Marley!

Marley gives us the single greatest line ever in a new sitcom review, for Friends With Better Lives (a Friends wannabe that even has the title in its title), which for some reason I sat through earlier tonight:

There is a professional, even a grim efficiency to the jokes, which approach like B-52 bombers, drop their punch lines and head back to base.

🤣🤣🤣🤣

Questions. I Have Them.

How's it possible I was completely unaware Men Without Hats actually had a hit after Safety Dance? And are they the only 2-hit band to quickly reference their first hit in the second hit? And is there a more infectious song? (playing for 44,335th time in a row please kill me)

Winner du Jour

I've never watch How I Met Your Mother but this is insanely awesome.

During the show, a fan asked Patrick Harris and Segel to sing “Les Miserables” duet “Confronation,” a bit they did in 2006 on “The Megan Mullally Show,” but were sadly cut short. Patrick Harris seized on the opportunity immediately, taking off as Javert, with Segel jumping in as Jean Valjean shortly after.

40 Years Ago today

The Ramones played their first ever show (and no, it wasn't at CBGB, it was at Performance Space, at 23 East 20th Street, just east of Broadway.)

Said Johnny at the time:

“We took ads in the Village Voice and we played one show for our friends around March 30, 1974. We were awful. We didn't have the image down yet. Our friends didn't even want to talk to us anymore after that.”

Here's the setlist:

I Don't Wana Go Down to the Basement
I Don't Wanna Walk Around with You
Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue
I Don't Wanna Be Learned/I Don't Wanna Be Tamed
I Don't Wanna Get Involved with You
I Don't Like Nobody That Don't Like Me
Subbubus

This is a cow that is having a long day.

Very funny. #officepranks #peoplearesomean #isfridayoveryet pic.twitter.com/pEtJT41FA6
— #officecow (@_officecow) March 28, 2014

#TGIF!

Got milk? #yes pic.twitter.com/edmDz2KGe5
— #officecow (@_officecow) March 28, 2014

Play ball.

Sigh. #storyofmylife #staystrong pic.twitter.com/zi07r3zUhk

— #officecow (@_officecow) March 28, 2014

Working mom pens open letter to Gwyneth Paltrow, immediately does the impossible and has everyone rooting for Gwyneth Paltrow

HEAD EXPLODING.

Questions. I Have Them.

How, after all these years, is Burger King's breakfast still so shitty compared to McDonald's?

Eating on River Avenue

The Yankees have unveiled new amenities to the stadium for this season, including a fried chicken & waffles cart and "fill a batting helmet with nachos!" offer. Which means, of course, it's an excuse to remind you people of when Xmastime was pampered at the stadium. And since you didn't ask, my 5 favorite lines:

- We finally get there and get directed to a part of the Stadium I didn't know existed, The Valley of Vale and Majesty, where we meet up with Randy who takes us through some hallway and down some stairs into what opens up into a huge space I can only describe by saying "how I'd imagine what the cafeteria/dining room of the Justice League looks like."

- Another thing I realized sitting so close to the field is how bright everything really is under the lights. I mean the lights, these fucking lights could generate enough energy to move Kirstie Alley a quarter-inch. Well. Almost. They're lights, not magic. 

Fuck it, y'all find 3 more, I can't spoon-feed you this shit.

#bearfarts

Happy Birfday!

To Christine Smith, the best of all the Hayday drummers.

Challenge Accepted!

Via.

Because It's Never a Bad Time for Absurd Mom Texts

24 more HERE.

Xmastime Confessions

I've never watched Roots.

Spinoff Suggestion

Shameless can sometimes be just too damn depressing. Can we give Kevin his own show?

Thoughts. I Have Them.

By virtue of their name, of all the bands out there shouldn’t The Tokens have been the band with at least one minority member? Too soon?

The Breakfast Club

Was 30 years ago today. That's fucking depressing.

100 Metro Is Trending

Last night longtime Xmastime buddies Kate & Anna took a moment to pose for a pic in front of the door:

And Backstreets mentions that today is the 20-year anniversary of Bruce "The Boss" Springsteen winning a Grammy for Streets of Philadelphia, later covered by Xmastime superslice Marah, which has a video that features a shot of the band sitting in the 100 Metro kitchen. (The Gnat: that's the deep fryer you bought in the background!!!)

Full video HERE.

