This Video Dedicated to Lil Bear!

I mean camon, THIS is tuff to beat, no? Awesome. Actually, that's exactly how Lil Bear usually is whenever I start blathering re: my old high school football stories. Toothpicks keeping his lids open, "I'm listening, Godfather Big Bear..." :)

The Manny Tapes

A LIST OF THINGS WITHIN A THREE FOOT AREA THAT SHORT BUS TRIED TO GIVE ME WHILE I REPEATEDLY ASKED HIM TO HAND ME THE REMOTE, WHICH WAS ABOUT 4 INCHES FURTHER THAN I COULD REACH, SO I COULD TURN DOWN THE TV AS THE BABY HAD FINALLY FALLEN ASLEEP IN MY ARMS IN THE RECLINER:

bus
car
another car
snowmobile
Elmo
a monkey in pajamas
fire engine
truck
cement mixer
another monkey (no pajamas)
football
truck
bus (again)
snowmobile (again)
bus (again)
Elmo (again)
snowmobile (my head explodes)

ie every single thing in sight except, of course, the fucking remote. Christ.














"Hahahaaha!! You had another kid? Aren't you supposed to lose weight afterwards, you fat fuck?!!?!?!"

A Letter.

Dear BBC America:

You cannot run a commercial for a "brand new" episode of Kitchen Nightmares coming up the next day during an airing of...that very episode. A little like promising a young lass you'll take her flower the next day whilest bone deep in some relations pudding, n'est-pas? Camon. Get your act together.

Thanks!
XMASTIME

Today's Happy Instance of Worlds Colliding

Mickey Mantle appearing on The White Shadow.

A Letter.

Dear Young Hipster on the L Train:

I know it's not your own fault; Mummy kept you on her teat your whole life and let no day go by without reminding you the world revolves around you. And we're all so proud that you work in an office that lets you use a backpack instead of a briefcase used by "the man." But on a crowded train, how bout moving aside some Panic at the Disco lyrics that are taking up space in your brain and think to take said backpack OFF YOUR BACK as it sticks out about 2+ feet behind you like a fucking cathode ray tube out of an old RCA. Take the bag off and place it at your fucking faux bowling shoes so that the rest of us poor saps can get in the fucking car.

Thanks!
XMASTIME

The Great Pumpkin

It's not even just the pumpkin line that I love; his use of the word knob kills me every time I see it.

I think the only reason I even have a blog is to post about Gordon so that if he googles his name he finds me and we become BFF. Sigh.

Hey, Hey Paula...You're Fucking Wasted (and I Love It)

Was last night's performance by Paula the greatest 30 seconds ever on tv? God bless her. Why even hide it anymore? Shouldn't a recurring scene every week be the intern who has to fill up her Coca-Cola cup with vodka and melted-down shoe polish?

As I was bubbling with glee in remembrance of the moment while reading about it here, I see I now owe Paula much more than I had even imagained - along with the stupendous show of stumbling oblivion she gives out every week, thanks to her gaffe last night and the linked article I now have a new game to play:

FIND THE VAGINAL EUPHEMISM:

All six people on stage, including Seacrest, stared blankly (except Syesha Mercado, who wore the furrowed brow of mystification).

Awesome. Paula, really. Thanks for everything.

Mission

Accomplished.

It's Love

For weeks (months?) during the twice daily showings of Kitchen Nightmares on BBC-A, I don't think a single commercial break has come and gone without this slice being played:


I have become obsessed with this cut. Love it, love it, transfixed by it. I'm convinced the next album I make will be a combination of this and Regina Spektor. Then last night during Hell's Kitchen each commercial break included the song; albeit a slightly different and longer version.


So it's on Gordon's British show AND his American one...could it be he himself has chosen the song? He loves it too? So now I have a new slice to love AND can revel in me and Gordon having something in common??!! YES! We really ARE gonna be bff!!!!

FINALLY.

Something to like about soccer. Or, as you might call it, "football americain." Or, as you might call it, "running around."

My take on soccer that ended up in Reader's Digest here. (#8)

Today's Funny T-Shirt

TV Alert!!!!!!!!!!

Gordon Ramsay on Regis & Kelly Strippa in a few minutes!!!!! (squealing)

American Idol

8:31pm.

This is by far the worst fucking 30 minutes of Idol I've ever witnessed. This is fucking unwatchable. Syesha wins Round 1 cause she actually, you know, SANG!. The other fuckwits have become so enamored with their instruments, and they let themselves get carried by the band that they're merely talking into the mic, a la Lou Reed. They should just come out and read diner menus. This is the first night I've ever thought you know what, I can fucking do better than this. Simon should walk out. This is fucking atrocious. Next year they need to say NO BAND, NO INSTRUMENTS. Fucking sing. Unreal.

Saving Grace? Paula's wasted.

Goddamn America

I'm disappointed by Obama's denouncement of Pastor Wright. Only 2 months ago, I was so happy to see Obama relieving us of the Whack-a-Mole game campaigns have become. "Oh, so and so said something you don't like? WHACK! I denounce them! Whatshisface said something you don't like? WHACK!!" Each whacking completely hollow, without meaning. I know I personally had been glad he didn't fall into this - no matter what either one of them said, I was glad to see somebody play outside the box of Whack-a-Mole. Denouncings like this one are no more meaningful than when some celeb is rolled out by his or her publicist to issue a formal apology over some dumb shit they've done or said. But because we Americans are such retards, we immediately check said celeb off our "To Forgive" List and move on to the next one who "offends" us.

Once again, people need to learn how to be selfish with their choices. You need to accept that there's gonna be something your guy says or does, or some shady associate will pop up, that will make you groan. It will happen; accept this. Period. Let's say Candidate X wants to do everything you want a candidate to do. Maybe you want to pull out of Iraq, you want roads fixed and you want healthcare. Whatever. But Candidate X it turns out has a brother who in college once roomed with a known communist. Oh oh!! You, being the average American, pile on Candidate X, screeching that said link is unacceptable, and switch your allegiance to Candidate X's opponent. Yeah, maybe your new guy doesn't quite offer the country (and yourself) the things you want it to do, but by gum at least he don't have a brother who knew a commie back in 1975. So.

Well, of course how long til THIS jackass has some dirt come out on him? So now you, hamstrung and cornered by your own stand on "values" et al, are forced to move again to the next candidate. Well, this candidate is for the war, against healthcare and against fixing roads. But at least he has a clear "character" resume as far as you can tell. And now you find yourself having to support the very candidate who will do the very opposite of what you and your family would like/need. All because you let yourself be ruled by periphery events. Which, what do you know, each of the last few elections have been about.

You know, Adam Smith believed that in general people freed to pursue their own interest would fare better than they would under a system that dictated what was "good." If enough Americans got together and decided that they wanted healthcare and jobs and peace for themselves, it would happen. If the same Americans allowed themselves to be distracted and pulled along like a donkey by the powers that be insisting over and over that "values" and "character association" are what matter most well, then guess who gets whacked in this game? You.

Endless cycle. Perpetuated today, sadly, by Obama, who let periphery shit take precedence over everything else. I know it would never happen, but in my dreams he woulda said "You know what, if my association with some dude means so much to you, then by all means vote McCain. And fifty years from now when we're a second world country still locked up in Iraq, let's see how many people remember Rev Wright's name."

Chickenshits coming home to roost. As per usual.

Who's the Wizard Behind This?

I know tv stations need to make money. Which I would think means pretty much running whatever commercials they get paid to show. But is there no filter at all, no thought put in? The other night I was watching Patton Oswalt on Comedy Central. Dude was killing me. Tho I may unintentionally give him a boost cause he was the lead in Ratatouille. So I'm cracking up, laughing out loud and then they cut to this commercial.



What? For fuck's sake. Momentum crusher. Like being at dinner meeting your girl's family for the first time, wowing them over, they loooove you, and then you let one rip. Awkward. Or dick tattoo commercials on Lifetime, even. (shoula gone with "puppy bullet commercials during Peanuts specials." but hey.)

Xmaspedia

How is it possible I don't have my own Wikipedia article? What the fuck is wrong with you people; you call yourself "fans"??!!

Today's Ratatouille Quote

Emile: W-w-wait. You read?
Remy: Well, not excessively.
Emile: Oh, man. Does dad know?
Remy: You could fill a book - a lot of books - with things Dad doesn't know. And they have. Which is why I read.

My flick!

The NFL Draft SUUUUUUCKS

Thank fuck the NFL Draft is over and done with for the year. Is there a more mind-crushing dumbfuck month to the sports year? Weeks and weeks of trying to guess the entire first round. For fuck's sake. I can understand trying to guess the top pick, or the top three. But I'm supposed to listen and care about such a series of possibilities that I'm listening to who you think the 31st pick is going to be? When I was a kid, I'd open up the paper the morning after the draft and read who the teams had picked. Now it's turned into a 2-day Whogivesashitpalooza. And there's the mock drafts, and the fantasy drafts, and the mock fantasy drafts, and the fantasy mock fantasy drafts, and the mock mock draft fantasies. And on and on. All of a sudden we're all GMs; I guess we need to be up on the shit in case a huge grand piano falls from the sky and wipes out every team official and we'd hafta make all the draft picks. For fuck's sake.

