Why? Cause you exist, cause you say so? “But Xmastime", you say in the voice of Craig “Ironhead” Heyward from those soap commercials (RIP), "that's not the same, those are just idiots on tv, the lowest common denomiator!"...and guess what, Sherlock Dumbass? That's EXACTLY what I'm saying - we've become the vapid, shallow and dumb common denominator. "Countries should do as we say, we're #1 cause we deserve it! Yaaaay!"

This is what happens when we put these born-on-3rd-base elitists in power in the first place. See the press conference yesterday when W was asked well, why should we believe you this time, when your "intelligence" was wrong before? And he couldn't give an answer; he stamped and hawed, you could tell he was furious "because, because it's me!! my mommy says I'm great!!!" Just like the State of the Union surge stuff - these people have been wrong about EVERYTHING so far, and their big reason for us to get behind them one more time? "heeeeey, guys! it's us! relax, we're on a beer run as we speak!" No reason for us to believe them, or for them even being in power except that they exist and they're spoiled pussy-babies who can't imagine a world that is not their nanny. Unreal.

You know, maybe instead of doing our usual chest-pounding and shining our boots so we can break them off in someone's ass, maybe we can take a step back and ask ourselves why we've become the kid on the bus who eats his own boogers that no one wants to play with. The rest of the world matters, no matter what some Texas-bred braying ass we keep putting in the White House says. Where the hell do you think these black kids celebrities adopt come from?? Camon, people!!! Bill Maher hits some notes here.

Like My Old High School Films!

Boy, has it really been almost a whole year since this kid went nuts on the court? Man. I spend 99% of my time not believing in God. But then something like this happens, you hear the coach praying to god after the kid launches his first shot (AIRBALL), and you're like, I dunno....maybe I'm wrong....plus, for once it lends to the thought that if there is a god, maybe he does look after underdogs like this kid, the meek the struggling, and not just a certain 1% of us.

On a Day to Combine My 2 Favorite Things: Love and Fast Food (Not in that Order)

The Pixies' Doolittle is a great album. For one, at that point it was the only album I had ever bought sight unseen, never even having heard of the band. More importantly, it's the album I bought when this happened: my 17th birthday, I’m at the record store, at Plan 9 in Richmond. Lookin to blow some birthday money on a fancy new cassette tape. So I’m hanging out, going through all the tapes blah blah blah. All of a sudden this little wimpy dude comes up to me. “Hey man, can you help me with something?” So I turn to this guy like I dunno, what can I do for you. And he asks me if I know the name of a certain song so he can find it. You remember this song, a million years ago, by like Keith Sweat or someone, I can’t remember anything about it, except the chorus: (picture Xmastime singing rather sexily) “Can we talk it over in bed”?

I’m like well, I dunno, I don’t work here and before I can finish the sentence he starts singing. This quiet, soulful song. And me, being an idiot, I actually listen and after a few lines I’m like nope, sorry, no idea. I go back to flipping through tapes, kid keeps singing. And he’s getting closer and closer to me. He keeps singing! Again, I’m like sorry buddy, can’t help you. All of a sudden he’s up on me, touches my arm, and gets to the chorus

“…can we talk it over in bed…”

FINALLY I realize, this kid is hitting on me! My first ever gay guy hitting on me! Doesn't just hit on me, but fucking sings to me, in the middle of the damn store “Can we talk it over in bed?”!

The beauty of it all? Guy was still in his McDonald's uniform, complete with visor cap.














"You had me at 'Super-size me'!"

Punching Necks

Why is the euphimism for being tough "kicking ass"? Wouldn't that indicate the OPPOSITE, that you literally waited til the person turned around and then kicked them in the rear? That doesn't sound really tough, does it? How did this start? Wouldn't punching someone in the neck be more a propos? "Wow, what happened?" "Guy was talking shit so I punched him in the neck." or "How's the project going?" "Punching it in the fucking neck, boss!" Seems awfully ironic to me. From now on I'm replacing "kicking ass" with "punching fucking necks."


As Opie's dw would say: beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

My First Love

After months of squiring, i.e. begging, I finally landed my first girlfriend in the spring of my junior year of high school. Yes, I know that's about 9 years later than everyone else, but I was busy. And by "busy", I mean "ugly." Anyways I was madly in love and after a few weeks of passionate amour, I knew the time had come for that age-old rite of passage: her first rim-job. No no no, I'm kidding, of course I mean her coming for dinner and meeting my family. Which, like every other kid in the world, I dreaded. I don't know why - my parents were about as normal, straight as arrows dullsville people as you could get. Their evenings consisted of my mother standing in the kitchen blathering about her day while my dad nodded his head to her as he read "A History of the 12th Canadian Provincial Infantry, Vol VI." Exciting stuff. But of course this was the exact moment I was terrified that all of a sudden they'd turn into a country rube version of the Honeymooners while brewing homemade crunk and breakdancing (or, to use a term my mother coined, "poppin & lockin") - after MUCH pleading, they agreed that while she was over for dinner they'd try to be as normal as possible. Satisfied just short of having them sign something in front of a lawyer, the plan was set in motion, the date was set and I prepared to introduce my girlfriend to the ol family.

They say timing is everything. I became a believer as the day of our big dinner coincided with TA-DA!!...report card day. Oh, jesus. Now, I had always been a good student; at my school you basically had to be a living human being to do fine, and even if you weren't there was always the vocational building. This was not the Bronx School of Science. My slight rebellion at my brother being the smartest kid in school coupled with my over the top laziness and my being, as my father slowly read the evaluation from my first SATs (a whole nother story), a "goddam idiot" all led to my average standing. I did enough to coast along with As and Bs, but didn't really overextend myself. However. In my irrational, tunnel-visioned, teenage-crazed desperate courtship of my girlfriend I had let my studies "slip" even by my own "standards." As I was handed my report card that day, to be of course brought home and signed by my parents, a chill went through myself which was validated as I opened up and saw a letter never before brought home in my house:

F.