Xmastime NCAA Classic

From one of the very first Things Are Good editions:

1) As this is the season to think about these things, and my life is about to be taken over by college basketball (don’t worry ladies, my foot-long fuck pump doesn’t need to see the tv, only my eyes), I tell you what I’ve noticed through the years about tournament basketball. It’s the end of a tight game, maybe it’s tied with 3 seconds left and the coach calls a timeout and frantically waves his guys into a huddle, and then you see him whip out an eraserboard and frantically diagram a play. What the hell is this? You’ve spent the last six months of your life taking 4 hours a day to drill plays into these players brains, you’ve practiced every possible play for every conceivable situation, and now here it is, the single most crucial 3 seconds of the season and maybe your whole career, and you throw everything out the window and come up with something brand new in 20 seconds. “Fuck it! Reggie, you stand here, Luke is gonna throw you the ball here…” etc etc etc. Shouldn't you be prepared here, shouldn't your team already know what to do? Do I pay $75 to see Bruce scramble round at the last second and change the chords to “Badlands”? n-y-e-t. It’s like my grandfather always said to me – “kiss me the same way we’ve always practiced, Sugarlips.”

"You couldn't have thought about this before right now, genius?"

Beautiful Suicide

LIFE is highlighting the famous image of the woman who jumped off the Empire State Building in 1947, The Most Beautiful Suicide:

It's startling of course because after falling over 1,000 feet and 86 stories, she looks like she's only resting and could open her eyes at any moment.

LIFE directs us to a site that tells what we know about her family history and her final hours, during which she said goodbye to her fiance before coming back to NYC after a weekend together in Easton, and according to the boyfriend:

Barry stated to reporters that “When I kissed her goodbye she was happy and as normal as any girl about to be married.”

Is this all we've ever gotten out of the fiance? Is he still alive? Did this fuck him up, or what? Does he know why she would cross that one line out of her suicide note?

“I don’t want anyone in or out of my family to see any part of me. Could you destroy my body by cremation? I beg of you and my family – don’t have any service for me or remembrance for me. My fiance asked me to marry him in June. I don’t think I would make a good wife for anybody. He is much better off without me. Tell my father, I have too many of my mother’s tendencies.”

I feel like this would make a great short film. Also, is the guy that took the photo still alive?

Questions. I Have Them.

Does Bobby Knight line up with his undefeated '76 team and champagne at the end of every close Wichita State game like the doughebag '72 Dolphins do?

 

"The creamiest thighs in the land."

 

The Game Has Really Passed Me By

I know I haven't watched a lot of college basketball in a while, but when did announcers start calling the big men "bigs"? Wtf? Is it since Role Models came out?

Life and How to Live Lit

Via Sully we see what makes American Southern fiction so distinctive:

Ask for great Southern ones and you’ll more than likely get a name from the Southern Renaissance: William Faulkner, Harper Lee, Flannery O’Connor, Walker Percy, Eudora Welty, Thomas Wolfe—all of them sandwiched into the same couple of post-Agrarian decades…It is impossible to imagine these writers divorced from the South. This is unusual, and a product of the unusual circumstances that gave rise to them. Faulkner, Lee, Percy, and Welty were no more Southern than Edgar Allen Poe or Sidney Lanier or Kate Chopin, and yet their writing, in the context of the South at that time, definitively was. There’s a universal appeal to their work, to be certain, but it’s also very much a regional literature, one grappling with a very specific set of circumstances in a fixed time...

Even coming from the South I've never particularly cared for Southern lit:

 Everyone in those Southern stories was always shuffling down a dirty, dusty road, the sun blazing while they looked for a place to get a new collar. And they were always ordering pies. Fruit pie, slice of pie, a pie and a glass of beer please. It always seemed to be summer and blazing hot. 

I've always much preferred British lit, in fact:

But in British Lit, the streetlights were always slowly coming on as the snow starting to pick up speed, and everybody raced home to witness the goose being pulled from the fire, brandy flowing and cranberry stuffing in huge white bowls. Off in the distance, carolers.  

Of course I also never felt a real connection to the South anyways.

And oh yeah I hated The Ponder Heart.

Louisville/St. Louis

Having the announcers say "Rob Loe" constantly is weird.

"We're all going through this. It's our time at the edge....I'm totally kidding, it's just the second round."

Honesty. It Stings.

Anyone Else...

...been loving these honest company slogans?

I'm a Valley Girl, A Valey Girl

Just squealed like a schoolgirl upon realizing that's the same English grammar textbook we had in school. QUITE a life I'm putting together here, people. Living the dream.

Jimmy Fallon Wins. AGAIN.

West Virginia

Great song. shitty state.

Is there a better state song than this?

Your Saturday Night Soul Asylum Because Fuck It That's Why

#badomen

Halftime of the Virginia game had Ralph Sampson in the studio, then a commercial with a reference to, of all teams....Chaminade.

Uncle Jerry

Check out Xmastime buddy Brian's Mendes' latest. And yes, it's the same dude who was a champion javelin high schooler ;)

Pizza Pizza!