But it's the way it's all of a sudden become such a cottage industry that's been created over the last few years that bugs me. All of sudden, the NFL Draft is fucking life and death important. Really? When did this happen? The shit was around for 40 years just fine, and nobody had a problem one way or the other. Now, breathless football pundits shitting out verticals and 40 times, bleating like a fucking pig at us about the 211th pick and who it should be.

This feeling of "All of a sudden, it's SO incredibly important!!!" nags at me. And it reminds me of how illegal immigration has been handled for two years. Decades and decades this shit was happening, people flowing in across the borders. To which we barely gave notice. Then we woke up one morning and all of a sudden it's THE MOST IMPORTANT TOPIC IN THE WORLD!!!!! and there's been no letup since. What the fuck. I've never been settled on my own opinion on the matter, but I do remember noticing that us being assaulted with illegal immigration being THE MOST IMPORTANT TOPIC IN THE WORLD!! coincided with Bush et al trying to sell our port security to Dubai. Remember that little nugget? Maybe not; soon as it happened we got this red herring thrown at us and no one's looked back. Has bugged me ever since.

How does that incident relate to the draft? Well, like I said, the suddeness of it being soooooooooo important, of course. Drives me batshit. As for a red herring...gotta be that Peyton and Eli Manning are gay, no? I mean, camon...Super Bowl quarterbacks marrying their high school sweethearts? Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight....

I Mean, Gotdamn...

...Roger Clemons' year is turning out to be as bad as this kid's day, no?

Fashion Note

I don't know why, but all of a sudden I'm noticing women are rolling out the animal prints this spring. Shirts, bags, pants, whatever. Leopard prints in particular. And I'm loving it; driving my primal lust into new heights. There's something sexy about a woman implying that she mauled an animal and skinned if with her bare hands just so she can wear a tight silk shirt for you. Fucking a. Bring 'em on!!!






"Horny? Fucking asshole."

Who's Training These MFs?

Whatever you think about the Sean Bell shooting, I think we all need to be mildly surprised that only one guy was killed. Lee Harvey Oswald shot 2 dudes in 8 places in a moving car from 50 yards away with one bullet. Here we have 5 cops shooting 50 bullets INTO A STATIONARY CAR and could only kill one dude. What the fuck? Even if they're shooting in error, I'd like to think cops could be a little more efficient, no? These are the dudes protecting us? Mr. Magoo? What the fuck??!

Of Course, Who Gives a Shit Anyway

Hannah Montana is apparently "embarrassed" by the photos in Vanity Fair. I don't blame her; this is the first picture I've seen of her where I haven't thought "18 yet?" while lubing up with some Country Crock. Did they surprise her while she was waking up inside a chimney? Ugh.

HTstt Sytre Ittewnm hh77FFdc 0

IN another lifeetme, I was a voracious reader. I guess those were the days before cable tv/internet/reality tv/horny midgets under the bridge et al. Since 1992, the last year I read a book, my brain has been on a long, slow death march off the cliff and into oblivion; it's bad enuff I can't read Finnigan's Wake, but nowadays I find myself getting confused about which girl is which on "Rock Of Love." Yes, they're all vaguely alike, but they do actually list their names under their faces everytime they speak and I'm still lost. So.

So before my brain offically turns to mush, I'm demanding a policy upon myself of actually getting my fat ass across the river, into Barnes & Noble and buying one book a week to read. Alongside this book, I will also read a book that has been collecting dust on my shelves for 15 years. Anyone with any suggestions, feel free to shout them out to me here.

BUT. Know this: I have no use for contemporary fiction. I don't care. 90% of the themes has been recycled 1000 times; surely I would rather read such a theme in a book time-tested through a hundred years and taught in universities. Less diluted. I have a million classic works of fiction I am behind on, so I don't need anybody excitingly passing along whatever flaver of the week you're passing around with your friends. Blech. This also includes memoirs of "whacky characters" a la Confederancy of Dunces, Running with Scissors et al. Reading people marveling about their own neuroses bores me.

And the fact is, truth nowadays really is stranger than fiction. I'm much more interested in reading, say, The Tipping Point than fiction out there. But anyways, the point is I need to get my brain functioning again. Reading Gordon's auto-bio yesterday is a toe-dip in the pool of course; it's not exactly Finnigan's Wake*, but hey it's a start. Greasing the wheels.

On a side note, I've been reading and re-reading Assault on Reason over the past year. I'm fasiniated by Gore's losing his home state; how often has this happened in presidential elections? To say nothing wherein winning his home state would've secured the election for him. Hell, didn't Mondale even win Minnesota during that fucking bloodbath? Is there a book out there detailing how different the shit would be today if Gore had merely won his home state? How do Tenneseeans feel about this? Anything? fucking christ.

* see what I mean? I had forgotten I had referenced the same book 3 paragraphs earlier!! arrrgggh!!!

Today's Alanis Morrisette Moment

Just poked myself in the eye with my glasses, briefly blinding myself. Christ.

Return Policy

Because I am a fashionista and this is what we fashionistas do, this past Friday I was shopping with the Fashion Herald and I picked up on something I had never noticed before. Each time we went to the counter to buy something, FH would ask the counter girl their return policy. Now, I would never dream of this. I would think that if I asked such a question alarm bells would go off in the back room and they'd be like "oh, we're on to this motherfucker." And then three days later when I'd show up to return the item I'd find myself falling through a trap door en route to heavy interrogation and bamboo under the fingernails. Newman on Seinfeld leading the questioning, I would think.

But the clerk would just brightly say whatever the policy was and hand FH the receipt, practically saying "of COURSE you'll be returning it!" Some sort of secret code between women. Fascinating to me. Like nonchalantly asking the car rental company if the insurance covers driving drunk on two wheels while painting the lyrics to "Summer Wind" on a fish fillet, in my eyes. ah well. Always learning!!!!

Al, Al, Al.

About a year ago I defended Al Sharpton.. I cannot, however, defend this nonsense.. Hystrionics for the sake of hystrionics. Camon. I'm all for you being outraged, or even faux-outraged for the cameras. You wanna protest then protest. Whatever. But when you start the overdramatics with "we're gonna shut this city down!!" you put me to sleep and lose me.

Sigh. My Gordon.

I picked up this book by my boyfriend Gordon yesterday and man, I'm here to tell you. If you're a younger brother and you feel like you're a loser and a big disappointment to your older brother, you need to read this book. Gordon's lil bro (whom I think was in the paper just the other day for going to jail...again) is quite a piece of work; the Babe Ruth of loser little brothers. Hey, maybe I haven't maxed out my potential, but at least I'm not stealing money from my sister-in-law's underwear drawer for smack. I didn't get into a great college, but I haven't cost my brother about $100,000 in failed rehab stints (including $28k for teeth replecement due to the horse.) As my brother jokes whenever we're out I've had the same dusty $20 bill attached to a rubberband I pretend to pull out whenever the check comes, but I didn't show up at our mother's hospital bed after her stroke and ask to borrow $300 from her, either. Man. Dude's beyond an amazing piece of work.

Of course, both his descent into despair and it's antithesis, Gordon's obsessive drive for perfection, success and discipline may bothe be attributed to their dad, who is the Babe Ruth TIMES Michael Jordan of his particular position. I've read about abusive fathers in bios and I've had friends whose dads were pricks, but they're all Opie Taylor compared to this guy. Unreal. My "favorite" being him coming home, mum's in bed (I can say mum cause Gordon and I are like brothers, we're so tight!) He decides to pour boiling hot milk all over her, then drag her downstairs , beating her to an almost unrecognizable pulp. When they finally tracked him down a few days later he says "hey, she asked for it." Unapologetic. Incredible. Following of course was the almost nightly phone calls to mum from him (now barred by a restraining order) "are you home? great, I'm coming over to finish you off."

So next time you see your pop, give him a hug. He can't be all that bad for fuck's sake. And Brothatime!, remember - it could be worse; I could be Ronnie Ramsay!!! ;)

I Wish I Was smart

Surprisingly to some of my readers, the one thing that writing a blog has taught me is to extoll as much sheer rationale and logic as possible. I know some readers just roll their eyes "oh here we go, Bush bashing..." et al. But whereas in the past I would just blurt out my feelings/thoughts with no guv'nah, at least the stewardship of a blog has demanded that I at least pause for reason. This is not to say I will be right; many times I have revisited my pages to find myself in error. But before I hit "publish post" I do try to make sure I've seen everything through everyone's eyes. Yes, racism is terrible. But why? Is it possible it, as a natural order, has brought us where we are today? Yes, Hitler was a douche...but from a sheer objective, rational stance WAS he a great leader? And on and on. If someone says "John Edwards sucks!!" I can't just screed back "no, you suck!" I have to sit back and think well, DOES Edwards suck?