F!!!! In AP History. Alright alright, I'm thinking, don't panic....if I can just get through dinner tonite without them realizing today was report card day, I'll be fine....Dad will bury me in the backyard tomorrow, but it won't be in front of my girlfriend. I quickly found my brother and told him to not bring it up at dinner. He didn't care; he knew what his grades were, as did my parents and the color guard flown in by the state to present the report card "of excellence for the ages." Be cool, get through dinner, everything will be fine and she and I will be together madly in love for all eternity or, more importantly, long enough to find out if this rumor about girls having pubic hair was true.

Of course, I forgot to mention my plan to my little sister. Sigh. She must've been in oh, 5th or 6th grade. You know, all A's and checkmarks and "Xmastime plays well with other little boys in the bathroom stalls" etc etc. So after a great introduction and beginning of dinner where my parents were cool, cosmopolitan and were forming a mutual admiration society with my gf (tho mainly cause she had been my trig tutor), I heard the words.

"Daddy we got report cards today!" I frantically looked at my girlfriend and briefly considered throwing her on the table and making love to her so that in a few minutes I wouldn't die a virgin. My sister came sprinting back to the table with her report card, my parents all gleeful and clapping and talking about the new dress they'll buy her for such a good report card. They say you can drown by a tablespoon of water in the lungs. I'm not sure, I know I got at least a quart of milk in me as I desperately tried. Next up, my brother's report card. After washing his hands my dad was allowed to look at it, and after the slow-clap-leading-to-a-full-standing-ovation had died down I felt his eyes on me, waiting for me to present mine. I got really interested in the stuffing we were eating. "Say mom, is this chicken flavored stove top? really? Great....you add butter? Wow! Can you use the pork type with chicken? really? hmmm...say, I-" finally I had to snap to and give it up. I handed my report over to him and thought about how horrified my girlfriend was gonna be with the scene that was to follow. She wasn't used to such things; her rich, cultured family ate fried chicken with a fork for chrissakes. Well, I figured, I got to experience love for a few weeks at least, what can you do. My dad was silently scanning the report card, I'm watching his eyes and they suddenly come to a stop. Of course I knew what he had landed on. His eyes cut to me for a second, then back to the piece of paper. Then back to me, then the paper. Then over to Neil Diamond, who for some reason was eating with us. Then across the table at my mother, who shrugged and gave him the "nobody said we had to have sex twice, asshole" look. I'm watching, dreading. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. No, that was my little brother, 4 years old and oblivious to the fact that he was about to inherit my collection of Sears Catalog Lingerie Editions.

My father never said a word. Silently he rose from the table and carried my report card over to the kitchen sink. Wordlessly we're all watching him, thinking "what the...."...finally he looks at me, and hold up the report card and says "This. Will. Never. Happen. Again." Then he pulls out a match, lights it, and sets the thing on fire. I look at my gf, who is stunned with her mouth open staring as the flames fly up from the paper. Nobody says a word, and after a minute the piece of paper is no more, a few ashes in the sink. Without a word my dad walked back to the table and resumed eating.

The end? Nyet. After dinner yours truly stops up the crapper which sets off a flood of such proportions that it explodes into the hallway, so my new gf, who has just witnessed my father setting something on fire, gets to watch her man trying to fight back shit-water in the hall. Great. And that wasn't even the worst - as punishment, my parents took away my car and I had to do THE single-most humiliating thing a 3-sport varsity athlete in his junior year can possibly do: ride the bus home. Wow. Banned from baseball practice, thereby becoming the one white academic casualty in the history of the school, my gf would walk me to the bus everyday to say goodbye. Unreal. I'd kiss her goodbye, then get on the bus with a bunch of 7th and 8th graders. Ouch. It wasn't ALL bad I guess - they reminded me of youth and innocence, and I showed them you can't get pregnant from anal. Xmastime 101.

Somehow, someway, my girlfriend stuck with me for about another 2 years, which can only be young love. Indoor fires, shit in the hallway and riding on the bus...THAT's love, people.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

Don't Do It!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If Guiliani co-opts this, I'm gonna fucking hang myself.

Who's the Wizard Behind this One?

...and now I saw something even dumber. Some cable package commercial. Two hockey fanatics tailgating, bragging about how they're not like just any ol fans; they go to EVERY game. Go to every game, paint their faces, drink beer etc. Til one of them hears mention of said cable package and realizes WOW! they could watch the games at home, on tv!! Ends with them scrambling back into car, presumably to speed home so they can order the cable package.

What? I mean, if they COULD go to every fucking game, why wouldn't they? Why would sitting at home in your tighty-whities in a pile of Cheetos dust trump actually going to the game? If I COULD go to 162 Yankees games this year, I would. I don't pass up going out to fuck Jessica Alba so that I can stay home and jerk off to Highlights magazine, do I? what the fuck.

Snake Foo Young

I just watched a guy on tv explain how to cook a snake if you're stranded in the wilderness. Excuse me? I'm sorry, but if I still have the energy and wherewithal to catch, kill, skin and cook a snake, then I believe I'll use that energy to find something else to eat. Yeesh.

George Tribute

George Costanza Tribute

Feeling guilty about comparing Stephen Merchant to Costanza, the single greatest character not named Archie Bunker, here's a tribute to my guy. "It's not a lie if you believe it." Killin me.

Mike and the Mad Dog

...if Mike spends all day talking about Bernie, how are they gonna squeeze in A Rod completely fucking up my fried chicken at Dirty Bird? Fuckin a!!! rod!!!

They Were Right!!!! A Democratic Congress = Terrorist Loving Pussies!!!

Hoooooooold up....diplomacy? Talks? When do we get to roll in and shock and awe these guys? Hey, their dictator is crazy too; shouldn't THEY be craving democracy, like Jesus taught us??!! Hmm. Unless we completely demolish their country and rebuild it (if Halliburton will have us!!!), shouldn't we be under constant fear of the terorists blowing us all to bits (Wyoming, YOU should be furious!!!) I dunno....I hear a lot of chit chat going on; when do our reservists get to go on their 6th and 7th tours of active duty so we can put a boot up these people's asses?? Hmm. IT'S a mystery!

Ghetto Big Mac

Genius. And the Mickey D's here is only a few blocks from me. And yes, as soon as I'm done typing this I'm running out to try it.

Awful Prescience

I always assume everybody reads Andrew Sullivan, but this one is too close to the bone to not share.