1958-1962 was the golden age for opening national pizza chains, and the last 28 years has been one long mosey through the desert.

My Nephew Is Disappointed in His Uncles

This is a cow that's confused.

Is this working? I can't hear anything. #marah Have a great #throwbackthursday everyone! pic.twitter.com/rIwLnzBF2T
— #officecow (@_officecow) March 20, 2014

Things I've Learned in This Thing Called "Life"

The fancier the peanut butter, the runnier it is. It's just a fact.

(Yes Rooster Rules you may use this one)

Thoughts. I Have Them.

I love all the outage out there over Jenny McCarthy being, I guess, wrong about child vaccinations. Because yes, of COURSE you should place your child’s health in the hands of an actress best known for getting naked and being a woman who thinks farts are funny. Yes, of course.

"And here's how you should set up the kid's 523 account..."

I Am Officially Calling Bullshit On This

Best college players of all time list which somehow has Ralph Sampson at #62?!!?!?!? Are you fucking kidding me?

For my classic rundown of the Top 50 from a few years ago...well, I made it halfway through, anyways - go HERE.

And here for my case for redemption for the beleaguered Ralph Sampson.

This Newborn Red Panda Wastes No Time Getting in His First Workout, What a Douche

Image via HERE.

College Fruition, Updated

Article at Slate today on the fact that college just isn't for everybody:

But what if such a cautionary sermon is exactly what some teenagers need? What if encouraging students to take a shot at the college track—despite very long odds of crossing its finish line—does them more harm than good? What if our own hyper-credentialed life experiences and ideologies are blinding us to alternative pathways to the middle class? Including some that might be a lot more viable for a great many young people? What if we should be following the lead of countries like Germany, where “tracking” isn’t a dirty word but a common-sense way to prepare teenagers for respected, well-paid work?

"But Xmastime", you say in the voice of Craig “Ironhead” Heyward from those soap commercials (RIP), “didn't you say this over five years ago?

Sigh. Yes I did, faithful readers. Yes I did.

This is a cow with one more regret.

That wasn't water. #ohoh #callacabnow Happy #HumpDay everybody! pic.twitter.com/ifrx0GOICT
— #officecow (@_officecow) March 19, 2014

March 18

Today is the birthday of my first love. We broke up over 20 years ago, but each year this day remains the same: I stare out the window as if looking for a lost ship returning to shore with my beloved long-lost lover, asking "When will my love return? And when she does, will she finally give me back my fucking letter jacket?"

If I Was a Billionaire

I'd learn how to make mozzarella cheese.

I'll Yumblr for Ya

Then I'd go home and start drinking gin & tonics while spending hours crafting mix tapes for friends of mine from back home. I'd finish the tape and then play it from start to finish, all while closing my eyes and imagining I was that person who had received the tape and was listening to the songs for the first time in an order that, somehow, meant something to me. I probably made 50 of these tapes, of which 2 I actually mailed. And then I'd spend hours writing extensive liner notes for each song. And each tape more than likely included We All Love Peanut Butter by the One Way Streets. - XMASTIME

 When I saw the title alone on Tumbr for My Husband's Stupid Records I had already thought "GENIUS!" Then I actually wen to the site and VOILA!  The first record see is Back from the Grave Vol.1 which includes my super-slice of superslices, We All Love Peanut Butter!

I really love these liner notes.  For the song “We all Love Peanut Butter" by the One Way Streets (which is also very good) it says:

"One hot summer day in 1966, two mom-driven station wagons pulled up outside Sunrise Studios in Hamilton, Ohio and out piled 4 insane teens. While their moms set up a table on the lawn outside and played bridge and drank lemonade, the One Way Streets were inside the studio shredding their way through 2 songs they felt would create a major disturbance. As a finishing touch to their wild afternoon, they ripped off an eighty.dollar mike on their way out the door and haven’t been heard of since."

Every single detail about that anecdote makes me very, very happy.

Finally! Coming This November!

The Irish Rovers

Children By the Millions

Four years ago today, Alex Chilton died. Just like that.

Like a lot of people, I probably would never have even known his name were it not for The Replacements, so here's a video of them standing around waiting for their classic song Alex Chilton to be over.

Because You Have to Hear My Favorite Pogues Song Right Now

St. Patty's Day, Indeed

"They were 'Black Protestants', all of them, in virtue of their descent from a godly soldier of Cromwell, and all were prepared at any moment of the day or night to sell a horse." 

As you know I've always loved me some Irish R.M., so how can I go through today of all days without a little taste?

A Note.

