Monday, March 31, 2008
See What I Mean? I'm Unlucky...
...NOW how the fuck am I supposed to sucker chicks into kissing me? Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!
Timing. (Finally.)
I'm never lucky. I never happen upon certain people in the street, I don't see shooting stars, McDonalds never gives me that extra McNugget in the box. But happening to flip on Fast Times at Ridgemont High just as the Phoebe Cates pool scene is starting? Not too shabby.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
GORDON UPDATE
All the Fox hype-machine propaganda-driven yelling and perfectonism, but then Gordon turns around and pulls a tearjerking scene outta nowhere for ya, a la the end of an episode of Hell's Kitchen I just saw, summed up on the Wiki-recap:
The choice wasn't easy as Chef Ramsay was visibly troubled by the dilemma of picking between a very driven and talented chef and a chef that had grown and exhibited great potential. Chef Ramsay chose to eliminate Julia, though in a break from his usual heavy criticism, he heaped praise on how far she progressed in spite of her Waffle House background. In an unprecedented move so far on Hell's Kitchen, Ramsay said he would personally send Julia to culinary school, and invite her to come back once she has finished.
Sending her to school!! I'm bawling! I'm a mess! He's the greatest!! From here on, March 29 is declared to be G 'n EFFIN R DAY!!!!
The choice wasn't easy as Chef Ramsay was visibly troubled by the dilemma of picking between a very driven and talented chef and a chef that had grown and exhibited great potential. Chef Ramsay chose to eliminate Julia, though in a break from his usual heavy criticism, he heaped praise on how far she progressed in spite of her Waffle House background. In an unprecedented move so far on Hell's Kitchen, Ramsay said he would personally send Julia to culinary school, and invite her to come back once she has finished.
Sending her to school!! I'm bawling! I'm a mess! He's the greatest!! From here on, March 29 is declared to be G 'n EFFIN R DAY!!!!
More Gordon!
I am neck deep in a 10-hour Hell's Kitchen marathon, and just to make my dick quiver and heart pound even more there's also three hours of Kitchen Nightmares right now. Double-loving. It's like a fresh meat lover's coming up to the Pizza Hut buffet on Dolly Parton's titties. Man.
Must say. Although once I discovered KN I snobbishly turned my nose up at HK (which was the show that first introduced me to G n'effin R), HK is a helluva lot better than I ever gave it credit. I kinda turned my nose up "well, it's just him yelling." But watching it now, and what I now know about Gordon (we're so close, of course), it is nothing if not real. MAYBE he ratchets it up just a bit, but the fact is it's not like he's got a kitchen of 4-star chefs so that he has to invent things to shout about; the "cooks" are constantly doing shit that would drive anybody up the wall, much less Gordon. Rancid crab? Spaghetti outta the trash? It's not hard to imagine that's how Gordon would react in any of his own kitchens should his cooks be so ridiculous. Plus, it's entertaining to watch him catch them trying to get shit by him. The guy is incredible, part hawk, part cobra. From across the kitchen "is that dough undercooked?" (of course.) From 20 feet away "what's that smell?" (bad scallop.) Unreal. At least twice I've seen his head snap up, just SENSING some bullshit was going on, and he always sniffs it out. This dude should be working airport security for fuck's sake.
And, of course, it's RIDICULOUSLY compelling. I actually caught myself gasping earlier. To which I thought "so...that's what a gasp is? Nice." And he always surprises; eg his relentless patience with Aaron, who somehow lasted over 3 episodes even tho all he did was cry, faint and cramp up. And I don't just mean during sex, like normal guys. Right? Ahhh...(awkward cough) But of course the meal ticket is how he gets funnier and funnier the more exasperated he becomes. A la Wikipedia:
To cite an example, Dehnart writes that Ramsay replied to a rude customer who asked for more pumpkin by saying, "Right. Well, I’ll get you more pumpkin and I’ll ram it right up your fucking ass! Would you like it whole or diced?" Another example is when a chef misheard an order, forcing Chef Ramsay to repeat it. Ramsay yelled, "Would you like me to fucking email that to your fucking BlackBerry? Move your ass!"
But again, his blessing and curse is that he can never be less than 100% genuine. I'm letting myself become intoxicated by the show again, can't wait for new season premiere Tueday night!! (My favorite from the commercials, him yelling at a fat cook "You, you're in charge of the desserts...don't eat them!")
Must say. Although once I discovered KN I snobbishly turned my nose up at HK (which was the show that first introduced me to G n'effin R), HK is a helluva lot better than I ever gave it credit. I kinda turned my nose up "well, it's just him yelling." But watching it now, and what I now know about Gordon (we're so close, of course), it is nothing if not real. MAYBE he ratchets it up just a bit, but the fact is it's not like he's got a kitchen of 4-star chefs so that he has to invent things to shout about; the "cooks" are constantly doing shit that would drive anybody up the wall, much less Gordon. Rancid crab? Spaghetti outta the trash? It's not hard to imagine that's how Gordon would react in any of his own kitchens should his cooks be so ridiculous. Plus, it's entertaining to watch him catch them trying to get shit by him. The guy is incredible, part hawk, part cobra. From across the kitchen "is that dough undercooked?" (of course.) From 20 feet away "what's that smell?" (bad scallop.) Unreal. At least twice I've seen his head snap up, just SENSING some bullshit was going on, and he always sniffs it out. This dude should be working airport security for fuck's sake.
And, of course, it's RIDICULOUSLY compelling. I actually caught myself gasping earlier. To which I thought "so...that's what a gasp is? Nice." And he always surprises; eg his relentless patience with Aaron, who somehow lasted over 3 episodes even tho all he did was cry, faint and cramp up. And I don't just mean during sex, like normal guys. Right? Ahhh...(awkward cough) But of course the meal ticket is how he gets funnier and funnier the more exasperated he becomes. A la Wikipedia:
To cite an example, Dehnart writes that Ramsay replied to a rude customer who asked for more pumpkin by saying, "Right. Well, I’ll get you more pumpkin and I’ll ram it right up your fucking ass! Would you like it whole or diced?" Another example is when a chef misheard an order, forcing Chef Ramsay to repeat it. Ramsay yelled, "Would you like me to fucking email that to your fucking BlackBerry? Move your ass!"
But again, his blessing and curse is that he can never be less than 100% genuine. I'm letting myself become intoxicated by the show again, can't wait for new season premiere Tueday night!! (My favorite from the commercials, him yelling at a fat cook "You, you're in charge of the desserts...don't eat them!")
Wouldn't Mind Hittin Alanis' Skins Right Now, Either
Why, of all the species in the world, do fish smell so fucking bad? Don't they basically live in a bath their whole lives? A dog can run and run and roll in filth all day, and you don't smell a thing. Yet fish reeks. Ain't that ironic? Don't you think?
Reality Show Idea
"Who Fucked My Wife?"
A man and his wife sit on a couch while a panel of 4 dudes each claim to have slept with the wife in the past, of which only one of them actually has. Each of the men describe their night of amore, and the husband, either by remembering his wife mentioning one of the dudes before or by picking up on intimate details in their stories, tries to figure which one is telling the truth. Caveat: if the husband picks wrong, the wife gets to sleep with that dude as well.
Flipside of course would be "Who Fucked My Husband?" This time the panel is four women, each of whom vigorously deny having slept with the husband, each woman trying to appear more disgusted with the very thought of such a thing than the next. Wife tries to detect who's bullshitting. Caveat: if the woman picks wrong, husband gets a three-way.
FOX, I am open to offers!
A man and his wife sit on a couch while a panel of 4 dudes each claim to have slept with the wife in the past, of which only one of them actually has. Each of the men describe their night of amore, and the husband, either by remembering his wife mentioning one of the dudes before or by picking up on intimate details in their stories, tries to figure which one is telling the truth. Caveat: if the husband picks wrong, the wife gets to sleep with that dude as well.
Flipside of course would be "Who Fucked My Husband?" This time the panel is four women, each of whom vigorously deny having slept with the husband, each woman trying to appear more disgusted with the very thought of such a thing than the next. Wife tries to detect who's bullshitting. Caveat: if the woman picks wrong, husband gets a three-way.
FOX, I am open to offers!
Laundry
When I do laundry, I first put my clothes in the washer, then pour soap on, and then turn the machine on. But everytime I see someone else do it, they turn on the machine, put in the soap and let it run for a few minutes before eventually putting the clothes in. I don't understand this. First of all, aren't you wasting the running time of the machine? Water's running, machine is going...it's not like it waits for the clothes to go in to ay "okay, I'll start officially timing the cycle...NOW!", right? Also, aren't you running the risk of wasting soap? While you're dickering around not putting the clothes in, the soap can escape through the drain holes and disappear, no? Am I just 100% wrong about this?
Friday, March 28, 2008
Avatars
A while back I wrote about my prediliction for using smileys et al when emailing or texting. I had no idea I was almost single-handedly curing autism:
You're WELCOME, motherscratchers!! Is there NOTHING XMASTIME CANNOT DO??!?!?!?
Other than blow his nose or light a match, of course. Cough.
"[Savill] said that his life changed when his family decided to get the Internet," Bracken wrote. "He was able to use chat rooms and soon realized that people used symbols to express themselves: the smiley signs, the angry signs, hug signs, etc., to enhance the text. He went on to say that subconsciously his brain was learning about communication from these sessions of chat."
You're WELCOME, motherscratchers!! Is there NOTHING XMASTIME CANNOT DO??!?!?!?
Other than blow his nose or light a match, of course. Cough.
Picture of the Day
I like to look at the pictures of the day and try to guess where it was taken before looking at the captions. And, just like with the ladies, so far I'm 0 for 1,014. But it's still fun.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Monet & Me
Whenever I see a flyer for one of the "sketch comedy!" groups that are always around I just roll my eyes, knowing they're 1) not funny and 2) annoying (the sole exception being, of course, when The State was on MTV in 1994ish. Now THAT was funny.) There is no way I would ever think about joining such a group; my thinking being "what a buncha losers" coupled with a completely unfounded arrogance of fuck that, I'm funnier than them. I know what's funny, you don't; why would I surround myself with a bunch of hyper/loud dudes trying to impress each other? Sit down, shut the fuck up!
But there is sometimes a bug in my brain, that slight jealousy that wishes I had a group of guys that I could sit around with and create comedy. Come up with it, film it, boom! move on. I've never had that (tho, as I'm now confessing, I've never seeked it either.) Oh, I have plenty of friends that are funny, but I'm talking about a Sid Caeser/Larry Gelbart sitting in a room cranking out the stuff for hours. I'm not naturally funny just to look at and I don't have an accent and I'm not quirky, but I could do that shit: want a joke about an ardvarks? You got it. Here's a newspaper, gimme 10 jokes in an hour, no problem. All while coming up with higher-concept stuff in the back; just some warm bodies at that point to carry the shit out that I want. Today we're doing a bit about Abraham Lincoln waking up hung over the day after he had freed the slaves ("I did WHAT???!!!!!") Sit down, shut the fuck up, do as I say! I'll never have a group like that; as arrogant as I am about what I know is funny, my insecurities re: being a joiner would overwhelm everything else. Unless the 4 funniest people I know walk up to me and say "lead us, Xmastime!", it's prolly not happening.
What made me think of this is I'm watching The Impressionists, and apparently Monet walks into Paris and stumbles into about 6 guys that think and act just like himself. Oh, Renoir, hello! Chezien, waddup brah! (I have no idea how to spell Chezian. obviously.) They just sit around all day and paint, and talk about painting, what they wanna do, etc etc etc. Feed off each other. I feel like if I had walked into Paris at the exact same time, thinking the exact same way they did about painting and the future of art, I would've walked right by their gang completely unawares and then burned silently at their success while working at Les Starbucks next door. Brazenly arrogant, yet too unsure to peep in "what're guys talking about?" Monet for nothing and that Radiohead album for free (beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep)
On a completely different side note...as the program was starting, I quickly Wikipedia'd Monet and learned he was born in 1840. Before thinking, I immediately thought oh shit, he's gonna be in the Civil War!
Ha!!! What an idiot...but isn't this something, how important certain dates and decades are to us as a country that don't mean a thing to other countries? I mean, you hear of 1861-65 and you think well, the Civil War. But would someone from, say, Ireland? Of course not. And not only do these dates mean something to us, but we of course think the rest of the world sat out making history for themselves at those times and just waited patiently for our historical moments to come to an end before picking up again with their own. I would assume it's the same from each country. 9/11 don't mean shit to some dude in Brazil, July 4 ain't a day off in Luxenburg. Funny.
So. Lemme Get This Straight.
Welfare is bad. Cause if you're on welfare, you're just a lazy pathetic fuck who needs to "pull yourself up with your bootstraps!" And any type of socialism is bad, cause the government should "just stay outta my goddam business!!" But it's sure okay for ka-zillionaire Wall Street companies to hold their hands out for some fast cash, isn't it? Ain't that nice.