Extras

Not all vitriol today...got a new tv show. “Extras” on HBO. Oh, I fought it...British, and had to keep hearing from my friends about how much better the English version of “The Office” is than the American one. Finally saw it and wanna eat up a whole nother season. Laugh out loud funny and has my favorite character since Costanza, Ricky Gervais’ agent. Looks like a praying mantis, just looking at him I crack up. So catch this whole last season HBO On Demand, you won’t regret it. And I have a huge crush on the girl Maggie. Sigh.

Racist Restaurant Review I

THE DIRTY BIRD
206 W 14th Street New York NY
ZERO Xmas trees

I get very annoyed whenever one of these "ooooh, so authentic!" "greasy like down South!" "the real thing!!" Southern-inspired joints opens up here; the crackpot reviewers that go gaga over any hi-falutin place in the big city that serves collards sound like the 23 year old girls who come across the bridge on Friday nights to the Turkey's Nest, giddy on their cellies talking to their friends about being at a "kitschy dive bar!" Keeping it real, are we girls? These people ooh and moo at new joints like this, thinking that orgasming over "real Southern food", presumably cooked on a pot belly stove while Loretta Lynn works on the still in the backyard, makes them somehow authentic, more" real" in the arts of Americana. Drives me crazy; like those fuckers who trample over your brain blathering about "real lumps" in the (s)mashed potatoes. Or Asians.

First of all, the fucking prices. Hey, I know your rent is probably equal to what Paris Hilton spends on video tapes each month but camon - $7 for 2 pieces and a side? One of the 2 pieces of course being a tiny fucking wing - making you feel like you got cheated, like having a threesome and one of the girls is fat. There is no way to justify such ridiculous prices for a food that originally became so popular based on its cheapness. If you aren't smart enough to avoid being feathered, breaded and deep fried then $5 is too fucking much to pay for two pieces of you - one of them, as I said, being a wing. Or $4 for a fucking side of macaroni and cheese (or, if you're REAL and AUTHENTIC and grew up in the woods with Buford Pusser, "mac n cheese." grrrr) that is LITERALLY the size of a small coffee cup. And $8 for a SALAD????!!! At a fried chicken place??!! Fucking hell.

Now, the sides. The macaroni and cheese - as I said, arriving in a small coffee cup. Wow. Thanks guys. Looking at it I could tell it blew. I'm not an expert, but if I'm looking at macaroni and cheese and I can't see any cheese, I might be thinking "this may suck." After getting through the limp, TASTELESS elbows I found the cheese. Pooled in the bottom of the cup. Though I wouldn't call it "cheese" as much as "oil and butter." Gross. $2 as a side! $4 by itself!!! Nononononono. So then I look at, lemme get this right, the "unleavened shallot cornbread." Now, I know sometimes I may cruise in the hyperbolic lane, but I am not lying when I say it looked like a 1/4-inch thick slab of wax. Shiny and plastic. I'm like wtf....luckily, again, when I bit into it it was UTTERLY TASTELESS. Unreal. Cornbread is another one of those magical words non-Southerners like to throw around when talking "real Southern food; "like "collards", or "sister." I guess they picture everyone in their cabins with a fresh batch cooling in the cast-iron skillet on the windowsill. Christ. Cornbread for breakfast, cornbread for lunch, cornbread for the Queen's tea, cornbread for dinner. But even then these fucking city people can't leave well enuff alone, they insist on trying to be "real" while cosmopolitan - ergo the shallots and the weird shape and texture. Awful. One bite, in the trash.

And the chicken. What is it about people up North not being able to fry a chicken? Every mother in my hometown could whip up a fried chicken dinner at the drop of a hat. They could have no money, no stove and only 7 minutes; somehow next thing you know you're neck deep in great chicken and biscuits. Of course, the one woman in town who COULDN'T make fried chicken? My mother...who was from, TA-DA! ......the North. Christ. This chicken was extremely uneventful. I have never been eating a piece of fried chicken and looked around for the salt shaker. What the fuck - there's no salt on this mf???!! No salt. No spice, no flavor, nothing. Oh, it's completely serviceable, but so is masturbation, and I ain't paying city prices for that for fuck's sake. As I'm eating this tasteless shit, I'm having to look at all these reviews taped up on the window. Critics desperately trying to top each other about who likes it better, who knows what "real" fried chicken is etc. I guess this is like fucking an ugly chick, all the while thinking about how her friends sold her on you about how "she's so nice!" and she has an "amazing personality!" Thanks a lot. And one reviewer was John T. Edge, who should fucking know better.

So the food totally sucked and was over-the-top expensive. Though I didn't try the, and I quote, "freshly baked bad-ass cookies" ("ooooh, let's throw a curse word in the name! We're so glib!!!!!!!") Was that the end of our misery? Nyet.

The place is TINY; there's about 5 or 6 stools to sit on along the walls. We get our food, no place to sit, so we gotta stand at the little shelf that has the napkins/straws etc. AND is above the radiator, which was CRANKING. So we have to stand while we eat, all the while boiling in our own sweat. Hey Jews, I get it now...I'm so sorry. Anyways, sitting down next to us are two dudes who were there when we walked in. Oh, goody - one of them is drinking a coffee, and the other one has been done eating since before we even got there. They're just sitting there gabbing!!!!! One of my pet peeves. If you're done and it's crowded, GET THE FUCK OUT. Especially if the place is the size of a closet in the first place. But no. blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah ding ding ding blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah. Oh yeah, they were Asian. Blathering, oblivious. I stood so they could see me, having to eat standing up because of them, trying to catch their eye. You know, being too much of a pussy to actually say anything. FINALLY after the skin on my legs had melted off from the heat and I'm dizzy from standing for so long, Miso and Horny get up and leave. Finally. So as they're walking away we slide over to sit and....I'm reaching to pull out my stool, this FUCKING KID, some fucking kid, maybe 6 or 7 years old, walks into door, grabs the fucking stool from out under me and drags it up to the counter!! His father, instead of being horrified at how rude his future gay son is, is GLEEFUL, announcing to the cashier "He likes to see what's going on!" as little bitch climbs up on the stool at the counter. This was too fucking much, this I can't fucking take; I go over and tell Pops I'm using the fucking stool to, you know, EAT. Resisting the urge to take a wax brick of shallot cornbread and whack this fucking kid in the head with it. Of course the father gives me this "how can you treat a kid like that, you're an asshole" look. In return I give him my "Let me guess, your son likes Harry Potter, soccer and looking at my bulge" look. Fuck him and his douchebag kid, bound to grow up to be a shithead too. Sat down finally, my one victory of the day. Ah, whites...fucking pushovers.