If my Tea Party Facebook friends took half of the energy they're furiously spending in an effort to tie the disappearing jet to an Obama conspiracy to more productive use, they could probably solve a lot of the world's real problems

Paycheck to Paycheck

If you find yourself not sufficiently depressed, checked out the new HBO doc Paycheck to Paycheck, featuring a single mother of 3 in Chattanooga struggling to make ends even remotely meet on $9.49/hr and no health insurance:

What makes Gilbert’s story so compelling is that she challenges almost every stereotype underpinning right-wing rhetoric about poverty, single mothers and the underemployed. Gilbert isn’t looking for a government “handout,” and she doesn’t blame others for her plight. She’s also remarkably patient and affectionate with her children, even as she raises them by herself. 

Sure she accepts food stamps, but she deserves them because she's "pulling herself up by her bootstraps!", unlike the bloodsuckers in Paul Ryan's fantasy “tailspin of culture in our inner cities, in particular, of men not working and just generations of men not even thinking about working or learning the value and the culture of work.”

 In other words, she's white.

St. Patrick's Day Jukebox, Track 1

The Irish Rover
When I was a kid my dad always tried to make a big deal out of us being Irish (the only ones in town), but who gives a shit what your dad says when you’re young? Certainly not me. When we got a little older my dad came up with the idea that on St. Patrick’s Day, he would administer a quiz to my brother and me on the history of Irish saints; the winner would get a pizza from TA-DA! Roma’s. A week or so before the 17th he’d give us some big, over-the-top dry book to read on the subject. My brother would actually read it; I’d get to page 3 and then start wondering if I’d rather be in Def Leppard or Duran Duran (trick question – I’d be better off being a dead Irish saint.) So guess who would win the “competition”? But the thing is, I’d still get the pizza – the pizza would come, and I’d hafta toast to Brothatime!!!’s Irish brilliance, but I’d do it with a mouthful of cheese and grease on my face. To this day, I live by that creed: "I will not read for pizza." Anyways, my dad didn’t have a lot of records that weren’t some military marching band or some such, but he did have this IRISH ROVERS record, and I about wore it out when I was a wee one - in particular this song. I wish I had the Irish Rover’s version that I speak of, but the Pogues are always close enough when it’s about the motherland.

Obvious du Fucking Jour

In a bid to somehow top all the New York Times articles still coming out "geee, Williamsburg is becoming gentrified!", this dipshit has decided SXSW isn't quite the scrappy little indie rock puppy pound it used to be:

If the annual South by Southwest Music Festival was once a highly prized opportunity for developing artists to win needed attention from music-industry personnel, it's now a hydra-headed corporate carnival that employs some 2,200 musical acts to attract marketers and advertisers. Music is still its saving grace, but a question lingered here last week: Is it worth it for emerging artists to perform at an event that seems less about their art and more about branding, networking and deal-making?

Hey, no shit Sherlock - for fuck's sake Metallica played there HALF A FUCKING DECADE AGO!!!

Back when SXSW mattered. A little.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

A bottle of Guinness was split on the floor
When the pub was shut for the night
Out crept a mouse from his little hole
And sat in the pale moonlight

He lapped at the frothy brew
Then back on his haunches he sat
And all night you could hear him roar
"Bring on the fucking cat!"

Happy St. Patrick's Day

(reprinted yearly)

When I was a kid my dad always tried to make a big deal out of us being Irish (the only ones in town), but who gives a shit what your dad says when you’re young? Certainly not me. When we got a little older my dad came up with the idea that on St. Patrick’s Day, he would administer a quiz to my brother and me on the history of Irish saints; the winner would get a pizza from TA-DA! Roma’s. A week or so before the 17th he’d give us some big, over-the-top dry book to read on the subject. My brother would actually read it; I’d get to page 3 and then start wondering if I’d rather be in Def Leppard or Duran Duran (trick question – I’d be better off being a dead Irish saint.) So guess who would win the “competition”? But the thing is, I’d still get the pizza – the pizza would come, and I’d hafta toast to Brothatime!!’s Irish brilliance, but I’d do it with a mouthful of cheese and grease on my face. To this day, I live by that creed: "I will not read for pizza."

Here's a Fucking Tip

I've always hated when a restaurant posts a sign reminding us that the servers depended on our tips since the restaurant doesn't pay them shit. I understand the social custom, but at least let us play the game; don't fucking ANNOUNCE you're getting away with not paying your own workers. What other business gets away with this?

Meanwhile, a restaurant in DC will give its servers a living wage and ban tipping:

Owner Bill Perry will pay workers at least $15 an hour and put notes on tables and the website explaining that waitstaff won’t accept tips. If anyone still leaves tips on the table, the staff will decide on a charity to donate it to.