As a rule, I am an emotional man...I see things in black and white and explode thusly; frustration and the knowledge of superiority lead to my spitting out spectacular venom on right vs. wrong. But the great thing about being Xmastime means I have to step back, dry off the page, and become my own devil's advocate. Slow logic trumping quick rage. Every time.

I think I've written here somewhere about when I was a kid, and my brother and I would be playing basketball. Something would happen, and fucking alarm bells would go off in my head, and next thing you know I see nothing but white rage; I'd take the ball and hurl it at my brother, quickly upon which I would clamp my teeth down over my bottom lip and then flail into him; arms and legs kicking while I screamed like a banshee. I was a whirling dervish of limbs and tears and screaming and emotion. My brother? Bemused at best, fighting me off for a while before getting bored and dispatching of me. I'd be shaking with rage, and he'd be sipping Kool-Aid nonchalantly. And he was right. Calm always beats rage. Period.

When we were kids we had some sort of cake to share with each other and my mother gave us the old "one of you cuts it, the other decides which piece to take" routine. And it's my job to cut. I remember standing there, knife hovering, and I start bitching and moaning. I hadn't even cut the thing, but I was welled up in rage re: "he's gonna take the bigger piece!!" Fucking christ. I was the one cutting, the slices were in my hands. But I was so emotional, so fucking mad that he might get a crumb more than me that I worked myself into a frenzy. To this day, I can see him watching me as I held the knife above the cake, bitching and moaning and crying. Looking at me, clear-headed, he finally says "why would I take the smaller piece?" I was furious at his instant rationale; of course about 2 seconds later I saw that he was right. All my histronics, all my emotions, and in the end about 3 seconds of raw, rational thought defeated all my dramatics. A lesson learnt.

Logic and reason. Two things I need to learn.

Sorry Ma, Forgot to Read God I Hate Your Band

GodIHateYourBand bloggity-blogs on the new Replacements reissues here. I have not heard them yet, but his post made me think of their debut Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash. An album usually pooh-poohed by a lot of Replacements fans for some reason, the same fans who are gonna spend every word of their reissue yapping on Let it Be and ONLY Let it Be, as per usual. I've always loved it, and have three things to say about the record.

1) It's basically an album of singles; 18 great, rocking cuts that if presented to you as a 45 you'd listen and think "wow, that's great!" There's not a non-single feeling song in the whole bunch. So much so that I've never understood why "I'm in Trouble" was chosen as the actual single. It's a great song, but a quick look at the track listing puts it as only my 8th or 9th favorite cut on the album.

2) The bass playing is staggering; it's almost impossible to believe a 14 year-old played it. Unlike most rote bass playing in punk bands, the bass here runs wild and is all over the place. And for some reason out in front a lot of the time. It's great.

3) In what would become a pattern (I think) for the band, the album is back-loaded rather than the customary front-loaded. The last six songs (and last three in particular) end the album with a flurry of great numbers, a la dont ask why/somethin to du/im in trouble/love you till friday/shut up/raised in the city.

And, of course, the liner notes are the best of any record ever. Lookin forward to hearing all the reissues.

How Is It Possible...

...that there's not a band out there called Single Mullet Theory? Camon, people. Seriously. Wake up.







"This weekend, we rock Dunbrooke Hunt Club."

Andrew Lloyd Webber

The funny thing about Andrew Lloyd Webber being on Idol the other night is that his name has passed so far into the cultural lexicon that I was slightly surprised he 1) was an actual person and 2) was still alive. Right? You hear that name since you're born, some mysterious name so attached to Broadway plays you eventually forget he's not only a real person, but one that's still around. Hmm. Maybe I can spend another entire sentence saying the exact same thing again? Anyways. Weird. Like the day I find out the clitoris actually exists, I suppose.

Online Porn for The Short Bus

The Short Bus got his appellation cause for weeks now whenever we see a school bus he loses his shit; I have to cover my ears cause it sounds like the Beatles landing at a Girl Scout Convention inside a wind tunnel. Kid loves buses. So a few minutes ago I was showing him pictures of buses online, then I figured I'd check out what they had on YouTube in the way of buses. And I found this gem. Fucking awesome.

Real Proof: We are a Country of Dumbasses

Once again, the voters of American Idol have thrown a fucking curveball. Unreal. Now what remains is a cast of which any of them could win, and yet all of them should've been gone months ago. What the fuck. Has there been a precedent for such mind-blowingly retarded voting in this country before? I mean, what the...oh, wait. There is.

"Real" Housewives

The thing I don't understand about this season's The Real Housewives of NYC is that none of them seemed to know each other before the season. Did Bravo bring them together - here's your castmates, now mingle? It's weird; right away they're going to the Hamptons together, bringing kids together etc etc. Other than Jill (heart) having her "gay husband", none of them seem to have any friends before the show starts. How does this work? Whack.

And enough has been said re: what social climbing pretentious wanna-bes douchebags Alex and Simon are I don't need to go on and on.

But.

You know, I don't baby-talk with The Short Bus or Lil Bear. I speak relatively normal. But while I speak adult with them, I also don't feel the need to take ten minutes explaining cancer to them. "Well Francois, cancer is when the cells..." Francois is three. It's bad enuff he's gonna get his ass beat in school cause of his gay name; once they realize what a fucking loser he and his folks are, it's fucking lights out for Francois.

And, to make matters worse, out of ALL the housewives through the years, the ONE you couldn't pay me to fuck is the one who poses nude. Fucking christ.

What We've Become? Really?

Everywhere you look now, articles and articles re: the cost of food skyrocketing. Really? This is what it's come to? We've become inured to certain things like paying a lot for gas, bailing out airlines and Wall Street billionaires, but at least we could feel like those were super-power, priviliged hits to take. But food? Feels a bit more primal than the others, no? Are we really doing this; are we really sprinting past our inevitable 2nd-world status straight to third world? Fucking christ.

Of course, maybe if we weren't spending over $439 BILLION a year just on our defense. I know I know, some fucker right now is reading this and his veins are exploding re: we have to secure ourselves!! blah blah blah. We've let ourselves become so obsessed about protecting ourselves from boogeymen - OHMYGOD some guy in Tobago might have the materials for a pipe bomb please, please take my paycheck!! Here's my house!!! Didn't the Russians once have about 30,000 nuclear missiles ready to let fly at us? And yet we still found money for other things. Still moved ahead as a country. Not anymore. Why even pretend anymore, why not simply direct deposit everyone's paychecks to Halliburton? whoops, I meant the Pentagon. Johnny can't read, Johnny can't have health insurance, Johnny prolly won't get his social security and now Johnny can't eat. Wonderful. What the fuck are we paying so much to defend? Why are we even a country? I can't buy a fucking bowl of rice, and I give a fuck about yellowcake in Tanzania? I can't eat, I can't read - fuck it, kill me! Please!!

Just Wondrin.

Just like comedians who bemoan the day Bush leaves office, I wonder what Andrew Sullivan will talk about if Hillary is in fact one day out of the race/not president. How will he fnd a way to blame her and her husband for the USA losing the 4x100 in the 2012 Olympics? Will be interesting.

ps - yes, I just wrote that there's a chance we may lose an Olympic event. Cue me burning flag/kicking puppies/hating troops and freedom.

Oh. My. God.

I assume this is a joke. But if not, holy shit...after suffering through one of the worst seasons in NBA history, complete with 1) injury 2) Coach choosing to go to college games instead of his own team games, now Dwayne Wade is doing this?? Good lord, hasn't he already been through enuff? Are you kidding me?

Rock of Loooooooove

VH-1 is running commercials for reruns of the final episode of this season's Bret Michaels: Rock of Love; the gist of course being poor Bret AGONIZING over making the correct choice for his (cough) true love.

The two finalists:



I see his dilemmna; gee, I would HATE for Bret to choose incorrectly and end up with a wanna-be stripping hooker who looks like she's been rode hard and hung up wet. Godspeed, Bret!

Asians

The Asians have no sense of humor. and we know this because if they did, there would be an Asian punk rock band called The Crash. Camon, Asians! Lighten up!!!!

The Real World: Hollywood

The hopeful careers of the cast of this season's Real World.

Aspiring actor.
Aspiring entertainment reporter. Not reporter, mind you. Entertainment reporter. Of course.
Aspiring actor.
Aspiring entertainment reporter. Again: not reporter. Entertainment reporter. Of course.
Aspiring music executive.
Aspiring singer.
Aspiring model.

And apparently 2 of these people were replaced mid-season. By....2 aspiring models.

So apparently this younger generation wants to either be Perez Hilton, or the people Perez Hilton talks about.

And More 61*

I love the movie 61*. But I'm just now noticing the end credits are flowed exactly like The Princess Bride's. For obvious reasons. Awesome.

I'll Say This

You can talk shit about Billy Crystal all you want. But I can watch 61* all day, every day. Thomas Jane and Barry Pepper are about as perfect casting as is imaginable.