So Dirty Bird completely blows, don't fucking go. The irony? Not only had we walked right by Popeye's on the way, but we had parked right by a McDonald's which of course was waiting for us when we got back to the car. "I knew you'd be back, fuckwads."

Special thanks to RRTHUR, who actually paid for this debacle, treating me and his brother in law.

MLB: Fucking Pussies as Usual

Now see, THIS shit drives me insane, the height of hypocrisy. For years MLB barked like seals and applauded while Bonds et al were hitting home runs by the mile, and now that the jig is up and we know they've (prolly) been juicing Selig is delivering the cruelest of backhand lauds "oh, I don't even know if I'll come" bullshit. "I think I'll be washing my hair that day." MLB needs to FOR ONCE man up and boot out all these juicers if they're so "chagrined!" by them. If not, Selig has to shut the fuck up and get his candy ass to wherever Bonds is playing when he breaks Aaron's record and lead the crowd in the fucking wave. Either way, but not this childish nonsense. My solution? Stick Hank on a team, and every time Bonds hits one out, an opposing pitcher lobs one to Hank so he can stay one ahead of Barry until he gets frustrated and quits. Just a thought.

A Side Note to The Side Note Below...

...is it rude to ask the Chinese delivery guy to grab a newspaper on the way over? The store is right next to him. I mean, I'll pay for the damn paper. Just wondrin.

Borat, Chinese Food and Le Barber

I have some friends that swear up and down "Borat" was "genius!" and "the funniest thing ever!" I haven't seen it; that ambush/speed trap style stuff makes me uncomfortable. With a camera and some editing, you can make any unsuspecting subject look like a racist/jerk/idiot. Maybe some of the people he punks are jerks; but what if you're a great person, and because you said something stupid getting trapped by this guy on camera for 40 seconds you're forever known as a racist asshole etc? Makes me squeamish. Very irresponsible. Like us gleefully calling Jessica Simpson an idiot - you think if someone filmed you 24 hours a day for weeks you wouldn't say at least ONE thing that's stupid? Camon. Our soundbite culture at its worst. And of course they're planning a sequel. Not my slice.

On a side note, today's conundrum: as I was greeting my Chinese delivery guy at the door, my roommate "Le Barber" came walking out. As I was paying the guy, he stands behind him and gesticulates that the bike Chinese guy was using was HIS, stolen a while ago. All this while I'm literally handing money over to this guy. Tipping even. What to do? Refuse to pay the guy, punch him in the throat and boycott his establishment forever? Maybe broker an arrangement for the return of the bike? Obviously, I chose C: act confused, look at "Le Barber" and say "huh?" a few times til he walks away. Nice.

Side note to the side note: enuff with the 72 packets of duck sauce. ever see this stuff and think good lord....what the fuck are we doing to these poor ducks??!

This Is What We've Become?

A few weeks ago I was, unfortunately, watching “Saturday Night Live” with RRTHUR (yes ladies, THAT RRTHUR) and there was a skit where these two dudes were showing their new short film to Lorne Michaels. After a few seconds it became clear that the whole joke was that TA-DA! The film was awful. Purposely awful, canned bad acting etc. Ok you think, I get it. But it went on for like 5-7 minutes. Or seemingly 4 days. I got more and more furious as I watched; THIS is the best SNL can come up with? “Forget coming up with something that’s actually funny, we’ll just film something that’s awful and wink at the audience that we’re doing it on purpose! Now THAT’S funny: comedic irony lapping itself.” Terrible. As if normally they’re SO amazingly funny that they can also do it the other way. And I guess we’re supposed to appreciate this. What if you’re at a restaurant and the waiter drops your food on the floor, sets your shirt on fire and then sets your shirt on fire again, but the whole time winking at you that you’re in on the joke?

Which brings me to my review....The new Sarah Silverman show on Comedy Central. I’ve always liked her – she’s funny AND hot. But this new show is UNWATCHABLE. Ironically bad writing, ironically bad acting, ironically bad everything– the only thing missing was the requisite ironically bad cheesy 80’s music (which I’m sure is coming.) AND it goes on for 30 minutes! We’re supposed to be into this? You can be bad/terrible, as long as you’re winking to the audience, in on the “joke”? Unwatchable. It’s fucking insulting and offensive. Millions of dollars spent on “oh, we’ll just a have a canned performance, with over-the-top amateurness/slacker/neurotic childness, they’ll eat it up.” UNWATCHABLE!!

And no one appreciates a good fecal joke like yours truly, but 30 minutes of diarrhea and queef jokes from someone who’s getting paid? Wow, thanks!

I am still furious I watched this fucking show for 30 minutes and I never will again.

Anna Nicole Xmastime. Dead.

and I guess I'm an asshole for being pissed that greeeeaat...NOW she dies, just after becoming hot again?

Valentine's Contest (Blue Edition)

I reckon it's comin up on Valentine's Day, so I should prolly have a Mrs. Xmastime V-Day Contest. That is, win me over and spend an evening with me. To apply, please do each of the following:

1) Send an 8x10 headshot. A nice, black and white shot of your face, show me your beaming smile. Let me see who I'll be talking to. Ooh, and by black and white I mean the film - obviously your face should be white.

2) Also a nice body shot - let's be honest here, something in a bathing suit to show off your figure. That way I'll get to cut through you fat chicks and get to the hot ones.

3) Also a picture of you in same bathing suit, bent over with four fingers buried in, shall we say, your "Golden Palace of the Himilayas."

4) A cup of my semen. I don't care how you get it, who you hafta blow to...well, I guess that would be me....just get it. And just in case you try to fake me out, I know EXACTLY what my semen smells like (orchids).

5) Hint: I like frozen waffles. A lot.

6) Served between your bosoms that are still sweaty from alphabetizing my porn, all the way from "Anal Encounters I" to "Anal Encounters CDLVII"

7) Another hint: if you have a hot Mom, get her involved. Been into the hot mom/daughter thing lately. Leading the charge, of course are the Lohan girls.