(cue string of "trickle down theory, dumbass!" comments)
(cue string of "trickle down theory, dumbass!" comments)
Nikon, Canon, Minolta, Kyocera, Pentax, etc
The name of pretty much every camera I've ever heard of is Japanese. Yet when presenting the world with a picture of his new bride, Hideki Matsui gives us this:
Doubleshot
My two favorite things in the world: thinly-veiled references to jizzing, and cheeseburgers. Mmmmm.
Blacks and Whites
I've noticed that whenever I'm strolling around with Short Bus, about 85% of black guys that walk by look at him and give a little smile, or a "wassup little man" or some such. At worst, they at least notice him. Very nice. But I have yet to see a fucking white dude be distracted from his Gang of Four b-sides alternate takes playlist to even glance at the kid. Fuckwads. Or is this some social commentary on their part, disgusted with Short Bus' very existence since only people on the Upper East side should have kids, and even then it should be adoption. Fuckwads.
Dead Girl: "Thanks Mom and Dad, You're the Greatest!"
Heeeeey, isn't this nice. Hmm. A high price to pay for your parents believing in the Diabetes Fairy. Actually, I'm surprised Bush hasn't offered them jobs in his Justice Department. Of course, your guy Xmas nailed this two years ago.
Sigh (part 559)
Some mornings on the way to work I'm early, so I actually WANT the train to come a few minutes later so I can have a few more minutes to read the paper. The JUMBLE doesn't unscramble itself, people. Of course these are the very mornings the trains comes flying like a bat outta hell the second I get to the platform, practically screaming at me "CAMON CAMON CAMON, LETS GO!!!" So I don't get those few extra minutes to read. Of course if I'm running late, whaddya know: train sitting in the station a few stops away, nibbling a croissant/sipping Sunny Delight. In no rush at all. "Relax, we'll get there when we get there."
Christ. Like the wind never being at my back and the sun always in my eyes: even when I WANT the train to be late, I can't fucking win. Unreal.
Christ. Like the wind never being at my back and the sun always in my eyes: even when I WANT the train to be late, I can't fucking win. Unreal.
Something I Learned Today at Music Class
It's NOT appropriate when two kids in the middle of the room start beating the shit out of each other to gleefully shout out "ooooh yeeeeeeaaaahhhh!!!", face lighting up with excitement. 21 pairs of female eyes, glaring with disapproval and horror. Ah well.
For Christ's Sake, Enough
So now Canseco is sayin A-Rod was interested in steroids. Fine. He's gotta sell books I guess...tho his "more info at a later time" breadcrumb trail of having to buy more and more books is annoying. But I see in the paper today that at one time Canseco said that Clemens was using. But now, after all the Mitchell report/Congress hullaballoo, Jose is saying no way Clemens did roids. Wtf? Only Canseco gets to know who used; otherwise he gets cranky? He's like the indie-rock kid who loves some obscure band, then gets bent outta shape when other people find and like the band. What a shithead.
Also, has anyone ever capitalized on being the first criminal in a such a mess as Canseco? For a guy that started it all he sure has gotten a lot of fame and fortune (and now, incredibly, public goodwill and trust), hasn't he? I'll say this: if Canseco gets to make money off books detailing steroid use, OJ gets to make money off any book he wants to write about the killings. For fuck's sake.
Also, has anyone ever capitalized on being the first criminal in a such a mess as Canseco? For a guy that started it all he sure has gotten a lot of fame and fortune (and now, incredibly, public goodwill and trust), hasn't he? I'll say this: if Canseco gets to make money off books detailing steroid use, OJ gets to make money off any book he wants to write about the killings. For fuck's sake.
Beep Beep!
The last three days, the boy has been obsessed with school buses. This morning we passed a short bus on the street and I took him up to it and let him go apeshit for a few minutes. So I am hereby changing his appelation from "the boy" to "Short Bus." As in whaddup, Short Bus?
"simple mf is calling me WHAT??!?!!"
"simple mf is calling me WHAT??!?!!"
What's the Word For...
...that one car that's going JUST fast enuff to keep you standing on the sidewalk unable to cross, but JUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUST slow enuff to let the 700 cars behind it catch up, thus leaving you fucking standing there for another 5 minutes? aaaaarrrrgggghhhhhhh!!!
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Worlds of suck Colliding
Flipping through the radio dial, I noticed that there must be a plethora of Classic Rock stations in NY all of a sudden. I landed on one and the dj was talking very excitingly about Rush joining the Foo Fighters instage in Toronto last night. He then told us that a video of the song they played was up on YouTube, "...just go to YouTube and punch in Foo Fighters, Rush and Toronto, and you'll get the video" he said. The Foos and Rush, together. All I could think of at that moment was "Boy, thanks for the warning!"
The Manny Tapes
Unfettered and without a whole tv dinner to clean up down below, I'd guess I can change a diaper in about 11 seconds. Tabtabdiaperoffwipepowderdiaperdiaperontabtabdone! Luckily for me the boy knows this and, refusing to see me rest on my laurels and settle into complacency when he knows that someday this may become an Olympic event, on a daily basis he tries to make this little process as mind-blowingly difficult as possible. Let's be honest - this should be the one thing he knows how to do by now. Several times a day, every day since he was born he gets changed. He knows this: "if I just lie still for about 15 seconds, my body will be free of my own urine and feces and I can go back to enjoying whatever I was enjoying (most likely watching the Manny act out scenes from Barbara Cartland novels.") But no. Thankfully he knows he has a job to do, which is to make sure my skills stay sharply honed while under duress.
First comes the shaking and screaming and crying. Cause he has to pretend, of course, that he's never had this done before. Like Marines going through the obstacle course with machine gun fire over their heads, he makes sure I have a high-pitched shriek going into each ear to disorient me and drive my blood pressure up so that blood squirts out of my hair. Sweet!
Then comes the rolling from side to side. This is usually when I have one tab of the diaper off, so as to make getting the second one off as difficult as possible. He'll roll as quickly as possible to one side, seeming as if he wants to jump off the changing table. "I can't live like this, I'm breaking out!!!" Of course he doesn't actually wanna jump off the table, but my having to react fast will only help me in any qualifying contests. So now I gotta grab him and get him on his back again. But before his back touches the table, now I hafta make sure that no shit went flying out and is lying there, waiting to be made into a pancake by his back; therein me missing it and spending the next 3 hours repeating "did you shit again? jesus...did you shit?" constantly checking every 45 seconds and of course I see nothing in his diaper, and miss the lurking shit on his back. The veritable sock against the side of the dryer, if you will.
So now I got the bad diaper off and gotta get the fresh one on. Basically a repeat of the above, except that during the rolling flip now he desperately tries to hide one of the diaper tabs so I have to dicker around for it. All, of course, while having my ears pinned back by his shrieking.
Luckily (again) for me he's added a new move to his repertoire so as to not let me get too cocky. Since he's gotten longer, he can actually reach me with his legs while lying down ont his particular table. So usually once the fresh diaper is on and I start to put his pants or onesie back on, he'll straighten out his legs and heel-kick me in the stomach. And he's long enough now that if he catches me off-guard, it actually pushes my arms back and I may drop whatever I have, such as the last snap in a 9-snap outfit, therein pulling all the other snaps out and making me start over again. Joy! Or, sometimes, the tab on a diaper. Once I pass this last bit, my test is over. The second he's all snapped up and I start to pick him up from the table, miraculously the crying stops, his face is dry and once again his face goes from "ohmygod Godzilla is outside the house!!!" to "pork belly futures, down an 1/8th I see, hmmm...."
So I'd like to take a second to thank the boy for never taking it easy on me. It's like he always says, "To reach one's summit in the arch of triumph, you really smell like a bag of dicks today!" Sigh.
"Hahahahaa!! Kicking your stomach?!! I'm trying to get to your nuts, you fat fuck!!!"
First comes the shaking and screaming and crying. Cause he has to pretend, of course, that he's never had this done before. Like Marines going through the obstacle course with machine gun fire over their heads, he makes sure I have a high-pitched shriek going into each ear to disorient me and drive my blood pressure up so that blood squirts out of my hair. Sweet!
Then comes the rolling from side to side. This is usually when I have one tab of the diaper off, so as to make getting the second one off as difficult as possible. He'll roll as quickly as possible to one side, seeming as if he wants to jump off the changing table. "I can't live like this, I'm breaking out!!!" Of course he doesn't actually wanna jump off the table, but my having to react fast will only help me in any qualifying contests. So now I gotta grab him and get him on his back again. But before his back touches the table, now I hafta make sure that no shit went flying out and is lying there, waiting to be made into a pancake by his back; therein me missing it and spending the next 3 hours repeating "did you shit again? jesus...did you shit?" constantly checking every 45 seconds and of course I see nothing in his diaper, and miss the lurking shit on his back. The veritable sock against the side of the dryer, if you will.
So now I got the bad diaper off and gotta get the fresh one on. Basically a repeat of the above, except that during the rolling flip now he desperately tries to hide one of the diaper tabs so I have to dicker around for it. All, of course, while having my ears pinned back by his shrieking.
Luckily (again) for me he's added a new move to his repertoire so as to not let me get too cocky. Since he's gotten longer, he can actually reach me with his legs while lying down ont his particular table. So usually once the fresh diaper is on and I start to put his pants or onesie back on, he'll straighten out his legs and heel-kick me in the stomach. And he's long enough now that if he catches me off-guard, it actually pushes my arms back and I may drop whatever I have, such as the last snap in a 9-snap outfit, therein pulling all the other snaps out and making me start over again. Joy! Or, sometimes, the tab on a diaper. Once I pass this last bit, my test is over. The second he's all snapped up and I start to pick him up from the table, miraculously the crying stops, his face is dry and once again his face goes from "ohmygod Godzilla is outside the house!!!" to "pork belly futures, down an 1/8th I see, hmmm...."
So I'd like to take a second to thank the boy for never taking it easy on me. It's like he always says, "To reach one's summit in the arch of triumph, you really smell like a bag of dicks today!" Sigh.
"Hahahahaa!! Kicking your stomach?!! I'm trying to get to your nuts, you fat fuck!!!"
All My Loving (Has Cost Me Every Penny I've Ever Made)
I'm really, REALLY starting to fucking bristle at this shit now. Give me a fucking break. You got $50M. Plus some $70k/year as well as all school and nanny costs taken care of. And you obviously get a 50% break on shoes, unlike most women. I'm sorry, but you were married for 5 years. Just cause you didn't like the way Macca kept leaving the lid up on the bowl doesn't entitle you to a clip of every penny he ever earned in his lifetime. Give it a fucking rest; it's not like you were darning socks and blocking hats 24 hours/day while he was going to Rockstar School. The "I don't like him any more so I gonna make him pay with every cent he's ever eyeballed" sense of entitlement has got to change. And I suggest we start with this case, which is becoming beyond absurd. I'm sorry your marriage didn't work out, but it doesn't mean your divorce has to be so obscenely out of scale. For fuck's sake. Enough.
As Garfield Said, Diet is "Die" with a "T." Sigh.
My diet update here. A hint: not going well. Christ. At least my Foot Locker post will be up in a day or so, that'll cheer me up! :)
Life Lessons
Flipping around I landed on some local news channel, where the anchorwoman brings up a new story of a woman arrested for endangering the lives of her children. Apparently the fuzz showed up and the house was falling apart, and their was filth and human shit everywhere. Then her anchor partner jumps in with "and to make things worse, the lady was drunk."
Really? How does this makes things "worse"? Seems like it'd be a relief, no? "Oh well, of course the place was a wreck, Lucy was fucking shitfaced!" Wouldn't it be worse if that's how "Lucy" was when she was sober? Wtf? How many times you think someone's been telling a story and somone breaks in "hold up, Xmas did WHAT??!!.....ooooh, he was wasted. Oh, okay, keep going." No problem, right? There's no "Xmas brought a fat girl home and pissed on her cat" sober stories, are there? No. And wouldn't it bother you if there was? I mean, camon. We're living in a SOCIETY, people!!!!
Really? How does this makes things "worse"? Seems like it'd be a relief, no? "Oh well, of course the place was a wreck, Lucy was fucking shitfaced!" Wouldn't it be worse if that's how "Lucy" was when she was sober? Wtf? How many times you think someone's been telling a story and somone breaks in "hold up, Xmas did WHAT??!!.....ooooh, he was wasted. Oh, okay, keep going." No problem, right? There's no "Xmas brought a fat girl home and pissed on her cat" sober stories, are there? No. And wouldn't it bother you if there was? I mean, camon. We're living in a SOCIETY, people!!!!
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
David C. Part 2
Just got back. I missed David's song cause I just fucking stopped up the crapper and had to plunge. Knowing what I know from his past performances, I'm pretty much guessing I got the better end of that deal.