More John Adams

I noticed that one of the opening scenes of the John Adams joint has Abigail teaching the boys Latin, and the sentence they happen to be reading is "Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres." This phrase was the very first one my class (and, I would now presume, most Latin I classes) learned in Latin I, which I took in 8th grade. All Gaul is divided into three parts. This reminds me of that class; for some reason I was miles better than anyone at reading Latin. Oh, I'm sure I didn't get the best grade. I promise you during tests et al I came in a distant 8th or 9th out of a class of (I believe I recall) 9. "9" in Latin of course being "Spitzer-a,um, us." But I sure could read the shit. At the beginning of every class we'd have a reading of a few paragraphs wherein we'd all jump in and read what we could, peanut gallery style. The beginning of every morning would be like a wobbly-kneed colt getting up to walk for the first time; a few jump in here and there from around the room as our brains settled in. But after a minute or two I would find myself the only one reading as everyone else fell silent; myself rolling through each sentence, surprised at every turn that I was right. Start at the next sentence, roll on solo some more. I always felt like a barrel that was rolling down a hill as each word jumped into it's correct place in line to get out of my way. Nominative, genitive, something with a d (dative? datum? ohoh), accusative, and the rarely used ablative. I had ZERO distinction academically before or since (and didn't grade-wise in that class either, believe me) but somehow in a roomful of people who would prove much smarter than myself, most all of which went to better schools and more than one that became a lawyer, I could read that shit. Every rolling tumble through each paragraph was a surprise, but I did it better than anyone else. Period.

As a bookend to the series, the scene with Abigail dying (hell, also the one on the porch when I THOUGHT she was dying); wasn't that fucking gut-wrenching? 54 years together, then you lay by your wife's side begging with her and God. Was shocking to me; I guess I learned of death as sudden, young, and violent. Death comes as if hit by a meteor into a thousand pieces with no goodbyes, no bargaining, and certainly no reflection. Abigail's death was troubling to watch. I have no desire to ever witness such an ending, even while knowing it's counterpart opens no window of relief for the living.

Ode to Mamalizza

week 1: 8 lbs 10 oz
week 500: 120 lbs
week 884: 190 lbs
week 1184: 220 lbs
week 1560: 250 lbs
week 1857: 285 lbs

Today's Ramsay

Dude loves burgers, runs marathons, and gives us his burger recipe. HOW MANY MORE REASONS CAN THIS MAN GIVE ME TO LOVE HIM??!?!!?!?!?

Knocks such as his football injury have helped the fiery chef cope with criticism, especially after opening his New York restaurant, Gordon Ramsay At The London.

He said: "New York was a tough opening. The critics were out. The first complaint was a lady saying the doors to the bathroom were too heavy. I suggested she went to the gym and dinner at the same time, she toldme to p*** off.

"I'm in the customer service industry and want to create a little bit of magic so if she found my bathroom doors deeply heavy, then God knows what happened to the toilet paper on her bottom."

"Xmastime, gimme 10!"

Enough!!!!!

I love Hell's Kitchen (surprise.) But I've had it with the weekly "Next week on Hells Kitchen..." bits after every show. For fuck's sake; EVERY episode "has to be seen to be believed!!" The hyperbole is is cringe-worthy; it always sounds like that movie-trailer guy re-creating the classic Suzyn Waldman announcing Clemens is coming back to the Yankees moment. And eeeeeeeeeevery one of these stupid things hints of a trip to the hospital after one of the chefs has done "THE UNTHINKABLE!!!!" and has therein had his/her head sawwed off by Gordon and minced into a flambe (shot of open-mouthed chefs followed by ambulance pulling away.) Christ. EVERY FUCKING WEEK!! For fuck's sake, people watch because of Ramsay. We don't need this shit to watch, to think "oh, maybe next week something will happen?"

Oh, and numbnuts: it's not "unthinkable" if someone has, you know...already thought of it and done it. Enough. Calm the fuck down with these promos!!

Right of the Dial (and Yet So Wrong)

As with "65 Love Affair" mentioned below, there are certain songs that I have only ever heard on my hometown radio station, and if I went home today and turned to 105.5 on the dial, I swear they'd be playing. Stuck in some weird, not-even-oldies-or-ironic-we-just-still-play-them time warp playlist. I sometimes think these songs were only ever played at that station and nowhere else, including:

"Take It Easy On Me" – Little River Band
"Stranger in My House" – Ronnie Milsap
"I Wouldn’t Have Missed it for the World" - Ronnie Milsap
"Just Once" – James Ingram
"For Your Eyes Only" - from the Bond flick, whoever did it. Sheena Easton?

having worked at the station, peut etre GIHYB may have more. Or The Gnat!

65 Love Affair

I've never even heard of any of these other songs, or this guy's name, but boy "65 Love Affair" was a slice when I was a kid. And surely still on heavy rotation at WRAR in Tappahannock.

Hmm.

Like everybody else, I've been caught up in the John Adams hoopla thanks to the HBO joint. I just started wondering what, as sons of ex-presidents, do John Quincy and Dubya have in common? A quick trip to Wikipedia found this sentence:

Much of Adams' political difficulties were due to his refusal, on principle, to replace members of his administration who supported Jackson (on the grounds that no one should be removed from office except for incompetence.)

and, sensing futility, I quickly gave up my search.

Ignominy? Complete!

Last Friday I was at the Nest. Late night. and for some reason some smoking hot 6 foot 23 year-old plucked me outta the crowd, sat down next to me and was mine for the taking. I'm yammering and she's fascinated. I know she's into me. But of course after 10 minutes does our hero say "let's go fuck?" Nyet. I of course blather on and on about every possible thing under the sun. Sharks, venetian blinds, why the roads have soft shoulders in Mississippi. Jesus Christ. Finally she left to go to another table, and my having snatched defeat from the jaws of victory was complete.

Next day, RRTHUR (YES ladies, THAT RRTHUR) calls me up and rides me, what an idiot I am, of course making sure he lets me know how hot she was etc etc. Spent all day kicking myself bout what an idiot I was, I blew it etc. Of course, it got better the next day when my friend Helen, who was also with us at the Nest, mentions that on top of everything else my girl had said she was from Jersey City, the last train had left and she had no place to stay for the night. I have no words. Thank god there's always Costanza.

It's Ironic It's Called a "Race", Isn't It?

A hundred years ago when this campaign started, I stated that based on where I came from I had little hopes of a black man being elected president anytime soon, no matter how great a candidate. I've lived in NYC for ten years, but I do not let that cloud my knowledge of the people I grew up with and the fact that there are WAY more people like that in this country than not. I stated my doubts that when the curtains closed behind them they'd pull the lever for "a colored boy."

Now here we are months and months later. Obama is running against a woman, which means his opponent is handicapped as well. Not only is she a woman, but she is the most divisive woman who could've possibly dreamed of running for president - Obama is running against the one woman in the country that women in droves run out in the streets to tell you they hate. He has run a great campaign; she has run a sloppy one. He raises a million dollars n the length of time it takes to toast an english muffin; she's out of money and is cutting checks to herself. Her purging of staff has become a weekly ritual. And if she's not putting her foot in her mouth or getting caught lying, her husband is. And yet here we are, this deep, and he still has not broken away from her. Yes he's winning, but how is it possible she's still in it? Every week or so I'm like alright, he's killing her!...and then here she comes, not only hanging in there but winning primaries. Pundits on tv and other politicians are bleating that she needs to drop out, she's embarrassing her party et al, but guess what? The voters aren't.

All this, and then you see the Obama vs. McCain polls, where there's always a mere 2-5 point spread. Even if Obama defeats Clinton, after all the dust has settled, he basically starts tied with a 300 year-old man who has pretty much declared to keep doing what Bush has been doing. Bush right now has a 69% disapproval rating, and yet 50% of voters are looking to vote for his successor over Obama. It's like in 1983 after Houston beat Louisville in the Final Four, then faced NC State in the Final. Prolly surprised they should even had to play. And yet they somehow lost.

I know it's probably my own racist guilt tendencies; my assuming the worst in people when it comes to race. I'm not a parser of language like some others, but I'm starting to get rankled a bit. It started with the whole " Obama is a transcendent speaker" nonsense, and now I'm starting to think that for some people, calling Obama an "elitest" is code for "uppity n---er." A coupla months back I was visiting the home of a friend of mine in my hometown, and his dad came by. Here's a guy (the dad) that's very smart, very successful etc etc. He's from the school of "the good ol boy, just cut as much of my taxes as semi-legally possible" school. Lifelong Republican for that reason. And he starts going on and on about "Obama scares the shit out of me!" over and over. Really? I asked, why? "Oh, he's gonna get in there and just started fucking shit up, running around doing shit. He scares the shit out of me!" I'm like you know what, why not just come out and call him a "crazy n---er"?