I'm happy they're getting paid a living wage, but I don't understand why tipping has to be banned. Why does it have to be one or the other, not both? You're always free to tip anybody for any service they provide. Meanwhile, we're very accustomed to tipping waiters/waitresses. So if we're so happy with their service we'd STILL like to kick them a tip even though we don't ant to, why should that be forbidden? Wouldn't that just make servers even HAPPIER to be working there, making them wanna bust their butt a little more, making your restauarant that much more popular?

Then there's this:

Perry’s fears of a poor dynamic created by the custom of tipping waitstaff is grounded in research. It often perpetuates racism and sexism, as attractive women make better tips and white servers make more than black ones, despite similar service. 

Perry's intentions may be well-grounded, but I don't see how banning tipping has anything to do with it. The point should be that these victims of racism and sexism as servers are now protected by a real living wage. Above and beyond that, isn't all fair in war and tipping.

OVERLY DRAMATIC SHARK

VIA.

OVERLY DRAMATIC SHARK

VIA.

OVERLY DRAMATIC SHARK

VIA.

OVERLY DRAMATIC SHARK

VIA.

Wally Walker Who?

As you all know I've long bitched about how long it's been since Virginia hoops matters - a quick search on here for Jeff Lamp will fill you in - and while I can't say I've cared too much about them over the past two decades (through no fault of my own: not only have they sucked,  they've been completely unwatchable), I have gotten swept up with them over the past few weeks. They're not only good, but EXTREMELY watchable and likeable. And while I can't say I'm as much of a fan as those who kept paying attention all these years, I must say their winning the ACC Title Game today was both fantastic in that it's their first since 1976 (a staggering statistic) and odd in that I feel like a Red Sox fan in 2004 must've: I can't remember a time in my life when I couldn't bitch and moan about the Cavaliers not having won the tournament since 1976.

Must Admit.

Mildly curious to know what the founder of such a class organization has to do to get booted from it.

Art Imitates Life Imitates Bob Uecker

From the Obama Betwen Two Ferns video:

Obama: Uh, those “Hangover” movies. He, he, basically, he carried them.
Galifianakis: Yeah, everybody loves Bradley. Good for him.
Obama: Good lookin’ guy.
Galifianakis: Being like that in Hollywood, that's easy! Tall, handsome, that's easy. Be short, fat, and smell like Doritos and try to make it in Hollywood.

And now the master:

Bob Uecker: "Anybody with ability can play in the big leagues. To last as long as I did with the skills I had, with the numbers I produced, was a triumph of the human spirit."

HAPPY BIRFDAY, BIG BEAR!

From.

I'm rarely right about anything. I mean, I'm the guy that had a kiniption fit when the Cowboys traded away Herschel Walker, and it ended up giving the Cowboys 3 Super Bowl rings and a mini Hall-of-Fame roster. So. I probably would've fought Dylan going electric, I'm such a fucking idiot.

But the one thing I've gotten right is to put a poster of Big Bear on my door. No matter how fucking angry I get about everything - oh I hate this, I hate that, I hate you, why does the world suck etc etc - what separates me from the world is this ridiculous poster of Big Bear as Dragon Boy. It is LITERALLY impossible to open the door without seeing it and cracking up. Hell, I'll be honest, sometimes I give his fist a pound. By the time I'm on the other side of the door I've forgotten why I was so angry or depressed, and am just laughing, thinking about Big Bear and cracking up.

A superhero, indeed.

XMASTIME EMERGENCY TV ALERT!!!!!

Unsung Hollywood: What's Happening!

That BITCH!

Lindsay Lohan can't keep her fucking trap shut.

Calling Bullshit

I take offense at A Hamburger Today's lamenting how sad it is that Dennis Lee ate at a White Castle all by himself. I did it many, many, MANY times while in Brooklyn. And I don't care that it as on Valentine's Day; if you saw ho I've spent the last two decades of Valentine's Days you'd gouge your eyeballs out. I only ever had company at a White Castle once.
________________________________________________________________

I felt bad about having to pull Chuck from the playground, so we swung by White Castle.  It’s difficult to think of a worse place to bring a two year-old than one covered in bullet-proof glass and toxic grease, but I’d just watched a retarded guy drop his pants and was having an “I need a real career” crisis, so I felt like some goddam White Castle.  And God bless Chuck; after getting our order and sitting down at a table, he still wanted to talk about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

“Rats!”

I gave him a cup filled with Goldfish and dug into one of my many, many cheeseburgers.

“That’s right, lil’ buddy.  Rats needs a job.  A career, even.  Everyone else I know has one.”

“More gofish, Rats!”