Kristy Lee
God Bless the USA???!? Refuse to comment. Like my prom date after a minute of my love-making: abstain.
David A.
Hate him. Some consolation tho: girlfriend is fat. What the fuck song is this? Hmm. Fret not, Davey. Based on what I'm watching right now, you won't miss the prom. Start sizing fatso for a carnation!
Carly
How did her mother have NO names to choose from on the way to the hospital in labor? Lemme guess how we got Carly into this world: mama didn't think to check pops for a hoodie in the back of that el camino, eh? Bonnie Tyler. Good choice. Like Paula audtioning for the part of a batshit musical judge inexplicably wearing driving gloves, she should totally nail it.
Michael
Wow, someone born in the 70s. Seriously they need to cut this background shit. This show should be like sex - 14 minutes long, no breaks, and less judgement (bitch.) Oh boy. We Will Rock You. Are we late night at a Captain D's? Ugh.
Brooke
OOOOH. Like the straight hair. ooooh..fucked up the start!!! Watching a meltdown. Jesus - her hands look 100 years old. More wrinkled than my nutbag after...well, anytime actually. Terrible, Brooke.
PS - like the ruffled shirt. would like to iron it with my face.
PS - like the ruffled shirt. would like to iron it with my face.
Chikezie Part 2
Amazingly, I think Chikezie sounds better singing white songs than black ones. Shouldn't he get a glass eye and move to Vegas?
Chikezie
What the fuck is this song? Is his suit supposed to have cum stains on it? The Lewinsky Collection, I presume?
Syesha
Hmm. Gee. Slow "soulful" ballad. Shocker. And her hair aint helping - looks like Buckwheat after someone laid their dick on his head. Ugh.
Jason
Ooohh, goody. A Sting song. Dreads, acoustic guitar and Sting. Hmm. Where will you and Ryan Seacrest be registering?
Ramielle
How is she still fucking here??? Seriously, how many fucking Hawaiians are out there voting? Oh wait...Obama behind this too? Shit, he can control American Idol but he "can't find" Nathalie Holloway??! Wtf? Racist! Racist!!!
One for Wally World
For all the shit Wal-Mart gets, I think this is a pretty cool thing.
Doesn't make that documentary floating round on tv any les creepy, tho (those convention scenes are s c a r y.)
Hey, maybe if GodIHateYourBand could get off his fat ass he'd have beaten me to this one? Hmm.
Doesn't make that documentary floating round on tv any les creepy, tho (those convention scenes are s c a r y.)
Hey, maybe if GodIHateYourBand could get off his fat ass he'd have beaten me to this one? Hmm.
Exasperated, Part 723
Since you prolly glanced at the photo in the post right below this one and thought "hey, McCain's an Indians fan?" I must say, if I hear one more mf on tv say re: McCain jabbering about Iraq "hey, at least he's talking about it!" I might burst a penile blood vessle. Hey, great, he's talking about it...but he's on the wrong side, dumbass! Why not OJ running on spousal abuse? "Hey, at least he's talking about it!!" Wouldn't this be like a pig running for President of the Sty on a Pork Chop platform? grrrrrrrrrr...
"Mf on tv say re:" my first Latin-looking rap. Beware the Ides of Xmas.
"Mf on tv say re:" my first Latin-looking rap. Beware the Ides of Xmas.
Sign THIS, Mofo
I just glanced at the Yankees game on tv and they were showing Hall of Fame, All-time Indian legend Bob Feller outside the stadium signing autographs. Now, I don't know if Bob gets money for this. And even if he's doing it for money cause he has to, I ain't crying for him - he got to play ball for a living, he's a living legend and even in worst-case scenario of signing balls cause he has to, there's worse ways to make some money (tho I doubt it's cause he needs rent money.) But. for fucks sake. If I'm Bob Feller, do I hafta wear the fucking uniform? What am I, Bozo the fucking Clown? I'm Bob fucking Feller!!!
What's The Word For...
...the sound my head makes when it explodes due to trying to get on the train, watching people streaming through the other three doors and getting all the seats while I'm behind someone just coming out of the fucking womb, slooooooowly stepping forward and taking their time to look at every inch of the world in front of them, to the left of them and up and down and all around themselves so that when I finally get inside the car there is nary a seat left? aaaaarrrgggghhhh!!!!
Frustration: A Timeline
About two months ago I was watching some news channel and a quick blurb popped up of Bush excitedly telling us about a movement of troops in the middle east he was ordering. Looking at his lips moving, I remember thinking he was like a 7th grader giving a speech at the high school. "Look at me! I'm important! Look at me!!" The country being in the middle of a debate of change via the Democratic race, I remember mentally patting Bush on the head "awww, that's cute, go play with your toy soldiers, little man." I mean, does anybody remember when Bush even mattered? Who cares?
Then a coupla weeks ago I jokingly said that with the Obama/Hillary war going on, McCain should just disappear, let them chew each other up, giving him his only chance. Who could possibly conceive of a Republican winnning the presidency after the last 8 years, no matter who was running, right?
Now he has gone away, wisely going to Iraq to "visit the troops." And Obama and Hillary are lobbing headlines at each other day after day; it has become a soap opera for anyone with eyes and ears. 24/7 on the news channels, everyone poised for the next "gotcha!!!" moment.
Now I'm seeing these polls that, depending on which poll you're looking at, has McCain either up by 2 or 3 points or down by the same. How is this possible, I'm thinking. I had thought of McCain as placeholder for the GOP in this election, just like when they threw Bob Dole away in 1996. Regroup for the next one, cause they ain't winning this one. But now it looks like McCain is about one "Obama shot JR!!!" headline away from actually maybe winning. Unreal.
Then yesterday I was on the train with a copy of Rolling Stone (ugh) reading Matt Tiabbi's thoughts on Obama and Hillary's chances and he said something that struck me as very interesting and, worse, possible. To paraphrase (search online for 20 minutes, grrrr) the upshoot is that by the time the election finally comes around, the Democrats will have been the sole headlines for so long that people will forget about the Republicans and the fact that it was that ol' gang that fucked everything up in the first place, and will associate the shit we're in with the Democrats and will vote thusly. Isn't that amazing.
Then a coupla weeks ago I jokingly said that with the Obama/Hillary war going on, McCain should just disappear, let them chew each other up, giving him his only chance. Who could possibly conceive of a Republican winnning the presidency after the last 8 years, no matter who was running, right?
Now he has gone away, wisely going to Iraq to "visit the troops." And Obama and Hillary are lobbing headlines at each other day after day; it has become a soap opera for anyone with eyes and ears. 24/7 on the news channels, everyone poised for the next "gotcha!!!" moment.
Now I'm seeing these polls that, depending on which poll you're looking at, has McCain either up by 2 or 3 points or down by the same. How is this possible, I'm thinking. I had thought of McCain as placeholder for the GOP in this election, just like when they threw Bob Dole away in 1996. Regroup for the next one, cause they ain't winning this one. But now it looks like McCain is about one "Obama shot JR!!!" headline away from actually maybe winning. Unreal.
Then yesterday I was on the train with a copy of Rolling Stone (ugh) reading Matt Tiabbi's thoughts on Obama and Hillary's chances and he said something that struck me as very interesting and, worse, possible. To paraphrase (search online for 20 minutes, grrrr) the upshoot is that by the time the election finally comes around, the Democrats will have been the sole headlines for so long that people will forget about the Republicans and the fact that it was that ol' gang that fucked everything up in the first place, and will associate the shit we're in with the Democrats and will vote thusly. Isn't that amazing.
Dude. Enough!!
Can this motherfucker stop apologizing for everything under the sun? For fuck's sake, shut the fuck up! We get it, you're not Jesus, you're not perfect. Wonderful. Number one, nobody cares about you. Nobody. Spitzer was actually elected and except for some folks on Wall Street nobody fucking noticed him for two years. Nobody cares. And number two, while Americans are idiot barking seals when it comes to applauding apologies, we don't need you to apologize for EVERYthing. Jesus Christ. We got a blind guy who's gonna start apologizing for popping JFK from the school book depository the next seocnd a camera points in his direction. Does this guy actually work, or does he just fucking apologize all day long? The Larry David of governors. Oh wait, special report breaking in...oh goody, guess what Paterson is solemnly apologizing for NOW:
"I...I made a mistake. I'm so sorry."
"I...I made a mistake. I'm so sorry."
Monday, March 24, 2008
The Hills Season Premiere
Am I high, or is Heidi all of a sudden hot as balls? I mean, I always hated her as much as the next gal, and I don't know/care what work she's had done, but gotdam...first Whitney, then Audrina, and now Heidi has bypassed LC? LC has gone from the "hot star of her own show" to the "girl Xmastime would only do if he has mittens sewn on to his hands." Wtf. The only comparison I could even imagine is before filming Sex and the City the producers telling Cynthia Nixon "oh yeah baby, this is your show, you'll be the hot one! Oooh yeah, looking good baby!!" Christ. LC....don't bother calling (you got Heidi's digits?)
Cable. Whack Shit, No?
One of the trippy things about tv nowadays is how regularly things repeat throughout the course of the day/night. Each of the last two days I've left my loft in the middle of a show, only to come back hours later, turn the tv on and...we've picked right back up with the show I left on 8 hours earlier, virtually at the same scene. Wtf? This is never not creepy...what the fuck, I'll think. Did I just THINK I left, but I never actually did? Did I go into some time warp while I was out? Then of course I'll sniff my elbow and smirk OOOOOOOOHHHHH yeah, I was out. But still. fucking weird.
John Adams
Must say, I'm pleasantly surprised HBO hasn't gone overboard with the whole "the woman is the real brains behind the man" genre with the John Adams miniseries. I mean, the way men and women are generally portrayed on tv, weren't you expected her to be promting Adams at every turn? "Have a good day in Congress honey! and don't forget to oppose the Stamp act - remember, popular resistance has been sparked sparked by Jonathan Mayhew, interpreting Romans 13 so as to elucidate the principle of just insurrection! Oooh, and don't be giving all your brownies away to the fellas!" Kiss on the cheek, he mumbles something, pretending to know what she's talking about. Bumbles around like an oaf, saved only by her master puppeteering. Maybe a note in his satchel that he opens when he gets to Philly: "I love you and miss you so much John...although I would miss my independence even more should it be denied...you should maybe get that in writing, dear? Love, Abby PS - Little Johnny says hi! Oh yes honey, and maybe asking young Mr. Jefferson to write the first draft of the declaration would not be a waste of your time? Snuggles!" For once tv has the perfect vehicle for this line of writing, and SO FAR has been fairly restrained (in my eyes.) We'll see.
Move Over Europeans, Here I Come
I'm seriously thinking about considering thinking about considering moving to Europe. Why the fuck not? What version of the American Dream am I clinging to here? How much longer do I have to be a cheerleader for a team I'm losing more and more faith in?
Fact is, here I'm just another dumb schlub. It's impossible to get more plain and normal than me; it's impossible to swing a dead rat around without hitting 10 dudes that are exactly like me, but better. Better looking, more successful, etc etc. So that buries me even deeper. Though if you're swinging around dead rats you're prolly in my apartment in the first place hiyoooooo!!!! But maybe in Europe I'd have something new to offer. I'd be a big ol country boy coming to town, to some people I'd be, dare I say, exotic, no? I'd be interesting, compelling to them. Hell, young people are flocking to Ireland. And apparently the women of Sweden got together to put a full-page ad in the newspaper asking where have all the real men gone. I am nothing if not a raw, blank canvas of real man, n'est pas?
I am a mere sperm in the money-shot of American failure; maybe a re-start somewhere else is what the doctor ordered. Maybe somewhere else I can be somebody. For remember: les nuits, tous les chats sont gris.
Fact is, here I'm just another dumb schlub. It's impossible to get more plain and normal than me; it's impossible to swing a dead rat around without hitting 10 dudes that are exactly like me, but better. Better looking, more successful, etc etc. So that buries me even deeper. Though if you're swinging around dead rats you're prolly in my apartment in the first place hiyoooooo!!!! But maybe in Europe I'd have something new to offer. I'd be a big ol country boy coming to town, to some people I'd be, dare I say, exotic, no? I'd be interesting, compelling to them. Hell, young people are flocking to Ireland. And apparently the women of Sweden got together to put a full-page ad in the newspaper asking where have all the real men gone. I am nothing if not a raw, blank canvas of real man, n'est pas?
I am a mere sperm in the money-shot of American failure; maybe a re-start somewhere else is what the doctor ordered. Maybe somewhere else I can be somebody. For remember: les nuits, tous les chats sont gris.
Open Letter the Whoever Runs This Kinda Thing:
There should be a tv channel dedicated to old dudes sitting round talking about their sports memories. Can be in groups or solo. Can be a guy talking about the Yankees, or some dudes talking about a high school team from the 40's in Duckyduck, Idaho. The older the better, just telling story after story. Sign me up!!!