And now, IF Obama finally breaks the tape first in this race, he faces McCain. And as the race goes on, I will be more and more flummoxed as to why it's even close. Until it dawns on me that this is the PERFECT setup for voters that are calling Obama an "elitist;" now they can hide behind McCain being a "war hero." They'll say "we have to vote for the war hero, we're in a war!" That is to be perpetuated, of course...by that same war hero. All of this is of course more code - "war hero" = "white guy." Much like my moaning about the middle class giving away their houses so dudes can't kiss, here we go throwing away peace so a black man can't be President. What a bum fucking deal for all of us.

Obama may win the presidency; lord I fucking hope so. But it's gonna be tooth and nail and blood and claws all the way to the finish line.

You're Shitting Me

Last night my buddy Op from the UG pointed out to me that Hillary Clinton's father played football at Penn State. WHAT??!!! How the FUCK has she not trumpeted this from Day 1? She shoulda worn nothing but Nittany Lion gear, and Joe Paterno shoulda been stumping this whole time. She shoulda let herself be put in the big Nittany Lion mascot suit and shot out of a cannon before the Notre Dame game. And again after every first down. Shoulda mentioned it 50 times every time she was on tv. I'm sorry, but if you don't understand how much football means to Pennsylvania after your father played at PSU, you might not deserve to be president. To say nothing of the fact that whichever staffer woulda been in charge of such a thing should be fired immediately. Yeah she won, but she coulda won bigger (and needed to.) Unreal. How can a campaign running for president not be smart enough to capitalize on this? Fucking christ.

I Need Cell Help

I just realized that due to secession a spot on my cell phone speed dial has opened up. Actually, 2 - one of them I just never reallycall. What's the protocol? Settle for the next best choice in your contacts, someone you actually call from time to time, or is this a truly honorary position? Will move slowly on this; will not rush my decision.

Good Ol' Sistatime!

I've mentioned Sistatime!'s talent for getting off the phone quickly (a virtue to me) and she didn't let me down tonight.

XMAS: so yeah, I guess I'll let you go, you can meet up with your friends...
SISTATIME!: hey! it's my birthday!
XMAS: well, I thought -
SISTATIME!: how often do you get to talk to your sister on her birthday?!?!?
XMAS: once a year?
SISTATIME!: that's right! once a goddam year, you can talk to me on the phone!
XMAS: alright, that's cool
SISTATIME!: for chrissake, it's my birthday
XMAS: you're right
SISTATIME!: my birthday, I think you can spare 10 minutes to talk
XMAS: cool. hey listen, I was th-
SISTATIME!: ride's here, gotta bounce bye (click)

Here's to SISTATIME! Love it! :)

Jeffersonian Doo Doo

Catching up on the John Adams mini-series I was reminded of Jefferson's quote:

"The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time, with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure."

I can't stop laughing; can you even imagine how apeshit the press would go if someone said this today? Hannity having a stroke on the air "he called our troops shit!! I can't believe it - those greatest of Americans, and he's calling them shit!!! Literally, shit!!!" O'Reilly yelling that the folks want his head for calling the troops shit, Lou Dobbs hollering that if we don't do something soon we'll have Mexican shit all over. Michael Savage screaming at the Texans to gather their guns and start shooting at dude for insulting the troops. Everyone else screaming that now that they've been called doo doo, the troops are laying in the desert crying, curled up like babies. "It's the language, really," someone will say, "instead of manure, maybe if he had said 'fertilizer' or 'litter material'..." thereby setting up the endless "boy, he stepped into it this time!" lines. Awesome. Sigh.

ps - anybody else get a kick out of the way that between the recap from the previous episode and the current one's opening scene, all of which are somber, serious world-changing scenes filled with ominous, heavy music, all of a sudden they show the PLAY TONE logo? Bascially two scenes of great debates on whether to side with France and England in war that could break the new nation, and in between we get a goofy reminder of "That Thing You Do!", by Erie PA's own scrappy moptops, The Wonders.

Word I'm Gonna Drop Into Conversation This Week To Look Smart

Javertian adj

Based on the character Javert from Les Miserables, which I've never seen but you will think I have when I casually drop the word in the middle of a convo, implying myopic obsessiveness.

Seen in: The Natural, by Joe Klein. Which I read a year ago but still have sitting on my desk. Sorry Op!

...and the establishment of indepenent Inspectors General (a frightening, Javertian title) to process the whistle-blower complaints...

Danny, Bruce, Me

Unlike most Bruce enthusiasts, I've never cared for the first two records. Long-winded spasms of rhyming words just for its own sake, 9-minute wanderings, etc etc. Too much "West Side Story" meets the circus on EVERY song for my tastes. Rosalita, while a ritual for most concergoers is a piss-break for me. There are some cuts I like, but my Bruce love affair doesn't really begin til the piano to Backstreets comes rolling in like tip-toeing thunder. And while I mourn the loss of The Phantom, I've never cared for that keyboard style - anything other than a drone is always too picky-dicky for me. But walking home just now for some reason the warm sun hit me in just a way to make me think of The Phantom, made me think of those early sounds and how much a part of it he was. The sun plus these thoughts, I swear I was licking my lips for salt water spray. For some reason I thought to myself "boy, Incident on 57th Street would really hit the spot right now." And I'm listening right now, and I was right.

Finally: The Video for Our Own "Blowing in the Wind."

Riskay feat. Aviance & Real - Smell Yo D***
Free Videos at www.blastro.com

Let's Do This!!!

Last night I realized I have slept with women born in the 60's, the 70's and the 80's. You "funny guys!": please note I said THE 60's et al; not THEIR 60's. Anyways, I noticed that this being 2008, ladies born in the 1990's are becoming eligible. Hey, let's keep this streak alive - you girls out there who were born in the 1990's and are 18, or will be by the time I might get around to doing you, please send your Cumdickmesum Vitae along with some photos of yourself to xmastimer@gmail.com. Thanks!

Ratatouille

A little while ago I realized Ratatouille is on tv, and quickly flipped to it. "Oooooh," I thought, "I'll tivo it so Short Bus can watch it when he's done napping, he'll love it!" But then I noticed I had missed the first 7 minutes, which made me cuss and fuss and stomp around DAMMIT! Blew it!!! Course then I realized there's still 118 minutes left. So. I think that's more than Short Bus will ever see anyway. And he'll have no idea what's going on anyways, it's not like he's gonna start bitching "WAIT wait wait, who is this guy? How's he tied into the plot? DAMMIT I wish we hadn't missed the exposition-outlining beginning!! I have NO idea what the fuck's going on!!!"

My probably brilliant movie review here.

G-O-D- Spells God

I don’t know what’s funnier here: the pastor actually doing it, or the fucking idiots in his congregation who unanimously voted to keep it up. Awesome. I just hope our guy is spreading the love around.

It's Time.

Unless he does it at the Convention, I think today is Al Gore's last chance for a dramatic entrance into the race, with a script borrowed from a CERTAIN little sports movie we all know and love:

(Gore walks into MSNBC Headquarters)

GORE: I got something to say
RUSSERT: Well Al...I reckon you outta say it then
GORE: I don't know if it'll make any change, but I figure it's time for me to start running for President

(wild applause, Russert falls off stool, howling with excitement)

GORE: One other thing ... I run, Tim runs with me. Tim stays, I go away.
RUSSERT: Really Al? You mean it, you and me running together?!?!?!?!
GORE: I'm just kidding, GIT your fat ass outta here. And American voters, this much I promise...(dramatic, slow closeup to face, preeeeeeegnant pause...)...I'll make it. Vote Gore.

A Big Xmastime Happy Birfday to

SISTATIME!!!!!!!!!!!






Peace, chicken grease, and Paddy Mac :)

My Body: Benedict Arnold

Up until a few months ago I was a physical marvel. I could stay out all night drinking vats of beer, then pop out of bed at first sunlight, eat a whole chocolate cake for breakfast, eat about 9 pounds of raw meat throughout the day, then finish it all off with a pot of coffee and country fair-style deep-fried maple syrup kebabs and more beer, and then spring out of bed the next morning. Oh, I was fat and unhealthy and miserably out of shape, don't get me wrong. But I felt fine; nothing I did to my body seemed to bother it. Now all of a sudden, every single thing I do kickstarts extreme umbrage from my body. Had a few beers last night Big Guy? Oh good, now you can spend the next days hung over, crying like a baby at how bad it feels. All meat and no veggies today, Xmas? Enjoy the next three days of excrutiating pain thanks to your old friend the gout! Past 6pm and I come within one city block of someone with caffiene? Up. All. Fucking. Night. Miserable. Oh, and my new favorite: apparently now I have to stretch for about 45 minutes before a 30 minute workout and then again after the workout. 90 minutes of stretching for 30 minutes of workout. It's like more than 30 seconds of foreplay for chrissake. Who the fuck else does this?