Wow. Mama mama. Toothy! Is is possible to have something hotter than a hot mom and daughter together? I mean, just look at Lindsay....knowing that at one time she did in fact touch Dina Lohan's snatch. Passed right through it, matter of fact. Was where you wanna be! You KNOW those tiny new, pursed, searching lips (and tongue!) brushed up against Mama Lohan's sweet-n-low walls. Out of bounds to suggest while entering this thing called life her tiny womanhood slid against Dina's Tunnel of Xmastime??! mmmmm...titties against snatch!!!!

8) A file, as I'll prolly go to jail after this. I would think the only thing worse than "kiddie porn" would be "as they're being born porn." Christ. I can't win.

9) A "What's Happening!?!?" dvd

I will announce the winnner on the 13th, and on the 15th will post the graphic, nasty, bordering-on-the-"was that a human?" details from our night of, as they say in South Dakota, "amour." Good luck!

XMASTIME

The Facts of Life

Though always an irresponsible sort, being late has never been one of my vices. I've slacked a bit since I moved to NYC cause I've gotten used to other people breezing in on their own time, but still. From a young age I learned being on time meant being 30 minutes early - first simply because it's incredibly rude to be late, but also because as I got older I always assumed that if I was one second late, whomever I was meeting would immediately say "oh, fuck this!" and storm out. Which of course never happens, but hey. We'd show up 30 minutes early for church; half the time we'd startle the priest when he'd turn the lights on. "Hi!" The funny part is after my brother got his license the two of us would go to the 9:00 mass so we could start work at noon and our folks would go to the 11:30 and we'd STILL be the first ones there. Two teenage boys, beatin the old ladies to salvation every Sunday. That's normal.

An early marker of this is the bus stop when I was a kid. Which I mean to be the end of our driveway. The bus would come at about 8am, but my brother and I would be outside waiting at 7:15. And it's not like sometimes the bus would show up at 7:15 and sometimes it would come at 8:00; like clockwork, it came at 8:00. Plus, if you weren't there the driver would sit and honk the horn for a few minutes anyways. But there we'd be, 45 minutes standing out there. I guess we thought that if we weren't standing right by the road our driver, Mrs. Hickman, wouldn't even stop as she sped by "oh, FUCK these little white boys!" We'd throw the football around, or wrestle in the gravel driveway. Showing up caked in dirt, sweat and gravel allows for great street cred when you're in the 4th grade. And some mornings would be FREEZING, but there we'd be..... I can distinctly remember learning that if I closed my eyes and looked directly into the sun, my face would warm for about a second. The whole time of course our living room, with the huge window allowing us to look for the bus in the comfort of heat, was about, oh, 75 feet away. Hmm. Smart. One time my brother bet me that he could hit me with a rock from all the way across the yard. About 125 feet away. Not only that, he told me, but he could hit me while I was running from one side to the other. HA! I don't recall what we bet for - maybe it's that if he hit me he'd get to go to a great college and become a success, and if I won I'd get to figure out how to get shitfaced on $3.75. Either way, seemed like a sure bet to me as I lined up across the yard in one corner. My brother found the appropriate rock, tossed it up to himself a few times, then looked at me and yelled "go!" I took off running, kinda half-trotting to be honest, prolly chuckling to myself. About a third of the way I looked up, just as he was letting loose. "What a loser" I'm thinking, running slo-mo like in Chariots of Fire. I see the rock coming, I'm thinking "ah there it is, nice try asshole." I can still to this day feel the way my neck was cocked as I was running, watching the rock sailing towards me. "Hmm" I started thinking, "this might actually be close. Ha!" Running, looking, running. "Wow," I'm lightly musing, "this is gonna be REALLY close. Hmm." Running, looking, running "Matter of fact, I might be crazy, but I think-" BAM!!!!!! Not only had this fucker hit me on a full run, he hit me right smack dab on the fucking temple. Miracle he didn't hit my eye. Twas a long walk back across the yard with his smug face waiting for me. Still can't believe it. Fucker.

Another nice bus stop moment was 5th grade. We're standing there with our dog, Gladys. After another rousing game of "How Long Til Xmastime Punts the Football So That it Gets Stuck in the Tree, Ruining the Fun for Everybody?", Gladys' paramour "Mike" came over. Their mutual attraction and feelings of commitment and respect prompting arousal, they began their lovemaking, giving no thought to my brother and I standing 6 feet away. Actually, the first sex act I ever witnessed being dogs explains a lot. Anyways, they're doing it, and I guess my brother and I were both mystified, mortified and cracking up. They carry on for a while and then one of us notices that the bus is on the way, bout 1/2 a mile down the road. This coincided with the exact moment we realized the dogs weren't merely fucking anymore, they were in fact stuck together. Him mounted on her in mid dog-fuck, both howling with pain as they can't pull apart from each other. Meanwhile, the bus is coming towards us, slowly. Like Jaws. We're like fuck, we can't let everybody see this, they'll never let us live this down. My brother decides we have no choice, we must pick both dogs up, still stuck together, and carry them around to the back of the house so no one can see. "You're crazy"! I'm shouting but no, he knows we have to do it. So about 90 seconds into witnessing my first sexual act, I am now a part of it. Along with my brother. Great. Dogs howling and twisting furiously, we somehow get them up and run them to the back of the house, sprinting back just in time as the bus was rolling up.....with about 60 eyeballs and little mitts pressed up against the windows. Despite our heroic efforts, everyone saw the whole thing anyway and gave us the ol raspberry without mercy. Well, til the next day when they rolled up and surprised us halfway through our recreation of the scene wherein Ms. Garrett finds out Blair's boyfriend is pressuring her to visit his van (complete with mattress, of course.) Took some heat for that one too.

Regina Spektor - Fidelity

Regina Spektor - Fidelity

My newest obsession. Single of the year, can't stop listening. PLUS if she ain't Mrs. Xmastime, who is. Huge teef, sloppy mouth, doesn't mind rolling in dirt. Single of the year. Sorry "Crazy."

AND for the first time in 30 years I ordered something different at a Chinese restaurant than Egg Foo Young. Welcome to The Show, Lo Mein. Great times ahead for sure.