PJ O"Rourke
Ever since inexplicably picking up a PJ O'Rourke book in 1991, I've always had a mild fascination with him and vaguely wished I was him. Not that I agree with most or anything he ever says (although I do like his recent Adam Smith stuff), but I feel I would enjoy his lifestyle. Flop around in a tie and jacket from tv show to tv show, writing books and articles about whatever he wants. He can be smart if he wants, he can be funny when he wants, he agrees and disagrees with everybody. A blueblood who would still be fascinating to find yourself sitting next to at the Turkey's Nest.
I'm Getting Old, Chapter XXI
For the first time ever, I am looking forward to warm weather. This winter sucked anyway, pretty much no snow. It's been JUUUUUST cold enough to be a pain in the ass without any "exciting" weather. Just cold enough to be detrimental to wanting to go outside and get sopme exercise. Mostly, it's a pain in the ass taking care of the boy when it's so cold. When it's warm, you can just throw the kid in his stroller and walk anywhere, do anything. Even if you have no plans, you can always go to a park and play. When it's cold, there's no point in subjecting him to the weather at all unless you have actual plans. Then you hafta bundle him up - onesie, shirt, sweatshirt, bundle-me, shoes, jacket, cap. Then you can't walk anywhere, you gotta take the train. Which is a pain in the ass. Then once you get where you're going you gotta un-bundle him, and then re-bundle when you're taking off from there. And on and on and on.
So. For ONCE, I wish it was warm. Christ, I'm fucking getting old.
So. For ONCE, I wish it was warm. Christ, I'm fucking getting old.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Joe Strummer
French's parking lot came down like waves that summer; the asphalt was crushing. But it was the summer of 1987 and I first heard this song, which I will go to my grave for:
The Greatest Game I Ever Played In (March Madness Edition)
I don’t know if anything before or since has ever been as exciting as those days back in high school when my friends and I would get the keys to the gym and gun the rock for hours and hours. During Christmas break, or on a snow day (funny – school would be canceled, but we would somehow make it to the school to play ball. hmmm. A mystery), my brother would make the call to our athletic director and I would hover around, waiting for my brother’s nod while on the phone for the go-ahead. I would hyperventilate throughout the ensuing phone calls to our friends telling us to meet there in half an hour. It was like opening up our own private Disneyland: flip the switch and hear the hum of the lights starting up, slowly turning brighter by the minute. Didn’t matter, we’d start shooting while it was still dark. After about 5 minutes the gym was fully lit and it was all ours. Not gym class, not practice, not a game where it belonged not even to us but the whole town. OURS. We’d spend the first 20 minutes sprinting around like retarded colts, laughing and shooting and fucking with each other. Kinda like any class we had in high school, now that I think about it. I guess the scientific word for this is “frolicking”, although there was no meadow involved. Eventually we’d beak up into 3 on 3 (half court) or 4 on 4 (full court.) This being the mid-80’s we were all in love with Bird, so the goal was to drain a 20-footer and then make an amazing no-look pass (usually off someone’s head.)
I was a gunner. A shooter; if I get the ball and you’re on my team, get your ass back on defense cause you ain’t getting the ball back (unless of course I saw an opening for an “oooooooooh!” Bird-esque pass.) My disinterest in playing defense was such that even in three on three I’d somehow insist on playing zone. If forced to play man, I’d teach my teammates a lesson in the first few minutes by letting my man blow by me for an easy layup, during which I’d yell at a teammate “switch!” and collapse on the ground in laughter. And hell, thinking of the group we’d play with during these games, I was definitely in the top 2 or 3 athletic-wise, I certainly could’ve dominated on defense. But why waste my energy on defense???!!
Anyway. Our games would become fierce, four-hour marathons that got quieter by the hour as we got more serious and checks from trash-talking got cashed. I remember one time I was on fire, hitting everything I threw up and laughing, talking shit, and my brother decided he was gonna dedicate the whole game to not only shutting me down, but seeing to it that I literally didn’t touch the ball the whole game. Which I laughed at, of course. But after about three minutes, I wasn’t laughing anymore. He wasn’t on me like white on rice, he was on me like white on rice glued on by ugly on your mama. Or sumpin like that. Now, as I said, I was a shooter, a gunner, I needed the ball. I ran and ran and ran to get open, but my brother would not allow it. After 5 minutes I tried begging, after 10 minutes I tried cheating, after 15 minutes I tried violence. By 20 minutes I was trying cash. For naught. Miserable!!!!
I also remember one time my brother had attempted a court-long pass that got away and hit one of the big lights hanging from the ceiling. I can still see it slooooooooooooowly descending to the floor like Apollo 13 into the ocean before it broke into a thousand pieces. We were like oh shit, Mr. Jones was gonna KILL us and we’d never get to have the keys to the gym again. Jones was known to generations of students at the school for pretty much having the worst temper in the world; his blowups in Sociology class were the stuff of legend, so you can imagine how much he’d lose his shit over something like this. So we go to his house to give him the gym key and we tell him oh by the way we broke a light. We brace ourselves for about 50 minutes of screaming, but after a minute we look up and his face had turned ashen. Finally he speaks “well, thank god you guys got outta there right afterwards. Those things are loaded to the gills with mercury. Whew.” Of course we didn’t tell him we broke it about 3 minutes upon walking into the gym and had played on for about 5 hours. Mercury, eh?…so THAT’S why I made out with that guy at Macadoos in ’94!! Shew! Thank god. Makes sense now. Fucking mercury, DAMN you!!!!
My brother and I were never really allowed to be on the same team, both because we hated each other’s guts at any moment and were by far the two best players there. Certainly the only two who played on the high school team. But we had a blast playing with everyoine, running free up and down for hours, hitting “big” shots, making “incredible” passes, yada yada. I miss it.
One day (it was during Christmas break of ’86-87, I distinctly remember being a freshman) while playing there was a BANG BANG BANG! on the door…which had never happened before. Our game was halted and somebody went to the door to open it for what must’ve been a wayward janitor and in walked five black guys. Who proceeded to rob us at gunpoint. HIYYYYYOOOOOOOOOO! I’m kidding. Obviously, it was five wayward janitors BOOOYAH!!! YESSSSSSSS!!!!!!! No, it was five guys from the basketball team that had somehow found out we were in the gym. Of course, one might ask why my friends and I were given the keys to the gym and not the guys from the basketball team, but these aren’t things that I in particular thought of 20 years ago at the age of 14. Though it is a reason I will be fairly shocked if Obama wins. These were not, however, just 5 guys – they were, what do you know, the varsity team's starting five; including 3 who would be all-district - one of whom would be recruited by Virginia Union a year later. Of course this being the size school it was, everybody knew each other; my brother being on the team and me being on the junior varsity at the time meant we were a lot closer to the black guys than the other guys in the gym were. But still, nobody was a stranger to nobody. After high-fives/goofing around, it was decided we’d play best outta three games, black v. white. This was a time and place you could do such things without it showing up on YouTube and being labeled a racist forever. Again, we were all friends to one degree or another anyways, it seemed the natural and somehow funny thing to do at the time. So let me give you the rosters of each team:
THE WHITE GUYS:
Brothatime! 10th grade. Backup guard on varsity; would start the next year at the point for district championship team (tho would finish career captaining senior squad to 0-21 year.)
Xmastime: 9th grade. Scrawny, less than 160lbs. Tall, could board, worshipped Jeff Lamp and, as stated, could shoot the lights out (or go stone cold.)
Brian: 10th grade. math-lete. Short pudgy and slow, but would drive you crazy playing a game of H-O-R-S-E cause he’d beat you somehow using geometry and hitting inane half-court shots. But in a game of one-on-one against Sistatime!, I’d bet the farm on her every time and twice on Sunday. Brian was name-dropped on Xmastime before, and to get an idea of what a basketball player he was, here's what I wrote about him:
Travis: 10th grade. Great athlete, really good football/baseball player. But no, NONE, ZERO sense of basketball. A good bruiser to have under the boards. Tho once he got a rebound you’d hafta go take the ball from him.
Duane: 10th grade. A complete ramshackle mess of bones. Could not catch the ball with a tuna net. Again, tuff under the boards, knew his role was to throw elbows. But if you threw the ball to him he’d somehow look like Bill the Cat getting a Louisville Slugger to the gut; it would sound like the ball hit a pile of broomsticks and come rolling back to you (if you were lucky.)
THE BLACK GUYS:
Alfred: 11th grade. starting varsity shooting guard, would be the Region A Player of the Year the next season, averaging 25/game and getting an offer to play at Virginia Union. Could dunk in traffic, beyond unstoppable.
Timmy: 12th grade. starting varsity point guard. Wasn’t a scorer, but a real leader. Consummate point guard.
William: 11th grade. 2-time All-District center. Was about 6’6” with arms that reached up to about 17 feet. Coulda scored 40/game but had broken a leg as a kid and it never healed right so he was always slow. Unstoppable once he got the ball down low.
Keith: 11th grade. 2-year starter. Silky smooth small forward. Would disappear for a spell, then throw down a bone-rattling dunk before draining a three in your face.
Marvin: 12th grade. Runner-up for District Player of the Year that season. Must’ve set the record for dunks in a game that year. Tho I can still close my eyes and watch a few years before when he had shot the ball into the wrong basket for the other team. Christ. Not the brightest light in the tree, but could play like a mf.
So obviously we were, as they say, up against it. We pretty much knew we were gonna get CRUSHED, but what the fuck, it was more exciting than playing against each other. Games are to 15, gotta win by two, 2 games outta 3 wins. So the first game starts and everyone’s kinda clowning around, but before the black guys have really started paying attention I’ve caught RIDICULOUS fire and we’re up about 10-1 and go on to win the first game. An upset, to say the least. Well now the black guys are pissed and get serious the next game and fucking bury us; I mean it must’ve been like 15-1. It was definitely a “hope you enjoyed the first game motherfuckers, cause this is how it’s gonna be from now on” showcase.
So we start the third and deciding game, and you could hear a fucking pin drop in that gym. Nothing but Cons squeaking and sweat hitting the floor; the shit was serious. Every dribble was important, every pass was important, you’d let your heart explode if it meant tipping the ball away on defense to a teammate. There was no more laughing, no more yucks, just fucking ball. We clawed and clawed but after a while we were down 13-6. Two more points they win, we’re done. Surprise. I was busy cursing myself for not having done shit since my run during the first game, when it happened again: I caught fire. Left corner, right corner, top of the key, wherever; I drained everything. From the hip, from the shoulder, with one, two three hands in my face I knew every thing I launched was good as it kissed the fingertip of my middle finger goodbye. 13-7. 13-8. 13-9. 14-9. 14-10. Here we come, here we come. 14-11. At this point my brother, whose normal job was to shut me down on the court or to spend the ride home reminding me how awful a basketball player I was, gave the order: get the fucking ball to Xmastime. Top of the key, Alfred flying by me, 14-12. Outlet to me, pullup from the side, 14-13. So deep in the corner I end up falling on the bleachers, 14-14. This is the most pressure any of us had ever felt anywhere at that age, much less on the basketball court. You had one team made up not only of varsity starters, but black and facing the humiliation of losing not only to a team that wasn’t even made up of basketball players, but a bunch of white guys for fuck’s sake. Then you had a team of white guys that had fought too hard up to that point, who could smell the possibility of a greater upset than any of them had ever been a part of, a team playing with house money that had found themselves in the surprising position of not only pulling this off, but being upset if they didn't.
Fake jumper with a rocker step around Keith, I lay it in, now we’re up 15-14 - shut them down this one possession and score and we win. Soaked shirts dyed onto our skin, eyes bugging and shouting orders to each other. Alfred bring the ball up, slowing things down with a “you gotta be shitting me fellas, let’s end this” look to his team. I’m walking backwards at half-court, Brian trots by me to pick up Alfred. Now I hafta be honest: even at this point, there’s no way I thought we’d win. No way, no how, not gonna happen. They’ve dicked around long enough, they’re not gonna actually let themselves lose. Not today, not to us. We had a nice run, see you at the Dairy Queen.
And yet. That which made us weak (players that couldn’t actually ball) came into play at just the right moment. Alfred was bringing up the ball and looking ahead to everybody, seeing where guys were setting up a whole half-court in front of him. I don’t remember why I was just kinda standing there at half-court; I should’ve been back on defense but I was kinda moseying. I looked at Alfred and I looked at Brian, I looked at Brian and I looked at Alfred. And I saw that Alfred, who played against the best players in the whole region every week, knew that Brian was “on him” and didn’t really pay much attention to him. Hell, I wouldn’t have either. Meanwhile Brian was going after him, eyes locked on the ball while Alfred kinda mentally dismissed him. But for some reason I broke for Alfred, and as Alfred was looking down the court past Brian and ahead to what would surely be the game-tying basket, Brian somehow got a hand on the ball and flicked it away. Right into my waiting hands.