And recently I've joined another old man club; the knock knock! we're here, your 6am bladder wakeup call!!! All of a sudden every morning at 6 my eyes spring open and I've got what feels like 9 gallons of piss knocking at the door. What the fuck. And of course EVERY MORNING, I try to blow it off, ignore. Which is asinine for several reasons. Number one, it's not like I'm going back to sleep anyways. I'm an awful back-to-sleeper; once I'm up, I'm up. But even if I could go back to sleep, wouldn't I just jump up, hit the can, and get it over with? Now, that option would take, let's say...90 seconds. 90 seconds, and I can be back under the covers, worry-free. Either I can go back to sleep, or dream about Mrs. Xmastimes Have I Loved. Or, I could choose the other option, ie the option I choose every morning like an idiot. That means convincing myself that it can wait, it's no big deal, go back to sleep. I lie there tryng to ignore my bladder while demanding myself to go back to sleep. So of course I lay there and my brain kicks up to about 700mph trying to settle all this, and before you know it I've spent about one hour of my day lying in bed with a full bladder trying to go back to sleep although I know I won't. Fucking hell.

Softball Sunday: Never Drinking Again

Step 1: loudly announce to Nestfull of kickball players I'm gonna kick all their asses.
Step 2: explain why.
Step 3: try to remember who I was talking to.
Step 4: remember, restate my intentions.
Step 5: get talked down by some chick.
Step 6: after a container, remember I'm supposed to be kicking everybody's ass.
Step 7: realize I need to run home to get more money so I can drink more. Put ass kickings on pause.
Step 8: get money. on way back, get distracted at the Charleston by pizza.
Step 9: remember I'm supposed to be mauling a group of mfs, head back to Nest.
Step 10: guzzle 3 more containers, try to remember who I had called out
Step 11: decide to call everybody out, get up.
Step 12: got talked down by some chick.

sigh. another Sunday. Christ.

Who Decides These Things?

I see that TBS is showing all three installations of the Major League franchise. But for some reason, they're showing them in reverse order. From # to the original. What the fuck? If you have all three, and you're gonna show all three, why wouldn't you show them in order? Why would you show them in reverse order? Wouldn't this be like jizzing all over a girl's back, then fucking her form behind, then her on top, then missionary, then her blowing you, then you getting up in them titties, then you making out with her, then you putting on "The Best of Peabo Bryson Vol IV" while dimming the lights, then buying her dinner, then slipping a roofie into her appletini, then calling her up to ask her out, then emailing her an excerpt from Robert Browning and claiming it as your own, then stalking her through your cousin's roommate who works with her? Can we allow for a natural order to things? Man.

I've Lived Too Long

I'm mildly fascinated with something I just read. Apparently at Bonnaroo this year there will be sign-language interpreters at every stage for the hearing impaired. Really? So...you'll be going to a concert that you can't hear in the first place. Then instead of at least watching the band, you'll be staring at some dude signing. Interesting. Dr. Xmas' diagnosis: you have to much disposable income (and might be an asshole.) "Hey, where can I spend $200 to stand in a museum with my eyes closed, please?"

Also, the article says they expect the audience at any given time to be about 10% deaf. This seem high to anybody else? Has there ever been a place you arrived at and thought "you know, I bet about 10% of these people are deaf"? Expecially, dare I say, at an event that is based on, you know...sound?

Truth really is the funniest thing going, I'm telling you.

On the other hand, with some of the shit bands out there I'm sure someone else interpreting their lyrics can only help.

Sigh. Wtf?

I just landed on The Girls Next Door; a show so horribly stupid that it involves naked chicks at the Playboy Mansion and yet I still don't watch it. And you people should be pretty clear re: the depths of my tv-watching resume by now. But for some reason I stick around for about 30 seconds, and it turns out one of the girls is accompanying her mother to the hospital; Mom is getting a face life. Oooookay. Then the girl is talking about what an effect the surgery will have on her mom's life. Okay. Then she says "this will be the biggest ever change in my life."

Really? Hmm. I would think getting paid to take your clothes off for a magazine, followed by moving into a mansion while sharing an 80 year-old boyfriend in pajamas with 2 other women would be tuff to top, no? Least of all by a face life that isn't even, you know...yours. Am I outta bounds here? Must be a helluva face lift.

Monet's Palate: A Gastronomic View from the Fardens of Giverny

I officially have a favorite painter: Monet. For one, I actually do like the way his stuff looks. Which of course makes me gay. But mostly cause apparently he really liked his food. I guess I picture artists as wispy little "food is disgusting, I'm a waif!" fuckheads. But there's a thing on PBS right now about the link between his art and cuisine. Here's his kitchen table, here's what he liked to eat etc etc. For the most part I have no idea what the fuck they're talking about cause most of the interviewees are French, and apparently the sound budget thing for this was about 95 cents. But it's cool cause they'll say "Claude liked Yorkshire pudding", and then cut to a chef who walks you through making it. Very cool. An artist who can eat a Crave Case from the WC, I'm all for.

2nd favorite painter of course is Norm Peterson.

Plus, me liking someone who's French means I hate America and freedom, of course. Suck it, les troops!!!

I Give. I Give. And I Give Some More!!

While bawling like a baby as I always do during the "Two Steps Behind" end credits of the Def Leppard flick it occurred to me I'd like to offer a phrase into popular American lexicon: "like getting a hug from Rick Allen."

"Whadd'ya think the odds are of me gettin up in them guts?"
"Like getting a hug from Rick Allen."
"Dang."

You're welcome, America!!

Def Lep Flick

Right now Rick Allen's in the hospital, trying to learn how to play again with only one arm. He's playing with a bowl, a cup, another bowl and a tray for drums. Hey, you're a millionaire ten times over. How bout just having them bring you some, oh, I dunno, drums?

UPDATE: crap. as I'm writing this, the band walks in with some drum pads for him to play on. rats. Thanks guys. You're fuckin up Xmastime's rhymes, dawg!

Today's Footnote

As I wrote before here, I'm fascinated by tiny historical footnotes. Today I'm watching that Def Leppard flick on VH1 for the 40,229th time and I Wiki'ed them and came upon this section about Rick Allen's wreck that cost him his arm:

"The driver had been egging Rick on and not allowing him to pass. In his rage to pass this driver, he did not see the turn up ahead and lost control of his car, which sailed over a stone wall, and into a field, causing him to be thrown from the car resulting in the severing of his left arm due to the seatbelt not being properly fastened in the first place. "

Who was that driver? Anyone ever find the guy? He's going in my Footnotes coffee table book.

The Real Ray Pruitt

Whatever happened to Jamie Walter's music career? I mean, did anybody buy those "Hi, I'm on 90210!" albums? I never heard of him outside of the show - seriously, how bad must your cuts suck if you're on Beverly HIlls 90210 every week pushing your music and you're still not selling albums? Yeesh. Christ, was that stupid song "Hold On" or whatever even worse than I remembered? Wow. I would think if you were a loaf of bread with a guitar on that show every week, you could sell out MSG. But not Ray. Jamie. Whoever.

Saturday Morning TV

Seriously. I can't be the only one seeing those Pizza Hut pasta commercials thinking "now that shit looks fucking incredible", can I? Course I got a feeling it's not as good when it actually shows up at your door. Much when I fall for those "young, beautiful horny co-eds!" ads.

Anyone else see pictures of Rob Lowe's wife and think "yeah, no shit he's banging out the nanny"? I mean, christ. I think he can do a BIT better than that 80 year-old he married. What the fuck kind of dirt can she have on this dude? Did he shoot Kennedy? Wtf?

A new low: on the tv guide I saw the description "Lucy wears revealing clothing." I have no idea which one Lucy is. I do know it's not Jessica Beil; for all I know it's the 6 or 7 year-old girl. Did not stop me from squealing with glee, flipping to it and locking down on my crank. Christ.

Is Tiffani Amber Theissen coming on Beverly Hills 90210 the greatest addition to a team since Jimmy Chitwood decided to start playing ball again? Fucking a; the only reason I even own a tv is for that rerun-every-6-years scene of her in the bathroom in her tongety-tong-tong soon after moving into the Walsh house. One episode in, and she's already said the words "lube job", "cue stick", "whip me" and "on my hind legs." Fucking christ.

Ooooh, I see we're in the midst of that story arc where Brandon is running for Student Body VP, along with that "surpsise, he's so nebbish!" Jewish guy Josh. He just gave a speech that the campus is buzzing about the next day, it's all anyone's talking about. Now Brandon's giving his thoughts on the voting patterns of the campus conservative, progressives and independents. Riiiiiiiiiiiiight. Yes, I remember how HUGE campus elections were, how divided we all were in our student political beliefs! Tore us asunder! I have no idea if we even had a student goverment. Nor did I know anybody who knew anybody who even remotely knew we had a student government. The student body president could've given a speech declaring he had dug up Hitler's dick and nobody would've cared. Oh, and how does this election end? With assassination, of course. Right. That's remotely plausible. At least now Brandon's prez. I'd have hated him to be stuck in a powerless, do-nothing position like Student Body VP.