“You got it, lil’ buddy.”  I dumped another handful into his cup.  “I’m telling you, I should’ve latched onto some stupid corporate job the second I graduated college, right?  Some faceless, whatever corporation with six weeks paid vacation, free coffee and Super Bowl pools.  How the heck did I not do that?”

“Whayou doing, Rats?”

“That’s the whole point - I had no idea what the heck I was doing.  Did I do it on purpose, lil’ buddy?  I mean, it’s not like I consciously decided ‘eff the man!’ and came here to be some sort of bohemian, cool guy artist that refused to make money or be a part of society, right?  No, I came to New York City, and have been wandering around in a fog ever since, doing nothing that means anything to anybody.”

“Rats!  Meful, Rats!”

“No no, you’re right,” I corrected myself, “all this time with you has meant something.  You’re right.  Everything else, though, it’s been a big fog of nothingness.”

“Nuffin rats!”

“You said it, lil’ buddy,” I agreed.  “A big, fat nothing.  I can’t even sell out right; I’m like the starving artist, but without bothering with the pesky part of being an artist.  Or, obviously, starving.” 

The Making of The Shining

SPOILER ALERT: Everybody's British. Wtf.

Happy Birfday!

To Mark Braxton, aka Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuf!

- Mark Braxton. Or, as he became known in high school, “Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuff!” My first friend ever, we met on the afternoon kindergarten bus. One of the most amazing facts about Mark was that from grades K-6, he had the exact same “Happy Days” lunchbox. Every year our metal lunch boxes would get pummeled by older kids who thought they were being “funny”; getting a new lunch box every year became a back to school ritual. Like shopping for school clothes, or rape. Not for Mark. Somehow, god knows how, his lasted all those years. Will never forget that lunch box. In high school during study hall he helped out the office, going round picking up attendance cards from each class, and by the third day of class the teachers were trained to not fight it, but simply pause the lesson whenever he’d stick his head in the door and be treated to a class-wide chorus of “BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUFF!!!” As he worked his way towards your class the noise would get louder, you’d get excited, then after he came to your class you could hear it get quieter with each room further away. A veritable moving orgasm, now that I think of it. Awesome. I haven’t seen Buuuuf since high school - actually, I didn’t see him that much during high school either. At some point he found a new group of black friends to hang out with, and I had become part of my white crowd. Always felt crummy about that, but we were kids, I dunno. Just happened. A side note re: Buuuuf. THE single worst basketball player ever. And I’m not exaggerating. Hell, I don’t know how he even made the team by our junior year. My 8th grade year over 100 kids tried out for the jv team, and I was one of only two 8th graders that made it. Buuuf? Cut. My sophomore year the team was great, won the district (I was playing jv that year, since it became obvious Varsity had no room for my 40 shots a game.) For some reason the next year, if you showed up and were alive, you made the team. Hence, Buuuf. His shot had to be seen to be believed: grabbing the ball with both hands at one hip, he would swing the ball clockwise over his head, releasing it into the stratosphere in a manner, shall we kindly say, haphazardly. The killer tho? You know how great shooters, upon releasing the ball will shout out “good!”? Buuuuf, god bless him, the ball would still be in his hands as he’s winding up his shot and he’d announce “off!” Dynamite.

This Is Awesome

Via EATER:

Here's a video from the Australian comedy group Stuntbear that takes real comments from the Domino's Australia Facebook wall and contrasts them with images of extreme poverty and war zones in an amazing sendup of "first world problems."

)

Wait What?

I live in DC, am a Beatles fanatic, and had no idea this was happening:

February is a big month for American Beatles fans. After all it was 50 years ago that the Fab Four appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show and then made their way down to Washington, D.C. for their first public concert at the Washington Coliseum on 3rd St. NE. You've probably seen the black and white footage of Paul, John, George and Ringo playing to screaming teenagers in D.C. on February 11, 1964. And, hopefully you've read our accounts of the Beatles' visit here on the blog.

But it's one thing to write accounts of history... It's quite another to recreate history. And that's exactly what the  D.C. Preservation League and Douglas Development and their partners did with their Yesterday & Today event at the Washington Coliseum on February 11, 2014.

On a side note, kudos on the tribute band having the wherewithal to have a left-handed base player, unlike a certain somebody. Fucking hell.
)

Untucked!

Grantland has another fascinating 30 for 30 short film, UNTUCKED:

Marquette University’s men’s basketball team won its only national championship in 1977 — and did it wearing famously untucked jerseys. Commissioned by legendary coach Al McGuire, this subtly subversive uniform was designed by player and art major Bo Ellis. The jersey would later be banned by the NCAA, but this story tells how the power of a uniform allowed a championship team to flourish.