I don’t remember a lot of things I should. If I met you tonight, I prolly won’t remember your name. I don’t remember things people say, or things I’m supposed to do. But I remember every step I took once I got that ball. I remember, head down, dribbling past the half-court line. I remember seeing the metal plate thing that the volleyball poles go into. Top of the key I can see the shoe polish, free throw line all purple and dusty; I can see it. But more important than that - I can still hear Alfred breathing down my neck. Chasing me. Right behind me, closing in with every step and all I can think of is all the times I’ve seen him pin someone’s shit on the rack, players much greater than myself. I go in for the layup, stick my ass out a bit for a prayer of hope of blocking him out a bit, and let go. Closing my eyes and waiting for the *smack* sound of Alfred slapping the ball against the wall 10 feet away. Don’t worry, I remember thinking in slow-time, we get the ball back, maybe I can get off another jumper to win it.
But the sound didn’t come. I laid the ball up, Alfred came crashing down upon me and we both collapsed on each other underneath the basket, limbs and sweat as one. I looked up. There the ball was, slowly caressing itself down the net like an orange in a Christmas stocking. We had won. We had fucking won.
Both our hearts about to explode with exhaustion, Alfred and I lay there saying nothing. Finally he turned and looked at me. “Best 3 outta 5?” We both laughed as we helped each other up; we both knew that they’d win 100 out of the next 100. After that it was high fives/man-hugs all around. As furious as we all were to win during the game, the black guys in some weird way weren’t angry they had lost; I remember how bemused they were by the whole thing. Kinda shaking their shoulders like “ah well.” I wouldn’t say they were happy for us, but whenever I see the Russian team watching the Americans celebrate after their Olympic upset in 1980 I think of this game. The greatest game I ever played in.
I was a gunner. A shooter; if I get the ball and you’re on my team, get your ass back on defense cause you ain’t getting the ball back (unless of course I saw an opening for an “oooooooooh!” Bird-esque pass.) My disinterest in playing defense was such that even in three on three I’d somehow insist on playing zone. If forced to play man, I’d teach my teammates a lesson in the first few minutes by letting my man blow by me for an easy layup, during which I’d yell at a teammate “switch!” and collapse on the ground in laughter. And hell, thinking of the group we’d play with during these games, I was definitely in the top 2 or 3 athletic-wise, I certainly could’ve dominated on defense. But why waste my energy on defense???!!
Anyway. Our games would become fierce, four-hour marathons that got quieter by the hour as we got more serious and checks from trash-talking got cashed. I remember one time I was on fire, hitting everything I threw up and laughing, talking shit, and my brother decided he was gonna dedicate the whole game to not only shutting me down, but seeing to it that I literally didn’t touch the ball the whole game. Which I laughed at, of course. But after about three minutes, I wasn’t laughing anymore. He wasn’t on me like white on rice, he was on me like white on rice glued on by ugly on your mama. Or sumpin like that. Now, as I said, I was a shooter, a gunner, I needed the ball. I ran and ran and ran to get open, but my brother would not allow it. After 5 minutes I tried begging, after 10 minutes I tried cheating, after 15 minutes I tried violence. By 20 minutes I was trying cash. For naught. Miserable!!!!
I also remember one time my brother had attempted a court-long pass that got away and hit one of the big lights hanging from the ceiling. I can still see it slooooooooooooowly descending to the floor like Apollo 13 into the ocean before it broke into a thousand pieces. We were like oh shit, Mr. Jones was gonna KILL us and we’d never get to have the keys to the gym again. Jones was known to generations of students at the school for pretty much having the worst temper in the world; his blowups in Sociology class were the stuff of legend, so you can imagine how much he’d lose his shit over something like this. So we go to his house to give him the gym key and we tell him oh by the way we broke a light. We brace ourselves for about 50 minutes of screaming, but after a minute we look up and his face had turned ashen. Finally he speaks “well, thank god you guys got outta there right afterwards. Those things are loaded to the gills with mercury. Whew.” Of course we didn’t tell him we broke it about 3 minutes upon walking into the gym and had played on for about 5 hours. Mercury, eh?…so THAT’S why I made out with that guy at Macadoos in ’94!! Shew! Thank god. Makes sense now. Fucking mercury, DAMN you!!!!
My brother and I were never really allowed to be on the same team, both because we hated each other’s guts at any moment and were by far the two best players there. Certainly the only two who played on the high school team. But we had a blast playing with everyoine, running free up and down for hours, hitting “big” shots, making “incredible” passes, yada yada. I miss it.
One day (it was during Christmas break of ’86-87, I distinctly remember being a freshman) while playing there was a BANG BANG BANG! on the door…which had never happened before. Our game was halted and somebody went to the door to open it for what must’ve been a wayward janitor and in walked five black guys. Who proceeded to rob us at gunpoint. HIYYYYYOOOOOOOOOO! I’m kidding. Obviously, it was five wayward janitors BOOOYAH!!! YESSSSSSSS!!!!!!! No, it was five guys from the basketball team that had somehow found out we were in the gym. Of course, one might ask why my friends and I were given the keys to the gym and not the guys from the basketball team, but these aren’t things that I in particular thought of 20 years ago at the age of 14. Though it is a reason I will be fairly shocked if Obama wins. These were not, however, just 5 guys – they were, what do you know, the varsity team's starting five; including 3 who would be all-district - one of whom would be recruited by Virginia Union a year later. Of course this being the size school it was, everybody knew each other; my brother being on the team and me being on the junior varsity at the time meant we were a lot closer to the black guys than the other guys in the gym were. But still, nobody was a stranger to nobody. After high-fives/goofing around, it was decided we’d play best outta three games, black v. white. This was a time and place you could do such things without it showing up on YouTube and being labeled a racist forever. Again, we were all friends to one degree or another anyways, it seemed the natural and somehow funny thing to do at the time. So let me give you the rosters of each team:
THE WHITE GUYS:
Brothatime! 10th grade. Backup guard on varsity; would start the next year at the point for district championship team (tho would finish career captaining senior squad to 0-21 year.)
Xmastime: 9th grade. Scrawny, less than 160lbs. Tall, could board, worshipped Jeff Lamp and, as stated, could shoot the lights out (or go stone cold.)
Brian: 10th grade. math-lete. Short pudgy and slow, but would drive you crazy playing a game of H-O-R-S-E cause he’d beat you somehow using geometry and hitting inane half-court shots. But in a game of one-on-one against Sistatime!, I’d bet the farm on her every time and twice on Sunday. Brian was name-dropped on Xmastime before, and to get an idea of what a basketball player he was, here's what I wrote about him:
We had a guy in our trig class Brian, who was a math whiz. Every time there was a test or a quiz Brian would be the first to turn his in, and we’d all take a break and watch Coach grading Brian’s paper at his desk. He’d get out his answer key and start checking Brian’s answers. You could see him going down the page with each problem: number one, check, number two, check, number three…now his head would go from Brian’s paper to his answer key, then back to Brian’s paper, then he’d take his eraser out, change the answer he had in his answer key to whatever answer Brian had, and move on. Unreal.Pretty intimidating, right?
Travis: 10th grade. Great athlete, really good football/baseball player. But no, NONE, ZERO sense of basketball. A good bruiser to have under the boards. Tho once he got a rebound you’d hafta go take the ball from him.
Duane: 10th grade. A complete ramshackle mess of bones. Could not catch the ball with a tuna net. Again, tuff under the boards, knew his role was to throw elbows. But if you threw the ball to him he’d somehow look like Bill the Cat getting a Louisville Slugger to the gut; it would sound like the ball hit a pile of broomsticks and come rolling back to you (if you were lucky.)
THE BLACK GUYS:
Alfred: 11th grade. starting varsity shooting guard, would be the Region A Player of the Year the next season, averaging 25/game and getting an offer to play at Virginia Union. Could dunk in traffic, beyond unstoppable.
Timmy: 12th grade. starting varsity point guard. Wasn’t a scorer, but a real leader. Consummate point guard.
William: 11th grade. 2-time All-District center. Was about 6’6” with arms that reached up to about 17 feet. Coulda scored 40/game but had broken a leg as a kid and it never healed right so he was always slow. Unstoppable once he got the ball down low.
Keith: 11th grade. 2-year starter. Silky smooth small forward. Would disappear for a spell, then throw down a bone-rattling dunk before draining a three in your face.
Marvin: 12th grade. Runner-up for District Player of the Year that season. Must’ve set the record for dunks in a game that year. Tho I can still close my eyes and watch a few years before when he had shot the ball into the wrong basket for the other team. Christ. Not the brightest light in the tree, but could play like a mf.
So obviously we were, as they say, up against it. We pretty much knew we were gonna get CRUSHED, but what the fuck, it was more exciting than playing against each other. Games are to 15, gotta win by two, 2 games outta 3 wins. So the first game starts and everyone’s kinda clowning around, but before the black guys have really started paying attention I’ve caught RIDICULOUS fire and we’re up about 10-1 and go on to win the first game. An upset, to say the least. Well now the black guys are pissed and get serious the next game and fucking bury us; I mean it must’ve been like 15-1. It was definitely a “hope you enjoyed the first game motherfuckers, cause this is how it’s gonna be from now on” showcase.
So we start the third and deciding game, and you could hear a fucking pin drop in that gym. Nothing but Cons squeaking and sweat hitting the floor; the shit was serious. Every dribble was important, every pass was important, you’d let your heart explode if it meant tipping the ball away on defense to a teammate. There was no more laughing, no more yucks, just fucking ball. We clawed and clawed but after a while we were down 13-6. Two more points they win, we’re done. Surprise. I was busy cursing myself for not having done shit since my run during the first game, when it happened again: I caught fire. Left corner, right corner, top of the key, wherever; I drained everything. From the hip, from the shoulder, with one, two three hands in my face I knew every thing I launched was good as it kissed the fingertip of my middle finger goodbye. 13-7. 13-8. 13-9. 14-9. 14-10. Here we come, here we come. 14-11. At this point my brother, whose normal job was to shut me down on the court or to spend the ride home reminding me how awful a basketball player I was, gave the order: get the fucking ball to Xmastime. Top of the key, Alfred flying by me, 14-12. Outlet to me, pullup from the side, 14-13. So deep in the corner I end up falling on the bleachers, 14-14. This is the most pressure any of us had ever felt anywhere at that age, much less on the basketball court. You had one team made up not only of varsity starters, but black and facing the humiliation of losing not only to a team that wasn’t even made up of basketball players, but a bunch of white guys for fuck’s sake. Then you had a team of white guys that had fought too hard up to that point, who could smell the possibility of a greater upset than any of them had ever been a part of, a team playing with house money that had found themselves in the surprising position of not only pulling this off, but being upset if they didn't.
Fake jumper with a rocker step around Keith, I lay it in, now we’re up 15-14 - shut them down this one possession and score and we win. Soaked shirts dyed onto our skin, eyes bugging and shouting orders to each other. Alfred bring the ball up, slowing things down with a “you gotta be shitting me fellas, let’s end this” look to his team. I’m walking backwards at half-court, Brian trots by me to pick up Alfred. Now I hafta be honest: even at this point, there’s no way I thought we’d win. No way, no how, not gonna happen. They’ve dicked around long enough, they’re not gonna actually let themselves lose. Not today, not to us. We had a nice run, see you at the Dairy Queen.
And yet. That which made us weak (players that couldn’t actually ball) came into play at just the right moment. Alfred was bringing up the ball and looking ahead to everybody, seeing where guys were setting up a whole half-court in front of him. I don’t remember why I was just kinda standing there at half-court; I should’ve been back on defense but I was kinda moseying. I looked at Alfred and I looked at Brian, I looked at Brian and I looked at Alfred. And I saw that Alfred, who played against the best players in the whole region every week, knew that Brian was “on him” and didn’t really pay much attention to him. Hell, I wouldn’t have either. Meanwhile Brian was going after him, eyes locked on the ball while Alfred kinda mentally dismissed him. But for some reason I broke for Alfred, and as Alfred was looking down the court past Brian and ahead to what would surely be the game-tying basket, Brian somehow got a hand on the ball and flicked it away. Right into my waiting hands.
I don’t remember a lot of things I should. If I met you tonight, I prolly won’t remember your name. I don’t remember things people say, or things I’m supposed to do. But I remember every step I took once I got that ball. I remember, head down, dribbling past the half-court line. I remember seeing the metal plate thing that the volleyball poles go into. Top of the key I can see the shoe polish, free throw line all purple and dusty; I can see it. But more important than that - I can still hear Alfred breathing down my neck. Chasing me. Right behind me, closing in with every step and all I can think of is all the times I’ve seen him pin someone’s shit on the rack, players much greater than myself. I go in for the layup, stick my ass out a bit for a prayer of hope of blocking him out a bit, and let go. Closing my eyes and waiting for the *smack* sound of Alfred slapping the ball against the wall 10 feet away. Don’t worry, I remember thinking in slow-time, we get the ball back, maybe I can get off another jumper to win it.