Is it possible 90210 was even better a coupla years after the gang left high school? Valerie shows up, Steve joins the KEG house, the Peach Pit goes After Dark, etc etc. How did this happen? This would be like if after the classic start of Anal Encounters I, II and III they skipped the boring IV, V, VI and VII and were followed by the penultimate run of VIII, IX, X and XII (goes without saying, XI was derivative and lifeless.)

Oh, here's a good one. Steve has just asked Brandon to come to his frat party, claiming that it would impress the brothers if he brought the student council president to a party. Yes, I remember the time the student council president showed up at a party of ours; OOOOH how we all squealed with glee! Wow, we did it! Now we're coooool!!! Seriously, what the fuck planet do these people live on? "Monseignor, it would really impress the guys if you came to my frat party." "Let;'s do this, Steve-O."

I feel like they missed an opportunity with the opening of the Peach Pit After Dark to ape Road House and turn the already-ridiculous Steve Sanders into a zen bouncer, a la a cross between Dalton the cooler and a goofball with a poodlehead. You blew it, Darren Starr!

Oh, SHIT!! This is the episode where we meet Ray, gotta go (BLOOD BOILING!!!! ooooooh, I hate Ray!!!!!!)

You Gotta Be Kidding Me (Again)

I just saw that anti-smoking commercial again, and this time I hear the woman say "I've had anywhere from 17 to 20 amputations..."

What?

If you can't put a finger on the exact number of amputations you've had in your life, maybe smoking isn't even your biggest problem right now. Jesus christ.

Today's True Wife Confession

Confession #2414

"The best thing you could do for our marriage would be to throw your mama in front of a train."

Whitman Fly Wice

I missed the Whitman thing on PBS the other night, tho it being PBS tells me I will of course have plenty more chances to see it. It did remind me I ain't read Leaves of Grass in 15 years, so I went to get my copy. Which is fucking missing somehow. Great.

But just now I flashed back to 15 years ago, sitting on the front porch swing at Cherry Hill. Bare feet scraping the wooden planks as I slowly rocked back and forth, Ryan out in the yard doing something. Tumbling? Can't recall. But I remember some poem of Whitman's I stumbled upon, something about Occupation. Song of Occupation? Welcome to the Occupation? Which one's the REM song? Cut me some slack, I'm buzzing on homemade fried rice....

Anyways. I remember being very excited about what I read, the main gist being how no one is better than anyone else, nobody is born into something greater than ourselves. Xmastime = Abraham Lincoln. Of all our possessions, the greatest thing we can offer is ourselves. Without ourselves, there is nothing. It's us that create greatness, and us that appreciates greatness. Also I remember there being something I've found myself saying recently when I hear all this "God said it cause the Bible says so" nonsense: bibles and religions have grown out of us, not vice versa. Couple that thought with Whitman saying that presidents and governments are here for us and not vice versa, also something we seem to have forgotten, and maybe we can all get on the right track again. Without our own breathing, what good is air?

Falling asleep in my wok...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Pain Don't Hurt

If there's one nice thing I can say about George Bush before he leaves office, it's that I can link him to Road House. I remember reading somewhere once that the character of Brad Westley was loosely based on a real guy; some asshole who ruled a small town in Missourri or some such. Collecting "insurance" from every business in town, keeping his boot heel on everybody's throats etc. Apparently one day the townfolk finally had enough, and one day in the middle of town everybody gathered round and the asshole was shot to death. When the cops showed up, everyone in town said the same thing: didn't see nothing. Don't know nothing. Town, back in business. Apparently the guy was such a douchebag the case was immediately closed with no further questions, and the town was finally free of "The Real Brad Westley."

Hey, I'm not saying we should kill Bush. Hell, I'm doing him a favor, tying him into Road House, no matter how unflatteringly. But if there's ever been a president who deserves such an ignominious ending, isn't it this one? Shot down in front of every American after everything that's happened the last eight years. Didn't see nothing. Don't know nothing. Country, back in business.

Or, as the Great Dalton once said: there's always clown college.

Match Made in Heaven

Since I guess nobody else has thought of it yet and it will make me buddies with Gordon, I will do it: write a Kitchen Nightmares episode of the The Simpsons. Gordon comes to Moe's Tavern!

You Gotta Be Kidding Me (as per usual)

All week during Mike and the Mad Dog the YES Network has been playing their latest anti-smoking commercial over and over; today's Thursday and I've seen it maybe 16,000 times already. This one features a women whose lifelong addiction to smoking has cost her twenty amputations. 20!!!! So the commercial starts, and for some reason I find myself kinda paying attention this time. Which is funny, cause anything you can get from smoking is the one thing my 874 year-old body doesn't hafta worry about. So she's talking, yada yada, and as she's talking pictures of her hands and feet minus the amputated fingers and toes float in and out of the screen, along with hospital computer images of how the smoking did it, etc etc. That's rough, I thought. Then, all of a sudden, floating along the screen we see...a jagged, rust-covered jigsaw. What? Excuse me? Did she have her operations at the Battle of Gettysburg? Is this supposed to scare us into not smoking, knowing that for any amputation they'll pull out a JIGSAW to cut you while you take a shot of whiskey and chew on stick? Really? And I love that the saw isn't jolting enough, somebody actually thought "you know what, we should cover it in rust." Just like any instrument in a hospital would be, I suppose. Awesome.

Church's Fried Chicken

Bayonne Mike's comments on my earlier post (welcome back, BallBuster!) made me think of how we went to church as a family when I was a kid. First of all, my family NEVER missed a Sunday NEVER! and, unlike the other families that were scattered thorughout the church in whatever pew they'd grab on the way in, we sat in the exact same pew every week: front row, on the right. "Closer to God," my Dad once told me. Hmm. Not once did someone else even attempt to sit in our pew...mostly, I would think, cause we'd get their about an hour before the service started. Seriously, we'd show up before the lights were on. The priest would come in and we'd startle him with our presence "OH! Oh, hey, how are you..." The cast in order of appearance on a typical Sunday at our church would go something like this for the 9am Mass:

7:55am: Wilsons sit down.
8:20am: God brews some coffee, cracks open the paper.
8:30am: Priest walks in, turns on lights. Wonders where my brother and I got our snappy clip-on ties.
8:55-8:59am: Rest of congregation comes piling in.

I don't even know what we did for that hour; if you tried to whisper to each other my father would severely hush us. Even though...there was nobody else in the building. Although now that I think of it when you're in the front row, you're that much closer to God, so you better watch what you say. So we'd just stare ahead for an hour. I've written about my daily whuppings as a kid here; looking back I'm pissed I didn't try to provoke my father into giving me a beating while IN church; it surely would've been my crowning achievement as a precocious youth. IE: yammering idiot kid. Opportunity, blown.

As a side note to reiterate how old shool my father was when it came to being a Catholic, let me be clear that it wasn't as if we were living in San Francisco; our town was pretty psychotically conservative/backwoods to begin with, certaintly when it came to social issues. One Sunday I brought my friend Ryan to Mass (which was odd for us, unlike the fucking Methodists and Baptists in town who treated church like it was social hour, running around with their friends et al. grrrr.) Ryan has a bit of a ponytail going on at the time (referenced before here) and after Mass my Dad got a call from someone asking who that little German girl I had brought to church was. So.

That was every single Sunday, 9am. Then in high school my brother and I got weekend jobs, and he got his driver's license. So he and I would go to the 9am Mass, and for some reason my parents and sister and little brother switched to the 11:30 Mass. I have no idea why. Maybe like the sun, that's when God is nearing his peak for the day? No idea. But unlike everyone else I've ever spoken to in that situation at that age, did we just pretend to go? Slip into town, goof around? Steal some beers? No. Not only did we go EVERY Sunday, just the two of us, but like salmon swimming upstream with no brains we still went to our normal front row pew. Front row, on the right. Closer to God. Every Sunday. Partially out of a combination of familial duty and knowledge of the right thing to do, I suppose. Of course by "a combination of familial duty and knowledge of the right thing to do", I mean to say "my brother was in charge." Tho I suspect it's also that in such a tiny community in an already tiny town, within 30 seconds of Mass being over my Dad would've been informed by somebody on the phone "gee, didn't see the boys in church today, hope everything's okaaaaaaaaaaay..." After which my brother and I would certainly be a lot closer to God, but not because of the placement of a pew.

After my brother graduated, like clockwork I went to the 9am service on my own. Never missed a day, though to rattle my teenage rebellious cage a little bit I relinquished the front row seat. Tucked myself into the corner of the wing, behind the organist. Just off to the side of God. Close enough for me, I reckon.

Now I'm Depressed

Although it miraculously took four months, I just broke my glasses.. The lenses are fine, but one of the ear-things-on-the-frame (? stems? no idea) things came off. I actually made a gutteral noise of sadness when it happened. And I didn't even do it in a blaze of glory at the Nest, but somehow broke them with a bag of rice on my kitchen table. Fuck. I can tape it together. Maybe cleverly enuff so nobody really notices. But I am strangely sad a part of me broke. Fuck.

Tho it has led to me to start thinking about how funny it is that of all places, we have no problem putting 2 pieces of glass within half an inch of our eyeballs. Funny, no?