I believe the words you are looking for here are "Banner Fucking Week for Xmastime." Enjoy.

Dammit!

Oh goody, I see someone has stolen my naked night idea. Slut.

On a side note, while the Ted Haggard jokes write themselves, Joy Behar just asked Rosie if a former boyfriend of hers is gay now too. Wow. Of course, the "Xmastime is watching the View" jokes write themselves too. Sad.

"Friends of God"

First of all, I started thinking last night. Why can't I buy fake titties? I don't mean to have on me, I mean with me. Wouldn't that be great? Put 'em on I dunno, a board maybe, always have em round when you wanna grab on some big titties. There's no way I'm the first guy to think of this. Will look into it.

But what I really wanted to talk about was this whack doc I saw on HBO, "Friends of God." A look into the Christian Evangelical Movement. I won't go crazy here, everybody here knows how I feel about these people, how they've affected politics yada yada. And I have also said in this joint how much I admire people with blind faith. You believe in a higher power and that helps you, good for you.

BUT.

These people blindly refer to the Bible as "facts." More than one person when asked about evolution quickly scoffed, shaking their head as if patting us on the head and said "hey look, the evidence is right there, in the Bible." The EVIDENCE. Not "hey, I choose to believe that God created us." But the EVIDENCE is in the Bible. These people did not question anything, they saw the Bible as stone cold fact. I don't know which is sadder - basing your life on a book of fairy tales from 2000 years ago, or the fact that you have replaced faith with, in your mind, absolute certainty. Isn't the whole God/faith business rooted in the fact that you DON'T know for sure, you really are laying your faith and trust in something you can not see or prove. And would the very God you worship even like this? An example: your best friend says turn around, fall and he will catch you. Trust in him, he will catch you. Now, what if you only did so based on "evidence", e.g. a videotape from the future showing that he had, in fact, caught you. Therein, you have both removed faith from the equation and, presumably, insulted/pissed off your friend. Great.

The doc will leave you itching all over, but this certainty of "evidence" in the Bible bugs the shit outta me. We don't believe anything unless it's been certified, YouTubed, and with 2 picture ids, but we're supposed to believe in fairy tales and miracles from thousands of years ago cause they're in some book. And these are the people that have been running the country. yuck. Anyways. Back to fake titties.

Rudy, Rudy, Rudy

I see Rudy is running for Prez. Good for him, now he can go after the hot dog vendors in all 50 states. Wow! Go get 'em Rudy!

Of course, some things about this rankle ol Xmastime. Last night on "Hannity & The Ugliest Guy in the World" Rudy was wowing about his having the opportunity to run for President since there he was, just a kid from Brooklyn. Really? The tiny, small town of Brooklyn? Wow! Good for you! Surely you'll be on the front page of your local rag, "Small town Boy Does Good!" What a scrapper! That's one for the little guys!! Maybe there can be a bit about you in "Hoosiers 2."

Also, apparently George Will is making the claim that Rudy should be prez because in the event of a nuke coming at us, who else would you want in charge for those 7 minutes? Hmm. Actually, it's the other 2,102,393 minutes of his term I'd be worried about - him being "America's Mayor" and basically running because he didn't shit himself and curl up in ball on 9/11 means he'd really be able to hammer home the fear, sending in the stormtroopers and making me ashamed I'd desire such things as health insurance or education. "How could you ask for that!!!!! THEY'RE TRYING TO KILL US!! GET BACK IN YOUR FREEDOM BOX AND SHUT UP!!!" My life blows as it is, I'm not into making it even worse for "7 minutes." The only 7 minutes in my life I'd do that for involve a building vestibule and an Asian soft-core porn star, so camon.

Personally, I don't mind Rudy; him gutting violent crime in NYC alone makes him a great mayor. But there's no way he'll get the GOP nomination. Oh, now that he's running I'm sure he'll "rethink" some of his lefty ways, I'm sure he'll have a change of heart re: gays and abortion etc, sprinting towards to right with his lips pursed. But if there's anything the right has taught us through the last few years its that if you get married 3 times (insert "but one was to a cousin, which will play well in the South" joke here) or have sex with someone who's NOT your wife, then you have no sense of "values" and are going straight to H-E-L-L. I mean for chrissake, we're still trying to explain to our children how Clinton's blowjob has ruined America and kept Jesus from coming back!!

Plus haven't we been taught by these fuckwads that NYC is the devil itself? Wouldn't Rudy be considered part of the "blue state elite" since he's from here and, you know, went to college? SURELY not a guy you'd wanna "have a beer with", right? dude's been to Europe for chrissake!! Book-smart!! NO THANK YOU!

And if ALL OF A SUDDEN these nitwits decide oh no, it's okay to have done all that stuff now that it's their guy that has had some shenanigans, then they're hypocrites to the extreme, completely full of shit. Or, even worse, a








er.

Life/Channel Changing

One thing I need to be more aware of is what channel is on the tv when I go to sleep. Most nights, as I'm drifting off I watch a lil Nick at Nite, be it Rosanne or Cosby, whatever. I've noticed what happens is the next morning when I get up and turn on the tube, now because it's the morning it's back to being a little kids channel. Nickelodeon. That's not gonna work - what if, and let's take a walk to dreamworld here, I have a lady friend over late-night? Maybe she wakes up before I do, maybe she never got to fall asleep thanks to her absurd, bordering on the dangerous orgasms not subsiding until morning and she flips on the tv. So now she's like "what the...I just fucked a dude who watches 'Rugrats'? oh, HELL no!" and she'll never be on board for a booty call again. Or, god forbid, I die in bed. Cops etc come to get me, you know how it is, lottsa standing around, one of em prolly flips on the tv. "This stiff watched 'Spongebob Squarepants'? Homo!!!" I can't get a little dignity on my deathbed, even? Bad enough when they find my porn. And by "find" I mean "walk into my room."

So I need to have a default fall asleep channel. I guess it's PBS, but it can't be my #1 channel since it's 13, and I can't have that hanging over me while I sleep. So it'll hafta be 21.

Xmastime Calling

I will now place the songs from "London Calling" in order of how I like them.