But the sound didn’t come. I laid the ball up, Alfred came crashing down upon me and we both collapsed on each other underneath the basket, limbs and sweat as one. I looked up. There the ball was, slowly caressing itself down the net like an orange in a Christmas stocking. We had won. We had fucking won.
Both our hearts about to explode with exhaustion, Alfred and I lay there saying nothing. Finally he turned and looked at me. “Best 3 outta 5?” We both laughed as we helped each other up; we both knew that they’d win 100 out of the next 100. After that it was high fives/man-hugs all around. As furious as we all were to win during the game, the black guys in some weird way weren’t angry they had lost; I remember how bemused they were by the whole thing. Kinda shaking their shoulders like “ah well.” I wouldn’t say they were happy for us, but whenever I see the Russian team watching the Americans celebrate after their Olympic upset in 1980 I think of this game. The greatest game I ever played in.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Cine du Jour
Mother, Jugs and Speed. I mean gotdam, how'd I miss this one all these years? The Cos. Raquel Welch being named after her titties (and looking like Gina Gerson in flashes!) Driving while drinking beer. Trying to fuck passed out chicks in an ambulance. Coupla homicides, a suicide. Race, the 70s. And Tony Basil thrown in for good measure (according to the credits.)
Drillbit Taylor. OH, Goody for Us!!!
First this guy.
Then this guy.
And now this guy.
How creative, Hollywood! Wow, you're AMAZING!!! You did it! Wow!
I blame of course
Then this guy.
And now this guy.
How creative, Hollywood! Wow, you're AMAZING!!! You did it! Wow!
I blame of course
Can This Country Be Outraged by ANYTHING That Doesn't Involve a Sex Scandal?
For some reason the other day I was shaking my head thinking about how cars now cost what houses did a generation ago. Not just that this is true, but nobody seems to mind. How much for this car? $90K? Okay. No problem.
I'm not an economist (no, really!!) and I'm sure any number of smartasses could write in to me and break down how such pricing is not only natural but fair. But the scale seems to out of whack; at what point did it slide into our consciousness that $7.95 is an acceptable price to pay for a cheeseburger with fries that kinda sucks? $4/gallon for gas? No problem; let me buy the biggest hummer in the world so I can make sure to burn it all up as quick as possible. $4 for a gallon of milk? I'm sorry, are we putting the cows through college now?
But then just now I saw this, which to me is frightening. Not merely that the price of a box seat has gone from $3.50 to $250 since 1967. At a glance it's like well, I dunno, it's 40 years. But just in the last year it's gone from $150 to $250? First of all, what the fuck was it doing at $150 in the first place? And yes, I know part of the reason is cause it's the last year of the Stadium, thereby setting up suckers, but do you think it's going back down next year?
But even more shocking is the last ten years. I went to my first Yankees game in 1998. I did not get a box seat, but according to this list a box seat ticket was $45 (a price almost TRIPLE 4 years before, mind you.) Using the consumer price index, based on a ticket being $45 in 1998 a box seat today should be...$59. So you could DOUBLE what the CPI dictates and still be less than halfway to the $250 you gotta fork over to get the privilige of sitting in box seat sipping $14 warm beers. Unreal. Couple this with the fact that the middle class basically hasn't gotten a raise in 30 years and the dramatic rise in college costs, which also appear way off scale, and the silence is deafening.
I guess you can set whatever price you think people will fall for. I've been screaming for years now that fuck it, they should charge $10/gal for gas just to see what'll happen. Probably nothing, apparently. The higher the price these days, the more willing people seem to be to buy it, no problem. I'm gonna make a collection of pipe cleaner snowmen, put a price tag of $45,000 on each one and sit back and wait for the buyers to come flooding in. Fucking a.
I'm not an economist (no, really!!) and I'm sure any number of smartasses could write in to me and break down how such pricing is not only natural but fair. But the scale seems to out of whack; at what point did it slide into our consciousness that $7.95 is an acceptable price to pay for a cheeseburger with fries that kinda sucks? $4/gallon for gas? No problem; let me buy the biggest hummer in the world so I can make sure to burn it all up as quick as possible. $4 for a gallon of milk? I'm sorry, are we putting the cows through college now?
But then just now I saw this, which to me is frightening. Not merely that the price of a box seat has gone from $3.50 to $250 since 1967. At a glance it's like well, I dunno, it's 40 years. But just in the last year it's gone from $150 to $250? First of all, what the fuck was it doing at $150 in the first place? And yes, I know part of the reason is cause it's the last year of the Stadium, thereby setting up suckers, but do you think it's going back down next year?
But even more shocking is the last ten years. I went to my first Yankees game in 1998. I did not get a box seat, but according to this list a box seat ticket was $45 (a price almost TRIPLE 4 years before, mind you.) Using the consumer price index, based on a ticket being $45 in 1998 a box seat today should be...$59. So you could DOUBLE what the CPI dictates and still be less than halfway to the $250 you gotta fork over to get the privilige of sitting in box seat sipping $14 warm beers. Unreal. Couple this with the fact that the middle class basically hasn't gotten a raise in 30 years and the dramatic rise in college costs, which also appear way off scale, and the silence is deafening.
I guess you can set whatever price you think people will fall for. I've been screaming for years now that fuck it, they should charge $10/gal for gas just to see what'll happen. Probably nothing, apparently. The higher the price these days, the more willing people seem to be to buy it, no problem. I'm gonna make a collection of pipe cleaner snowmen, put a price tag of $45,000 on each one and sit back and wait for the buyers to come flooding in. Fucking a.
Creepy Foreshadowing
Flipping on Beverly Hills 90210 this morning as I'm want to do, I was already getting a kick out of Barry Bonds guest-starring on an episode. Boy, have times (and Barry) apparently changed, I chuckled to myself. Then the shit got real:
Barry and his dad are playing a golf tournament against Steve and his dad. Rush crushes a drive, and Barry looks over with a *knowing look* "Gee Sanders, you got some sort of secret weapon?" uh-huh!! Darren Starr knew about Barry juicing YEARS before ther rest of the world!!!
Barry and his dad are playing a golf tournament against Steve and his dad. Rush crushes a drive, and Barry looks over with a *knowing look* "Gee Sanders, you got some sort of secret weapon?" uh-huh!! Darren Starr knew about Barry juicing YEARS before ther rest of the world!!!
Friday, March 21, 2008
Finally, Someone with Solutions: ME!
I am sick and fucking tired of people claiming we hafta stay in Iraq because it's too dangerous to pull out; that a clean pullout is impossible and not even worth trying. Not only do I absolutely disagree with this notion, but I know who is the one man in the country who could brilliantly pull this off without any trouble whatsoever: Bob Irsay. Someone get a fucking shovel! Let's do this!
Reality Shows I Have Been Hooked On at One Time or Another
note: "hooked on" does not equal "like."
The Real World
Anything with Gordon Ramsay
The Restaurant
The Real Housewives of Orange County
American Idol (this season and two seasons ago only)
Frontier House
The Surreal Life
Blow Out
Gastineau Girls
Growing Up Gotti
Tommy Lee Goes to College
Gene Simmons Family Jewels
The Hills
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
The Real World
Anything with Gordon Ramsay
The Restaurant
The Real Housewives of Orange County
American Idol (this season and two seasons ago only)
Frontier House
The Surreal Life
Blow Out
Gastineau Girls
Growing Up Gotti
Tommy Lee Goes to College
Gene Simmons Family Jewels
The Hills
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
Job Opening
I am now taking applications to find a woman to accompany me to nice restaurants. Halfway through our meal I will pretend to propose marriage, wherein the ensuing emotion and excitement of your squealing and crying from sheer joy will touch the staff's heartstrings to the tune of us getting our expensive meal for, ta-da...FREE!
Please be prepared to pay full cost of the meal should the restaurant not be so thrilled for our true love as to foot the bill. Also, be bangin enough to make it believable to lookers-on that I'd wanna get up in you for the rest of my life. Good luck ladies!
Please be prepared to pay full cost of the meal should the restaurant not be so thrilled for our true love as to foot the bill. Also, be bangin enough to make it believable to lookers-on that I'd wanna get up in you for the rest of my life. Good luck ladies!
Camon, Bill! Please.
Flipping around just now I landed on some pundit on tv lauding former candidate Bill Richardson for telling Obama and Hillary that they should be nice to each other from now on. What? Has anyone EVER given two shits what Bill Richardson has to say? I mean, he's a nice guy and all but camon. Hey Bill, we loved you when you were cracking Jimmy Fallon up on live tv, but now you have to please shut the fuck up! Dang.
Never Need to See This One Again
Another scene in movies I'm declaring a moratorium on is the courtroom scene where as the lawyer (main character) is speaking to the jury (even better if it's his dramatic closing statements), and the door opens and in walks his wife/partner/assistant who in a previous scene had stormed out in a huff, furious at the lawyer for being foolish enough to take the case, yada yada. Lawyer pauses, locks eyes with person, slightly smiles and then goes on talking. Is there a law that a movie featuring a lawyer has to include this scene? Yes, I'm sure this happens in real courtrooms ALL THE TIME. Christ. Never again! Please!
I Hate the Pac-10
Looking over my bracket, I am furious that I somehow picked Arizona to beat West Virginia in the first round. With the exception of UCLA in basketball or USC in football, I give no quarter with the Pac-10. Unless a team from there is playing the cast of Little House on the Prairie, I refuse to choose them; west coast hippie faggots! I am convinced my selecting AZ (48 outta 50 on my list of states I'd wanna live in, in order) was a typo, or a subconscious lifetime achievement award for Lute Olsen. Fuuuuuuuck!
Oh No! St. Kurt Sells Out!!!!!
Now this I really like. Cause it gives another opportunity for loyalists of St. Kurt to get all up in arms, howling with indignation about how furious St. Kurt would be if he could see this happening. Cause remember, St. Kurt didn't sell records on a major label with constant rotation on MTV; no no, he whispered songs into clouds and then people stole those songs that he just wanted to sing to kittens in a basement. Hmm.
People yammering about Texas, and people who will run over their grandma to ensure you know for sure what a true artistic perfect saint Cobain was, never satisfied with him being a good songwriter/singer whatever, these people do not rest until they've given their 5000-word speeches on how perfect this "tortured, REAL soul" was: on my shit list.
And oh, a warning if you're wearing a certain shoe. I don't wanna lose any of my fans out there! ;)
People yammering about Texas, and people who will run over their grandma to ensure you know for sure what a true artistic perfect saint Cobain was, never satisfied with him being a good songwriter/singer whatever, these people do not rest until they've given their 5000-word speeches on how perfect this "tortured, REAL soul" was: on my shit list.
And oh, a warning if you're wearing a certain shoe. I don't wanna lose any of my fans out there! ;)
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Bracket Update
whaddya know. skipping right ahead this year to "buried." Good for me!
Rank Bracket Points Correct Picks Possible Pts
1 7 7 of 7 192
2 6 6 of 7 191
3 5 5 of 7 184
4 4 4 of 7 189
4 4 4 of 7 187
4 4 4 of 7 181
4 Xmastime * 4 4 of 7 157
Rank Bracket Points Correct Picks Possible Pts
1 7 7 of 7 192
2 6 6 of 7 191
3 5 5 of 7 184
4 4 4 of 7 189
4 4 4 of 7 187
4 4 4 of 7 181
4 Xmastime * 4 4 of 7 157
Unconquerable Madness
Every single year (except this one now, so of course I'll look like a fucking idiot) my tournament picks go the exact same within my little Yahoo group: Day 1, I sprint way out ahead of everybody, and by the end of the 2nd day I am so far ahead of everyone else I have to practice my false modesty act in front of a mirror, saying things like "oooh, I thought I picked (insert losing team), guess I didnt. Boy was that lucky!" But the whole time the smarm is thickening as I mentally pat all my friends on their heads, thinking hey, I played the game! They dont know what they're doing, I AM THE EXPERT!!! Because we're boys, every year I take particular glee in finding my boy Op buried at the bottom of the basement, with picks so awful I have both hands on my hips as I lean back, parallel to the ground and loudly "har! har! har!" in my room by myself for about 10 minutes.
Then the next weekend comes, and the gap starts closing. Okay okay, dont panic, Im thinking, my bracket sheet worn down to its original pupa. I'm still out in front, and Op foolishly picked Strawberry Shortcake and Grandpa Munster to go to the Final Four.
Of course by the end of that Sunday night I'm under my bed in the dark, naked save for a thin coat of Country Crock spread, weeping as somehow everybody (including Op) has vaulted past me and I am buried DEEP at the bottom. Way bottom. EVERY YEAR this happens like clockwork. I'll keep you posted. Sigh.