Protest Songs, Plus a Shot at GIHYB

The staff over at Kiko Jones (my favorite music blog, since GodIHateYourBand only works fro 2:13-2:19am on Sunday nights) brings up a good point about music today, a la whatever happened to protest music? I know 40 years ago there were plenty of dummy love songs et al as well, but there were also many, many great songs about our social atmosphere at any given time. Songs about race, class, culture, war, poverty, on and on. And before you say "But Xmastime", in that Craig Ironhead Heyward voice during those soap commercials, "there's plenty of songs like that today, you just have to find them!" Yeah, but that's my point - I shouldn't have to find look hard to find them. I realize that "music for the masses" also doesn't mean what it once did, but turn on any radio station or tv channelt or show that has anything to do with music that is popular today, and you get one of two things: the white indie/emo/skatepunk band who is desperatly trying to convince you they are more fey and broken-hearted than the last white indie/emo/skatepunk band, and then the hip-hop faux-thug showing his bling and ho's in a hot tub (I'm not even bothering with the teeny-bopper Miley Cyrus types.) We're in the middle of a fake war costing us trillions of dollars, our jobs are getting shipped overseas, we have an almost absurdly corrupt adminsitration and as a country we have lost a ton of swerve with the rest of the world. Where's the rock band that's outraged by any of this? Nobody with a guitar has been even mildly touched by any of this? No? It's all just more "I saw you in the library, but you like the high school quarterback, now I'm gonna cry in a Black Flag t-shirt" songs over and over? Really? Is there a band out there making music heard by more than 7 people that hasn't spent their entire lives in a Cinnabon at the mall?

And black artists are doing no better. Instead of running around my tv screen with no shirt on bragging that you've been shot 19 times, how bout a song asking "Why the fuck have I been shot 19 times?" Not even curious? Really? Everything's great out there? Jay-Z can get excited enough by American Gangster to come out of "retirement" with an album but can't get out of his pajamas for Katrina? Really? With all due respect to Michael Jordan, I guess Jay-Z knows that Republicans buy hip-hop albums too.

I know I'm spitting in the wind, sounding like an old man here. And I know that within minutes my music geek friends will pummel me with some track Ghostface Killah has about being unhappy. Wonderful. But for John Q. Public flipping on his radio in his Hyundai, he aint hearing it, and neither am I. A while back I lamented re: why is the only person putting out albums and singing songs of actual protest who is already at the peak of the music industry Bruce Springsteen?
Why is a 60 year-old millionaire doing the work of those half his age and a hundredth of his bank account?

Anyway. New season of The Real World is on, so I gotta focus. You understand.

Xmastime Regrets, #2

With Pope Benedict the Sin Wrecka' visiting the good ol' USA, I'm reminded of when I went to DC to see the Pope on the Washington Mall in 1979. Our church got a bus, and all 11 of the town Catholics got on board and we rode to DC, singing Pope songs like "Rainy Day Pope #35", "It's Raining Popes" and, of course, "My Pope-rona." You know those songs. We got to the Mall and were so far back the only way we could see him without our iPhones being linked up to one of the 118 Jumbotrons was to stand on a trash can with a pair of binoulars. Also, ironically, the way I saw my first naked girl (and next, probably. Sigh.) I remember pissing in a paper cup behind a tree; there must've been a billion people.

But it's always bugged me my Dad wasn't there. My mother, my brother and I (I cannot recall if Sistatime!, who woulda been 2 at the time, was there or not) made the trip, but my Dad had to work. Looking back I don't know why he couldn't haven't gotten out of it; as a cop I'm sure it's just a matter of switching shifts or something. I have no idea. But it sucks that I went and he didn't, he was certainly the most serious Catholic I knew as a kid. My Dad dragged us around the state from church to church, trying to find one that wasn't so "modern." I can remember walking out of church twice: once when instead of the standard organ some hippy mofo pulled out an acoustic guitar and another time when in the middle of a song my Dad realized that as the song was being sung some ballerina was working her way up the aisle, performing some sort of dance/acrobatics. Sunday Dinner came early that day, my friends. Looking back, I'm surprised he didn't spend more time bemoaning the switch from Latin Mass to one spoken in English. I'm sure not a Sunday Mass passed after Vatican II without him shaking his head thinking "fucking pussies." When my parents dropped me off for college, my Dad drove me to the local church before we even saw my dorm room. "There it is. See that you get there on Sunday." I got a feeling if he had known that the priest was a young buck who wore jeans and smoked outside while saying goodbye to the churchgoers with words like "man" and "dude", I would never had set foot on that campus again. Coming from outside of Boston, I'm sure my Dad felt as if he had come from the Major Leagues of Catholicism, unlike the backwoods Single-A bush league Catholics he found himself in company with in Virginia. I mean, he actually sang out loud in church, for chrissakes; not the lips-barely-moving while pretending to be baffled re: "what page is this hymn on? what?" singing everyone else did, but actual singing. We went through a stretch wherein whenever we'd go to St. Benedict's in Richmond, we'd hit this restaurant called Duffy's which had biscuits that I loooooved. One such Sunday we were standing up to sing some hymn - me of course preparing to spend the next 3 minutes with my lips barely open acting as if there was sound coming out - and as we were standing up my father leaned slightly into me and out of the corner of his mouth like a ventriloquist said "SING for your biscuits, boy!" For one magical Sunday, I belted out the tunes like Aretha under a church tent made out of baked hams. Damn right I got my biscuits. And, of course, spent every Sunday for the next 7 years trying to not get stuck sitting next to Dad in church. If we went to Mass in town, we'd get home for Sunday dinner and he'd prattle on for 45 minutes about what was right or wrong about that morning's homily. Which was, on average, about 6 minutes. Our priest wanted to hurry up Mass to get home and watch the game; my Dad wanted to get home to talk about the Mass.

I'm glad I saw the Pope. Two years after that I saw President Reagan, so if nothing else in this life I can say I've seen a president and a Pope. Well, and Bruce. But if I could've switched places, if my Dad could've gone instead of me I'd have done it in a heartbeat. Being a Catholic meant a lot to him. He should've gone, and it bugs me he didn't.

Course, for all I know he skipped the trip cause the Pope wasn't old school Catholic enough for him. "Liberal hippy," I can see him shaking his head.

Baby Steps

I just made myself a salad for lunch. Unfortunately, it was the size of my head. If my head was a television set. I'll get there.

Xmastime Senior Superlatives

The votes are in! Let's see how our guy Xmas did.

MOST LIKELY TO SUCCEED: Xmastime
BEST LOOKING: Xmastime
MOST ATHLETIC: Xmastime
MOST GOUT: Xmastime
BEST DRESSED: n/a
BEST BEER CAN PYRAMID: Xmastime
BEST PISS JAR PYRAMID: Xmastime
MOST INTELLIGENT: Xmastime
MOST CONGENIAL: Xmastime
MOST LIKELY TO HOOKUP WITH A 70 YEAR-OLD WHILE BEING TOO COOL TO HOOK UP WITH THE 350-LB VEGETARIAN YOU ONCE PISSED THE BED ON: Xmastime
MOST SCHOOL SPIRIT: Xmastime

Tonight's Democratic Debate

This debate is ridiculous. And embarrassing; feels like it's been put on by Mrs. Hundley's 7th grade class. First of all, it seems as if everyone's asleep. But I've spent the last 30 minutes watching, and all I've seen is an endless series of "gotcha!" moments on Obama re: who's supporting him. Rev. Wright, the Weather Underground, Hitler, Satan, etc etc etc. This nonsensical "well, someone you once knew knows someone who once almost thought about not liking America likes you" childish bullshit. All a desperate attempt for him to have to apologize for and disown everyone he's ever even remotely been a part of. When does this shit ever end? At what point does Barack get to turn to Hillary and say "hey, you're white. Anything you wanna say to me?" For fuck's sake. This is atrocious.

Yanks Suck!!!

Oh, goody...more evidence that Yankee fans might be the dumbest dipshit "fans" in the world. Hey, let's boo our own players for no real reason other than showing up with a number they were allowed to wear. Course, this team sucks anyways since it won't go 162-0; and if A-Rod ain't on HR #40 by Monday the boo-birds will be chirping. Mostly I'm pissed that Paul O'Neill didn't step in and say something. I don't know what, but apparently he said nothing. Weird. And disappointing.

The Beast

I just saw the following headline on Drudge:

"World population will be 6,666,666,666 on May 10... "

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOhhh, spooky!!! Oh, no! I'm scared!

Hey dipshit... the scary number is 666. Period. In fact it says:

Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.

It doesn't say "and his number is Six hundred threescore and six...and then any number of sixes after that too...I guess the more sixes, the scarier...either way, it's all sixes...where was I..."

Fucking christ. 6,666,666,666...so there's gonna be three anti-christy scary douchebags, and then one guy who wants to be bad but is kind of a pussy? Camon. Please. Oh, wait - haven't we already seen this gang?