Death or Glory
The Card Cheat
Rudie Can't Fail
Clampdown
Hateful
I'm Not Down
Revolution Rock
London Calling
The Guns of Brixton
Brand New Cadillac
Train in Vain
The Right Profile
Wrong 'em Boyo
Jimmy Jazz
Spanish Bombs
Lost in the Supermarket
Koka Kola
Four Horsemen
Lover's Rock

Stupid Bowl XLI

I'll tell you what. You people dodged a fucking bullet - if the Colts had kicked a field goal at the end of the game, the score woulda been 32-17, JUST off my prediction of 31-16 and you woulda never heard the end of it. Woulda been MUCHO BACK-PATTING for yours truly, re: my football genius and dammit, I played the game!

Anyways. The commercials were extremely disappointing. Though it's nice to know Coca-Cola is at the forefront of Black History month. "Oh look...Coke loves blacks!" Is anybody remotely moved by this gesture? Plus, black people don't drink Coke, they drink orange soda. Fucking christ. And the Doritos "cleanup at register 3" was bit much, no? You're trying to sell me potato chips, maybe I don't need to picture oooh, JUST off camera, the fat checkout girl covered in jizz from the dude she was mooing over. Thanks, Doritos. Or should fat girls be the ones offended; are we all supposed to assume lardass couldn't control herself and is now rolling around the floor under the register covered in Dorito cheese dust? Maybe she couldn't even get the guy, who has already left while she rubs Doritos all over herself, shoving a bag in her mouth? Interesting. We have to choose between imagining this chick covered in jizz or cheese dust. Jizz and cheese dust. "Alec, what are 'two things that have been on my dick'?"

And those Chevy commercials. "Join the revolution." really? what revolution is this? Have people never driven trucks before? OOOoooohhh, we're gonna drive $50,000 trucks!!! That'll show The Man! This is crazy!!!!!!! The founding fathers would be proud, I'm sure. "Well, they don't have health insurance and elections are rigged, but at least they're in huge trucks that get 2 miles a gallon at $2.50 per and are too big to hit the Taco Bell drive-thru. We did good. Pass me the Doritos, jizz-wig."

As for the game itself, two things. Number one, how terrible can Devon Hester's hands be? Every time you turn around, this dude is running a kick back for a td. When he's not doing that, he affects the game so much that teams squib-kick it away from him, giving the Bears great field position every time. YET. He's not used on offense. So he either has terrible hands or is completely retarded and can't learn plays. Makes me think of the Redskins AC Connell from a few years ago - a wide receiver who oddly enough wasn't on the "hands team" for onside kicks. Strange. Though people wonder why J-Lo has never been on my "Ass Team." Or Corky from "Life Goes On" not being on my "Goofs I Drug and Then Jerk Off Onto in a Closet" Team. So you never know I guess.

The other player I kept thinking of was Brian Griese, Grossman's backup. Grossman's throwing the ball around to Colts players, fumbling snaps etc you KNOW Griese is sitting on the bench with a baseball cap on thinking jesus christ...how much must I suck?!!?!?!!? Would be like being William Hung's backup in the choir. Good lord. What does it take to get him in? "Brian, Grossman just hung himself in the shower, so...wait, never mind...we'll just lay his body on the field and tape the ball to his hand. As you were."

My favorite moment of the pregame though was the Tony Dungy interview when JB asked him "Will your son be with you during the game?" Of course he answered with the cliched "oh, he'll be there with me, looking over me" stuff, which is sweet and nice to hear, but wouldn't it have been great if he had answered another way?

"Will your son be with you during the game?"
"Not at all JB, he's dead."

"Will your son be with you during the game?"
"Oh, do you have a shovel?"

Or maybe a hysterical, over-the-top "oh my god, he's alive?!?!? it's a miracle!!" performance. Well, I would've enjoyed it. Just like it occurred to me last night, wouldn't it be great if a ref decided fuck it, I'm gonna go down in the books as a legend and, while announcing a penalty to, you know, a BILLION people, all of a sudden turn into a standup comedian? "Holding, number 74...hey, how bout that Prince, riiiight? Say, what's big and grey and comes in quarts? An elephant! Hiyoooooooooooooooo!!!....anyways, first down." Wouldn't that be great? "Number 66, you smell like LANDfill!!....timeout, Colts." He'd be set for life on the talk circuit. Hell, it's only a matter of time before they make them do commercials on the field, isn't it? "Clipping, number 33...Chevy Silverado, America's car...(sings) this is our country...first down."

Speaking of the pre-game, those tiny metal flag pins they make all the announcers of the American flag are amazing, aren't they? I spent the whole show going "Wow, Dan Marino loves freedom! and look, Shannon Sharpe too! wait- BOOMER loves freedom!! wow!!! It's a Super Bowl MIRACLE!!!" Fucking christ. I tried to salute but got Dorito-jizz in my eye. Pickup on aisle me.

And if the 400 commercials about it are not lying to me, apparently the Police are getting back together. Which means that there's an opening now for "solo Brit lute-playing cake-boy looking to bore human race to death." Great. Was there finally an intervention? "Sting, please...no more solo albums. You're fucking killing us. They found a tape of 'The Dream of the Blue Turtles' in Princess Di's car; that was no accident. Please stop." If you love someone, set them free. Indeed.