Then the next weekend comes, and the gap starts closing. Okay okay, dont panic, Im thinking, my bracket sheet worn down to its original pupa. I'm still out in front, and Op foolishly picked Strawberry Shortcake and Grandpa Munster to go to the Final Four.
Of course by the end of that Sunday night I'm under my bed in the dark, naked save for a thin coat of Country Crock spread, weeping as somehow everybody (including Op) has vaulted past me and I am buried DEEP at the bottom. Way bottom. EVERY YEAR this happens like clockwork. I'll keep you posted. Sigh.
Audiotape? WTF?
Can somebody please teach Osama Bin Laden how to use a fucking computer? Christ. Hey shitforbrains, have you not heard of YouTube? Get your own fucking blog!! Then you can proclaim the downfall of western civilization AND make your NCAA picks, all in real time. What's next, your little "messages" etched in stone a la Moses? Camon bro. You can kill 3000 Americans, but you got no vehicle for your "Stuff Batshit Jihadists Like" material? Disappointing.
We are The Country That Can No Longer Even Pretend to Be Embarrassed, Chapter 17
Now isn't this some shit.
So we got The UK, Denmark, Australia, the North Pole, Toad the Wet Sprocket, the 1971 Dallas Cowboys and now the Green Card Marines. And we thought Bush hadn't put together a true coalition of the willing! Sorry, Dubya! Fight on!
In fact, the first U.S. service member killed in the Iraq war, on March 21, 2003, was Marine Lance Cpl. Jose Gutierrez, a resident of Guatemala who came to the United States when he was just 14. Ramos-Villalta says it fills him with pride that Gutierrez was an immigrant just like him.
So we got The UK, Denmark, Australia, the North Pole, Toad the Wet Sprocket, the 1971 Dallas Cowboys and now the Green Card Marines. And we thought Bush hadn't put together a true coalition of the willing! Sorry, Dubya! Fight on!
ATM Nonsense
At the ATM earlier today (insert RRTHUR's 'Xmas knows how to use an atm??' joke here....pause for laughter to subside...AND we're back) and I noticed that anytime I was to press "no" the choice was always "No, thanks." "Thanks"? Really? Does my automatic politeness really mean something to these people? "Oh look, every one at our ATM is SOOOOO polite!" It's not like I had a choice between "No, thanks" and "No, eat a bag of dicks", you know? And I know it's a fucking machine, I don't need this small bit of human touch in for affect. It's like when your on one of those automated voice things on the phone for a service call. It's a computer talking, but it's not only in a sweet, feminine voice but from time to time it tries to sound human with a slight "uhm" or pretending to be slightly startled "uh...oh, ooookay, let's see..." I'd rather it be the voice from the computer in WarGames for fuck's sake. Camon. You're not fooling anybody - if I wanted to listen to a woman that sounds like a robot I'd fucking get married. I'd say Mr. Springsteen below got it wrong when it comes to the "Human Touch."
Hmm. INteresting. Intriquing. Curious, Even...
Am I dreaming, or did Joe Francis get released just in time for Spring Break? I mean, there's no way the Feds are that funny on purpose, is there?
INteresting. Noteworthy. Curious, Even
How come Obama has to denoucne his preacher but Cheney doesn't hafta denounce his daughter? Hmm. INteresting. Noteworthy. Curious, even...
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Mad Dog and Glory
I don't have a daughter. Hell, I probably never will. But how whack would it be if I cracked open the NY Times wedding section to see my daughter's announcement and had to fight through the name Mad Dog at least twice? Fucking a. Bad as my funeral when my loved ones will have their brows scrunched at my obit: " 'picaresque'??!! REALLY? 'picaresque'? Who writes this shit?"
Mrs. Xmastime Deepens
Yall know my prediliction for horse-faced, toothy women. Long and lean. Picking up a new crush on "High School Reunion" on TVLand, think I might have a thing for eyebrows too. Like teeth, the bigger the better. Like teeth, ideal if actually on the face. We'll see.
American Idol (You Shitting Me???!!?!?!?!)
Amanda's out??? AMANDA???!!! jesus chirst; what the FUCK did Obama say this time?????!!!!
Interesting. Curious, Even.
I've noticed that if I'm dragging in the morning and need a pick me up, a liter and a half of soda does nothing to perk me up. Lids still sagging. But if I even get a whiff of a sip of diet Coke after 7pm, I'm fucking staring at my ceiling until 6 in the morning. Hmm. Interesting. Curious, even.
Xmastime Does a Children's Book.
Goodnight moon.
Goodnight dresser.
Goodnight couch.
Goodnight 2/3 empty 40oz Bud bottle.
Goodnight pile of empties in corner growing fur.
Goodnight 8 year-old copy of "Penthouse Variations."
Goodnight 1/3 empty 40oz Bud bottle.
Goodnight jizz rag (Buster)
Goodnight small pile of broken glass on floor.
Goodnight "Hardcastle and McCormick" screenplay (rough draft.)
Goodnight rats.
Goodnight rats' friends.
Goodnight 4 year-old copy of "Penthouse Variations."
Goodnight moon.
William "Spanky" Gibson
One job I'd like to get is to be the guy who finds these hard-luck but ultra patriotic soldiers that are in every speech Dubya gives. Seems like an easy job, sounds like there's a million of people out there to choose from. I've never met one, but apparently they swarm the Earth like locusts. He can't seem to order from a Taco Bell without slipping one of these people in, can he?
Dubya: "Xmas, who'd you find for me today ol' buddy?"
Xmas: "Well Mr. President, I found Sgt. William Gibson from Main Street, USA. After the attacks on 9/11 he left his $2M/year job inspecting Hooters restaurants and his wife and 4 children to join the Army. He just wanted to do his part to defend freedom, Mr. President."
Dubya: "Heyooooooooo!"
Xmas: "Anyway, he got sent over to Iraq where he immediately got both legs blown off. He refused to leave his post, citing his aknowledgement of how important it is that all countries in the Middle East see how inspiring democracy is."
Dubya: "Rrrrrrrrama-lama-ding-dong, wheeeeeeww!!"
Xmas: "Unfortunately the next day he had the whole left side of his face blown off in an ambush, and both arms were lost as well. He was then sent to Walter Reed for treatment, where he started a volleyball team while stubbornly insisting he be sent back to his unit so that he could fight them over there and not over here - his words, sir."
Dubya: "Booooooyah!!!"
Xmas: "Well, then the rats at Walter Reed chewed off the rest of his face. But. That soldier. Sgt William Gibson. Today, he is being shipped back to Iraq to continue fighting. He refuses to give in - he knows that victory in Iraq is necessary to demonstrate U.S. resolve, sir."
Dubya: "Got a nickname?"
Xmas: "Spanky."
Dubya: "Xmas ol boy you did it again!" (slap on back)
Dubya: "Xmas, who'd you find for me today ol' buddy?"
Xmas: "Well Mr. President, I found Sgt. William Gibson from Main Street, USA. After the attacks on 9/11 he left his $2M/year job inspecting Hooters restaurants and his wife and 4 children to join the Army. He just wanted to do his part to defend freedom, Mr. President."
Dubya: "Heyooooooooo!"
Xmas: "Anyway, he got sent over to Iraq where he immediately got both legs blown off. He refused to leave his post, citing his aknowledgement of how important it is that all countries in the Middle East see how inspiring democracy is."
Dubya: "Rrrrrrrrama-lama-ding-dong, wheeeeeeww!!"
Xmas: "Unfortunately the next day he had the whole left side of his face blown off in an ambush, and both arms were lost as well. He was then sent to Walter Reed for treatment, where he started a volleyball team while stubbornly insisting he be sent back to his unit so that he could fight them over there and not over here - his words, sir."
Dubya: "Booooooyah!!!"
Xmas: "Well, then the rats at Walter Reed chewed off the rest of his face. But. That soldier. Sgt William Gibson. Today, he is being shipped back to Iraq to continue fighting. He refuses to give in - he knows that victory in Iraq is necessary to demonstrate U.S. resolve, sir."
Dubya: "Got a nickname?"
Xmas: "Spanky."
Dubya: "Xmas ol boy you did it again!" (slap on back)
American Idol
Last night's brutal bludgeoning of the Beatles (it's called alliteration, English co-eds!!) has made me crabby; I almost wish they'd start over. David Cook, if I see you walking out with that guitar one more time cause you're the "rocker!!!" you will achieve your dream as a self-professed "word-nerd" and become a crossword clue. "24 Across: Neck sliced by E string on live tv dawg, 9 letters." Brooke, shut the fuck up when the judges are trying to tell how lucky you are that you don't mind Paula shaving your muff once a week, otherwise you'd be home long ago. And David Archuleta, you're the reason your parents stopped fucking. Knock that spittle-flying aw shucks! squint-eyed beaming at yourself shit off and go home. AAAAAARRRRGGGGHHH!!
Tonite Ramiele goes. She's been the worst for weeks now. Syesha, stay of execution. Maybe she'll be in luck and next week's theme will be "Mediocre Coma-Inducing Whitney Album Cuts."
Tonite Ramiele goes. She's been the worst for weeks now. Syesha, stay of execution. Maybe she'll be in luck and next week's theme will be "Mediocre Coma-Inducing Whitney Album Cuts."
Funny Timing
As much as I downplayed Obama's public speaking ability, right now Bush looks like Sanjaya following Hendrix' guitar-on-fire routine, no?
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Ramiele
I Should Have Known Better
Grade: 0
Is she a midget? Oooh, superslice. Let's see if she keeps this one up-tempo for once. She...looks like a stripper. A foot-tall stripper with a stupid hat to put my gin & tonic on. Hmm. Me nosso hoooooorny. Thankfully, apparently her mic is turned off too. Awful. I think the band has even given this one up. Drummer just texted Randy "In & Out Burger in 5?" A shit ender on a shitty night. Goodbye Ramiele.
Grade: 0
Is she a midget? Oooh, superslice. Let's see if she keeps this one up-tempo for once. She...looks like a stripper. A foot-tall stripper with a stupid hat to put my gin & tonic on. Hmm. Me nosso hoooooorny. Thankfully, apparently her mic is turned off too. Awful. I think the band has even given this one up. Drummer just texted Randy "In & Out Burger in 5?" A shit ender on a shitty night. Goodbye Ramiele.
Chikezie
I've Just Seen a Face
Grade: 7
Interesting song choice. An Xmas slice. Rooting for him. Interesting take on the melody. And by that I mean I am bored to tears and drawing kittens on my nuts with a Sharpie to stay awake. Oh gee, he's doing the ol slow start/pick it up thing like last week. Simon will pounce on this. Maybe that's how Chikezie handles his lovemaking in the boot-oire, but camon. Still, best of the night so far. By far. Fuck it, giving him a 7 even tho he was as the woofman sez pitchy. At least he's not dull.
Grade: 7
Interesting song choice. An Xmas slice. Rooting for him. Interesting take on the melody. And by that I mean I am bored to tears and drawing kittens on my nuts with a Sharpie to stay awake. Oh gee, he's doing the ol slow start/pick it up thing like last week. Simon will pounce on this. Maybe that's how Chikezie handles his lovemaking in the boot-oire, but camon. Still, best of the night so far. By far. Fuck it, giving him a 7 even tho he was as the woofman sez pitchy. At least he's not dull.
Syesha
Yesterday
Grade: 2+
Oh gee, "Yesterday." What a shocker. This is the worst night I can remember. And who held the meeting that said "you know what guys lots of Beatles songs are amazing, but let's make sure to pick the ones that are dull to begin with and then suck any life and spirit out of them as well. Maybe later on we can have Pixar replace your images with slabs of wood. Good luck!" Fucking christ. Back to Syesha. Rack's looking good at least. Even Seacrest took a peep, which is like a vegetarian sniffin a porterhouse. Is she even singing? Is anyone in the band under the age of 60? This is terrible. Tho nice to see Charles S. Dutton can play guitar. Next!
Grade: 2+
Oh gee, "Yesterday." What a shocker. This is the worst night I can remember. And who held the meeting that said "you know what guys lots of Beatles songs are amazing, but let's make sure to pick the ones that are dull to begin with and then suck any life and spirit out of them as well. Maybe later on we can have Pixar replace your images with slabs of wood. Good luck!" Fucking christ. Back to Syesha. Rack's looking good at least. Even Seacrest took a peep, which is like a vegetarian sniffin a porterhouse. Is she even singing? Is anyone in the band under the age of 60? This is terrible. Tho nice to see Charles S. Dutton can play guitar. Next!
Jason
Michelle
Grade: 4+
Another shitty song choice. What the fuck? So now we have the guy I've always thought looked like Kermit the Frog singing in French. Am I in the middle of a fucking movie? Not terrible so far but who cares. Bonus for having the biggest eyelashes in the world (implants?) Falling asleep.