"But Xmastime", you say in the voice of Craig “Ironhead” Heyward from those soap commercials (RIP), “isn't this a perfect opportunity to remind everyone of how awesome Al McGuire was?" 

Sigh. Yes, faithful readers. Yes it is.
)

Questions. I Have Them.

Has anyone ever made the connection between Don Draper/Dick Whitman of Mad Men and Clyde Griffiths from An American Tragedy?

Buzzfeed's Things 27 Every Parent Secretly Does

I was guilty of these during my Manny Tour of Duty.

1

2 (the dark-haired chick)

3

4

6

7

10 (tho it wasn’t the movies, it was a plane)

12 (never learned ‘em anyway)

14

17

27

Obama Between the Ferns

I'm sure everyone's sen this already but it's fucking killer.

Between Two Ferns with Zach Galifianakis: President Barack Obama from President Barack Obama

Holy Crap

Had no idea the Kim Carnes' classic was a cover.

Questions. I Have Them.

Sorry, but what the hell do Neil deGrasse Tyson and Edith Bunker in 1955 know about the professional soccer team that delighted its NYC fans in the 70s with stars such as Pelé, Italian striker Giorgio Chinaglia and the West German sweeper Franz Beckenbauer?

Seperated at Birth?

Sandy Hook killer Adam Lanza and Hale-Bopp cult leader Whatshisface.

Coming Along Nicely

My Sesame Street parody of True Detective is coming along nicely:

Rust: Bert
Marty: Ernie
Yellow King: Big Bird
Errol Childress: Snuffleupagus
Green-eared spaghetti monster: Oscar the Grouch

"I said, let's make flowers dammit!"

True Detective Finale

Gonna be a lot of giggles at the next Grownup & Me class when the teacher tells the kids it's arts & crafts time and "today we're gonna make flowers."

"Hahaha! I've seen the inside of a pussy more recently than you, you fat shit!"

True Detective Finale Question (SPOILER ALERT)

You think Rust kept himself alive while bleeding out on the ground by telling himself "You just gotta keep livin' man, L-I-V-I-N."?

True Detective Finale Question

Who called the cops? They had no cell coverage, and were in the middle of nowhere buried in a labyrinth.

Almost Here

Can't wait for the inevitable Sesame Street parody of the True Detective finale, particularly when they finally reveal The Yellow King.

True Detective Finale

I'm giving my official True Detective predictions. There will be no whacky ending, it will be what was right under our noses: the fat guy on the lawn mower was the main killer, based on his line about "I know all about the coast" from last week, coupled with Rust pointing out that's where most of the murders were.

The Yellow King? I'm voting on Tuttle.

So Xmastime hath sayeth, so it shall be spokeneth. The writer will be laughing his head off at all the lunacy the internet spun up about it all. Though the number 5 will be big...pentagram?

"Fine, I'll tell you...it was THIS GUY."

Swine Boy!

When I moved to NYC over 11 years ago, the first job I had was graphic designer for a string of copy shops in mid-town. Coming from Virginia was bad enough, but I had just come from living in Mississippi for 2 years, so the people I worked with got a kick out of me being the resident Jethro straight-off-the-farm; they were probably mildly amused I was familiar with indoor plumbing.

For some reason, my first week there I literally broke every thing I touched. Computer, printer, 2 copy machines, the fax. My beefy paws touched it, it broke, finally prompting Parish, the copy machine tech guy who was from Trinidad and every single thing he said was funny, to blurt out "Dammit, you hafta be careful with the equipment, you're not back on the farm wrestling hogs!!" From then on, I was "Swine Boy." - XMASTIME

And it was from there I became familiar with the ultra-tasty "Double", which some chick HERE is going on about today:

When I arrived five years ago, I was a Caribbean food novice. I soon caught up and caught on to the wonderful flavors. My favorite discovery is doubles, a Trinidadian street food that is a Bed Stuy breakfast tradition.

Despite its plural name, a double is a singular sandwich made of two pieces of fried bread (bara) filled with curried chickpea stew (channa) and then topped with tamarind chutney, kuchela (chutney made of green mangoes) and pepper (a vinegary sauce made from scotch bonnet peppers).

And yet this is the photo they use:

Are you kidding me - could they NOT find anything less appetizing to look at? This doesn't look like any double I remember...why didn't they just take a photo of a turd at the bottom of the gotdam toilet bowl?

DOWNTON ABBEY Dogz

- Isis the dog made an appearance? Are you kidding me – last time we saw her the ping pong table was set up in the study for the wounded soldiers during WWI. Edith had only been rejected as a lover by the local hunchbacked boy with a face full of boils 2 or 3 times; I mean, this shit was EARLY. What is this mutt, 85 years old now? (Ed. note: just got an email from Edith: “Is Isis single?”) - XMASTIME

Well, here they all are yammering about Isis, so.