Happy Birfday

Every Groundhog Day I'm reminded of my grandfather, as this was his birthday. I have no idea what year he was born, but my grandma was born in 1902 (or, as my father would say, "The year after Queen Victoria died), so I would guess round there. He owned a hardware store up in Lowell Massachusetts, which was great cause every coupla years we'd go up to visit and he'd give us hockey sticks from his store. Which were great...until we'd get back to VA, where it would be 100 degrees and we'd be reminded that we have no idea what the fuck hockey is. My favorite memory of him though is one time when I was in 3rd grade, he was down visiting, and he drove me into town. We ended up at Peoples, I don't know what he was buying, but we were standing in line and my young buck eyes landed on...PLAYBOY!!!!! Instinctively my little horny mitts grabbed it and started peeping into it, lost in my own world. After what seemed like an hour but what I'm sure was actually 12 seconds I realized what i was doing, looked up and...Grandpa was watching me. Oh shit, I thought. He's gonna take me into the parking lot and bury me under the asphalt. I slipped the mag back and awaited for the end of my all-too-brief life when I looked up at him and...he winked, laughed and said "dont worry, I wont tell your father." YES!!! But the day got even better, when in a spur-of-the-moment let's bond together moment he reached out and grabbed a radio and bought it for me. Awesome. i loved that radio, even christianing it with a GI Joe sticker on top. I made it through a few years of the stupid Q94 morning zoo and all those early 80's hits, holding up my tape recorder to the speaker and patiently waiting for one of my new cuts to come on so I could record it and many mornings tuned to WRAR, either answering the morning quiz and calling in, or breathlessly praying that school was cancelled for the day thanks to snow (3 flakes would paralyze our county, which drove my mother bananas, her coming from Lowell where apparently the snow could reach 60 feet high and they'd still go to school.) But the real prize came when I found Extra 104 up in DC, and the world of 50/60s music was opened to me in one fell swoop. i was astounded as right there on one station came "Wipeout!" and "Stand by Me" and "Have I The Right", one after another. I bonded with friends over our love of "real" rock and roll, and stayed up as late as possible soaking it in. All that stuff sounded better when it was dark anyways. I'm not saying I woulda never found this music had my Grandpa not bought me that radio in my Playboy haze, but I'll always feel that connection with him everytime it's late at night and "Just My imagination" comes on.

On a side note, his funeral was the first one I had been to (I was 11) and was my introduction to what an "Irish wake" is. I can still see my father trying to stifle his laughter when my brother asked him why everybody in the back was laughing so much, and what's in that bottle they're passing around?

ON TWO, DUMBASSES

Watching all the Super Bowl hoopla, I was just reminded of my high school days. Unlike pro qbs, the signal calling at our level was "down! set! go!" and we're off. The one "go" being called in the huddle as "on one", ie soon as you hear "go" start moving your ass. Now, if you wanted to be fancy and keep the defense on their toes, you'd go on two: "ready! set! go! go!" But. Our line being so fucking stupid, my brother could never call a play on two, cause we'd fucking jump offsides. Like clockwork. Once a year, first game of the season he'd try to call a play on two, but of course "down! set! go-" bam! we're running into each other while he has his hands on his hip, shaking his head in disgust. So from then on, always on one. Which I'm sure opposing defenses caught onto, which of course helped lead us to all those 48-6 (not as close as the score indicates) bludgeonings. Christ.

Another great move by the linemen was if my brother got sacked for a 15-yard loss, in the huddle there would be absolute bewilderment, as everyone SWORE they had their man. "I had my man!" "Yeah, me too!" "That's wild - I had my guy too! How did 8 different dudes break through to crush Edmund? weird!" Every fucking time. And the beauty was that these brainiacs figured out a way to give themselves karmic justice; any time we did have a big play, maybe a 20-yard gain, back in the huddle everyone's like "whew! I completely missed my block!" Astutely guessing their uncanny honesty in a time of success would come to mind after the next play when a bulldozer would be called onto the field to dig my brother outta the ground after another jailbreak. "I had my man!" Good times!!

FAB FOUR FRIDAY

Yesterday A Hard Day's Night came on. Man, is there ANY moment in history as exciting as those days when the Beatles come to America? I'm floored every time I see footage of this, or read the stories of djs announcing by the minute where their plane is over the Atlantic. The music was over the top great and about to change the world, and then they show up and they're funny to boot. All that black and white footage is exhilarating, and then the timing...New York City looks like it's having one big snow day, right? Unreal. I can not think of a single more exciting moment where culture, media and tomorrow comes together all at once. And when you see the films, knowing that they ended up NOT being little boy band pussies, that they really were the best makes it even better. How unreal must it have been to be one of the very 4 young men at the epicenter of this craziness? Did it suck being everyone else?

Back in 1995 when the anthology came out, PBS ran A Hard Days Night and Help! on an endless loop, along with the Making of HDN. Watched them ad nauseum in Mississippi.

MY TOP 5 BEATLES CUTS (right now, this second, I know they'll change by lunch, except for I Wanna Hold Your Hand, which is THE most exciting 2 minutes in rock n roll, STILL):

I Wanna Hold Your Hand
I'm So Tired
It Won't Be Long
Let it Be
Rain

Sorkin Loves Cheney

With the Libby stuff leaking out, don’t you get the feeling Cheney is just waiting for his Jack Nicholson in “A Few Good Men" Moment? Don’t you get the feeling he’s waiting to be dragged in for some dramatic moment so he can have a glorious end to this whole shitbacle? He saw how his buddy Rummy left with his tail between his legs and knows he can do better.

“Mr. Vice President - did you allow the name of the agent to be leaked?”
“I don’t have to answer this.”
“Mr. Vice President – DID YOU ALLOW THE NAME OF THE AGENT TO BE LEAKED?”
“You want an answer?!”
“I want the truth!!”
“YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!! Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Mostly, reservists and guardsmen on their 8th or 9th tours. Whose gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinburg? Hell, I would myself but I just invented my 17th deferment to go with my others from Vietnam, so stuff that! I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. Do you think those outrageous Halliburton contracts no-bid themselves?!?!?! You weep for Libby, and you curse my former staff. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know….which is, mostly, that if you have 4 of your goons hold down a pheasant after drugging it you can spray it with buckshot and call it “hunting”…That this leak, while tragic, probably saved lives. Not REALLY, but what am I supposed to say here? And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. Well, I mean the important ones, the 7 people in the country who have more money than me and Georgie Boy. You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall. We use words like honor, code, mission accomplished, and futaqua. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. “Knock knock!” “Who‘s there?” “Orange!” “Orange who?” “Orange you glad I didn’t say banana? Mission accomplished!!” I have neither the time nor the inclination, especially with my 6 pacemakers whirring like a helicopter, to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, as long as you’re white, which I believe we’ve already discussed, and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon, and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to.”
“Did you let that name be leaked?”
“Sir, you don’t have to answer that!”
“DID YOU LET THAT NAME BE LEAKED!??!!?!?!?!”
“YOU’RE GODDAM RIGHT I DID!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Stunned silence…Cheney gets up, flips the keys to the administration to Bush. “All yours. I’m out…PEACE, BITCHES!!”