Grade: 4+
Another shitty song choice. What the fuck? So now we have the guy I've always thought looked like Kermit the Frog singing in French. Am I in the middle of a fucking movie? Not terrible so far but who cares. Bonus for having the biggest eyelashes in the world (implants?) Falling asleep.
Carly
Blackbird
Grade: 3-
Lemme guess. This will be a slow lament. Bracing myself. Not a good start. Is that icing she's wearing? Ruffles on top look like the top of a cake. If she popped out of a cake naked right now she may save this. Otherwise, crappy. Toothpicks keeping my eyelids open. Next!
Grade: 3-
Lemme guess. This will be a slow lament. Bracing myself. Not a good start. Is that icing she's wearing? Ruffles on top look like the top of a cake. If she popped out of a cake naked right now she may save this. Otherwise, crappy. Toothpicks keeping my eyelids open. Next!
Brooke Update
what the fuck??? she keeps talking about her "Let it Be" as if it was Elton John at Lady Di's funeral times Marvin Gaye doing the anthem at the 1983 NBA All-Star Game. It wasn't that good , darling. Christ. Making me hate you. Do I go on and on after I give a rousing, toe-raising fake orgasm for fuck's sake? shut the fuck up!!!!
Brooke
Here Comes the Sun
Grade: 4
HUSBAND?? wtf. Was falling for her. Will not help her grade with me. She sounds like JImmy Buffet here. Her dress looks like a melting candle. Christ. Boring me to sleep. Oh, GREAT note at the end. Ugh.
Grade: 4
HUSBAND?? wtf. Was falling for her. Will not help her grade with me. She sounds like JImmy Buffet here. Her dress looks like a melting candle. Christ. Boring me to sleep. Oh, GREAT note at the end. Ugh.
Michael
A Day in the Life
Grade: 4
Does he have cum in his hair? Speaking of which, just blew the high note. A tough song to do in 90 seconds. Hmm. If only the Beatles had another song or two he could choose from. Not doing it for me. Singings okay, but blah. Looks to be finishing strong. Oh sorry, already mentioned his hair. Whoops. Was wrong, shitty ending.
Grade: 4
Does he have cum in his hair? Speaking of which, just blew the high note. A tough song to do in 90 seconds. Hmm. If only the Beatles had another song or two he could choose from. Not doing it for me. Singings okay, but blah. Looks to be finishing strong. Oh sorry, already mentioned his hair. Whoops. Was wrong, shitty ending.
David A.
The Long and Winding Road
Grade: n/a
Fucking christ. He aint started yet, but know I wouldn't pay a nickel to have McCartney play this steaming pile in my bedroom. I refuse to comment on this. I'm really starting to hate this fucking kid. Should be beaten with Heather's fake leg.
Grade: n/a
Fucking christ. He aint started yet, but know I wouldn't pay a nickel to have McCartney play this steaming pile in my bedroom. I refuse to comment on this. I'm really starting to hate this fucking kid. Should be beaten with Heather's fake leg.
Kristy Lee
You've Got to Hide Your Love Away
Grade: 6
Britney beginning? Wtf? Surprisingly digging the verses. Choruses blow. Looks like a second chin is creeping in, stay away from the Swedish Fish between shows baby. Was okay, shoulda opened up more.
Grade: 6
Britney beginning? Wtf? Surprisingly digging the verses. Choruses blow. Looks like a second chin is creeping in, stay away from the Swedish Fish between shows baby. Was okay, shoulda opened up more.
Amanda
Back in the USSR
Grade: 4
not really good. kinda rote what we've come to expect from her. she was exciting, which is good, but the singing was just okay. weak/messy even in some parts. becoming a one-trick pony.
Grade: 4
not really good. kinda rote what we've come to expect from her. she was exciting, which is good, but the singing was just okay. weak/messy even in some parts. becoming a one-trick pony.
Fish Driving Cars: Public Enemy #1.
This is my favorite Dr. Seuss picture, straight outta One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Jew Fish. Kills me lookin at it; it's a little kiddie book and yet this fish has his ears pinned back, apparently determined to fly like a bat outta hell until he hits somebody. Lookit those eyes for fucks' sake, gleefully looking for some pregnant woman to plow over (dark rings too...up all night on a coke bender?) He's hurtling along so fast that the fucking car, which I notice is shaped like a torpedo, is actually leaning forward for chrissake. Wow. And to top it off, it looks like he's got a cigarette in his left hand. Awesome.
The Audacity of Hope, Indeed
Wow, Obama's not kidding about bringing about making change in regard to race...just hours after today's speech my band Hayday got its first black friend! (Welcome, Smiley!) So next time I say "Hey, I have black friends" I have the Myspace page to prove it. Obama, obviously YES YOU CAN!!!
Still the Cute One!
Since he has to fork over $50M for the privelige of fucking a one-legged woman for a few years, shouldn't all the songs on American Idol tonight be Macca cuts? Maybe
and little puss boy Archeletta should hafta sing "We Can Work It Out" again. He's had another week to learn the fucking words.
She's Leaving Home
You Never Give Me Your Money
Another Girl
Birthday (sniff sniff)
Getting Better
Hello, Goodbye
Can't Buy Me Love
Drive My Car
Sgt Pepper (Reprise)
I'm Down
Oh! Darling
and little puss boy Archeletta should hafta sing "We Can Work It Out" again. He's had another week to learn the fucking words.
Luck of the Irish?
The Celtics coming from 22 down to beat the Spurs on the road on St. Patrick's Day makes me feel better about picking Notre Dame to win it all. Tho it doesn't help with the fact that I'm 35 and have started talking to a stuffed lamb (Buster) I have in my room.
Some Advice
I've never given a black guy hair advice. Well. I've never given a white guy hair advice either. Anyway. Seriously, I know its decades outta style, but if there's one man in America who needs the afro to make a comeback it's Obama, isn't it? I mean dang, I barely heard a word of his speech cause I kept thinking one of his ears waved at me. Cover 'em up, bring back the fro! :)
Was good enuff for Shirley, let's do this!!
Was good enuff for Shirley, let's do this!!
Obama's Speech
Obviously the most important speech on race in my lifetime (if not the only.) But I am officially calling "bullshit" on every white pundit who comes onscreen rambling on and on about what an "amazing", "transcendent" speaker Obama is. He's a good speaker. Clear, concise, thoughtful. But he's not a great speaker, he at times has awkward clips. He's not as good a speaker as Bill Clinton, for instance. He's not getting me riled up to run through a wall for him, as the UG has said several tmes. But the hairs on my neck are really rising now at this vaguely racist insistence that we're all spellbound by Obama's performances like he's some sort of preacher in a tent, hypnotizing us with his voodoo and his huge African cock. The subliminal message being that of course it can't be WHAT Obama's saying, but that he's somehow fooling us with verbal acrobatics onstage. Gimme a fucking break. It's like the old joke,
"How does a white guy steal second base?" Sheer grit, determination and knowledge of the pitcher.
"How does a black guy steal second base?" He's fast.
So let's stop breaking our ankles jumping up to blather about what an amazing speaker Obama is and maybe listen to what he's actually saying. Who knows, you might even like that better.
(confused while flipping through channels...what station is carrying McCain's speech re: being buddies with Falwell/Robertson/Bob Jones et al?)
"How does a white guy steal second base?" Sheer grit, determination and knowledge of the pitcher.
"How does a black guy steal second base?" He's fast.
So let's stop breaking our ankles jumping up to blather about what an amazing speaker Obama is and maybe listen to what he's actually saying. Who knows, you might even like that better.
(confused while flipping through channels...what station is carrying McCain's speech re: being buddies with Falwell/Robertson/Bob Jones et al?)
Love Day. Sigh.
Today is the birthday of my first love. We broke up about 17 years ago, but each year this day remains the same: I stare out as if looking for a lost ship to return to shore with my beloved, asking "When will my love return? And when she does, will she give me back my fucking letter jacket?"
Young love. Christ.
Young love. Christ.
Monday, March 17, 2008
I Ain't No Gizzard
Ever since being introduced to Hoosier Hysteria via an huge Sports Illustrated article in 1983, the Milan Miracle has always had a special place in my heart. Obsession is too strong a word, but it's always had a hold on me. Now I find out that somewhere in indiana, every Thursday night Bobby Plump plays pick-up ball? Are you kidding me? Op, grab Lil Bear and fuel up the Nugget (grab some Hot Pockets for yourself.) We're fucking going to Indiana.
POSTSCRIPT: As much as I'd jump in front of a bus for Hoosiers, and you know this, the liberties taken when in fact the true story was even better in the first place drives me bananas. There is no better 4 minutes and 13 seconds in sports history. Period.
POSTSCRIPT: As much as I'd jump in front of a bus for Hoosiers, and you know this, the liberties taken when in fact the true story was even better in the first place drives me bananas. There is no better 4 minutes and 13 seconds in sports history. Period.
Surreal Moment of Life is Art is Life is Art is Life is Art is Life is Travolta.
Flipping back and forth between Primary Colors and The War Room. Trippy.
If the Houston Rockets Keep Winning...
...someone's gonna have to start wondering how it's happening.
Somthing Weird is Going On...
...SNL actually has a sketch that is funny. And now Sheryl Crow, the single-most "oh my god this is so fucking boring I can't even rub one out to her even though she's a TOTAL Mrs. Xmastime with those teeth, her songs are so numbingly dull" singer of her generation actually has a song that I don't hate more than having a pork chop wrapped around my nuts at a wolverine convention. Stumbled upon this the other day. The song itself it kinda whatever, like kiddie-pretend reggae, but that chorus is glued to my brain like a fat kid's nose at the Krispy Kreme window. Man. Are we in bizarro-world?? SNL's funny, Sheryl Crow has a good song...what's next? OHOH...I think SOMEBODY is gonna be getting laid soon!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Paddy Mac Attack!!!
Hiyyooooooooooooo!!! Can you have a St. Paddy's Day without Paddy Mac? Hell no! Here's our guy in County Dingle, having a few pops at his local. and apparently getting picked up by another dude. Hmm. How Euro!!!!
In which I Use the word "ignominious" Correctly
Watching the 1985 Villanova/GTown final for the 700th time right now, I gotta wonder: is Patrick Ewing's last collegiate game the most ignominious finale for any great player in college sports history? Defending champ, one of all-time great college players, loses in the biggest upset in Finals history, career over. Can't think of another one that's as bad.
My NCAA Thoughts
Four teams outta the ACC, the #1 rated conference in the country? Give me an effin break.
Watching the tournaments this weekend, I decided I'd rather cut the number of teams invited in half (basically only conference tourney winners) so that the tournaments were a big deal again like they once were, or just open it up to everybody a la the Indiana high school tourney of yesteryear. Right now it's just kinda in the middle; the regular season means something but it kinda doesn't, the conference tournaments mean something but they kinda don't etc etc.
My bracket here.
Last year's bitching re: dudes being pussies and filling out more than one bracket. Still apllies.
ALSO: this week ESPN Classic are showing the NCAA Finals from 1985-1990, plus 1966. Awesome!! :)
Watching the tournaments this weekend, I decided I'd rather cut the number of teams invited in half (basically only conference tourney winners) so that the tournaments were a big deal again like they once were, or just open it up to everybody a la the Indiana high school tourney of yesteryear. Right now it's just kinda in the middle; the regular season means something but it kinda doesn't, the conference tournaments mean something but they kinda don't etc etc.
My bracket here.
Last year's bitching re: dudes being pussies and filling out more than one bracket. Still apllies.
ALSO: this week ESPN Classic are showing the NCAA Finals from 1985-1990, plus 1966. Awesome!! :)
I'm On It!
Desperately trying to get a clip of Jennifer Aniston's SNL monologue from a while back, Shiny shirt, nipples jumping out the screen. Stay tuned.
Gee. We're Full of Shit.
How come we love torturing whatever low-on-the-totem-pole terrorist there may be, these are the people we use to justify water-boarding,...but we couldn't fucking wait til Saddam Hussein was executed? If torture is so effective, if torture is the key, then why the fuck wouldn't we have tortured him?
Didn't we go to war under the presumption that Saddam had WMD? And...did we not capture Saddam? So, if we thought Saddam had the capability of destroying the USA...I mean, if anyone had info on the whole war it'd be him, right?...and if we were into torturing people...why were we so excited about the execution of Saddam; if he really was the master behind WMD, wouldn't we have wanted to keep him around for awhile?
Hasn't the execution of Saddam belied our whole philosophy on torture?
Didn't we go to war under the presumption that Saddam had WMD? And...did we not capture Saddam? So, if we thought Saddam had the capability of destroying the USA...I mean, if anyone had info on the whole war it'd be him, right?...and if we were into torturing people...why were we so excited about the execution of Saddam; if he really was the master behind WMD, wouldn't we have wanted to keep him around for awhile?
Hasn't the execution of Saddam belied our whole philosophy on torture?
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