Sitcom Review

I ripped the main guy for his last show, and I don't know why I even watched it other than it's exactly the kind of stupid shit I watch, but I must say I'm finding About a Boy surprisingly watchable.

Dive Bars. Ugh.

PREDICTION: Within 12 months there will be bars that offer a section with paper bag beer, wherein you can buy some cardboard, make up a "I'm Homeless" sign, and sit against a wall looking gaunt with all your other "dirty" friends.  - XMASTIME

Finally, some sense about stop automatically praising "dive bars":

Metro Boston is also stuffed with hundreds of thousands of pre-affluent college students who crave the imaginary credibility that comes from sharing cheap drinks with the Busch draft riffraff that float enough dive bars to justify a book about them. Dive bars are necessary to a healthy drinking community, but we need to stop glorifying the shoddy majority of them. There are few things better than a simple, friendly, run-down tavern where any man or woman off the street can get a $3 fix in low light. But just because a bar is old, cheap, and decrepit doesn't make it venerable. There's a thick, bold line between "unrefined working-class bar" and "unrepentant shithole."

The thirst for people to appear "real" to others is always fascinating.

*********************************************************************

We walked through the door and were immediately pounded by a décor that reeked of “Hey look, we spent $50,000 on fake Southern 1950’s crap for an authentic feel!”  There was an old gas pump sign in he corner; yes, I’m sure it was from “grandpappy’s filling station.”

“Rats!  Whas dis pace, Rats?” Chuck’s nose crinkled with judgment.

“Yeah, no kidding lil’ buddy,” I agreed as I looked around the small dining room.  “This looks like one of those places that restaurant snobs try to out-gaga each other over, yammering on and on about any hi-falutin place in the big city that serves collards and fried chicken that it’s ‘real’ Southern, right?”

“Whyyou say dat Rats?”

“’Ooooh, so authentic!’ ‘Greasy like down South!’ ‘The real thing!’’’, I answered, shaking my head.  “As if they’ve ever set foot off Manhattan Island at any time other than their seven years at Bard College, right?”

“Rats!”  Chuck laughed, pointing around in a circle to nowhere in particular.  I loved that shit.

“You said it, lil’ buddy.  They sound like them twenty-three year-old girls that come across the bridge on Friday nights to The Dell, all giddy to their friends about being at a ‘kitschy dive bar!’”

“Dibar Rats!”

“Yeah, right?  Keeping it ‘real,’ are we girls?  Ha!”

We both fell into laughing like a couple of loons, slapping each other five.

“Rats I wan up Rats,” Chuck was pointing at a barstool.

“Yeah, let’s sit down,” I tapped Chuck on the back of the head to nudge him towards the bar.  “I guess we’re supposed to think the stuff was cooked on a pot belly stove by Loretta Lynn while rasslin’ coons in the backyard, right lil’ buddy?  ‘Real!’”

Chuck didn’t look very pissed as I helped him up and onto the bar stool, but he definitely could feel what I was saying.

“Drives me freaking crazy,” I went on, “just like blathering on and on about ‘real lumps’ in their mashed potatoes, right?  Idiots.  Forget them.”

“Forget them Rats!”

“You got that right, lil’ buddy.  Makes hipsters more, how would they say it, ‘rustic and down-homey,’ right?  No no, of course, they’d call it real.”

He screamed with laughter upon finding out the stool spun around in circles, so I gave it an extra hard spin to thank him for agreeing with my sarcasm.

“And I’m telling you, lil’ buddy: the richer they are, the more they just have to make sure you heard them, that they just have to have their precious lumps in their ‘mashed taters.’”

I shut up just long enough to order a Diet Coke, which the bartender delivered with a disapproving look.  Chuck finally stopped spinning and clung to the arms of the stool, dazed and panting.

“Rich man's guilt, that’s what it is.  ‘Daddy bought me another car, so I'd better not get mashed potatoes that are creamy.  I’d lose my street cred!’  For chrissake, they're just potatoes - popping a hamstring jumping up to announce your love of lumps in ‘em don’t make you a working class hero.  Right, lil buddy?”

I'm in Heaven

What's Happening!! minisodes!

Someone Found Twitter

Check him out HERE.

This is a cow that is nervously wondering why the boss has called him into her office. #officecow

When a Band as Good as The Equals Comes Around, I'd Sure Love to Hear Them

This is a cow enjoying a casual moment with a co-worker by discussing how annoying TPS reports are. #officecow

Well. This is Heartbreaking.

The long, slow, dying of Dean Smith.

Inside the big Carolina family, he built a smaller family -- the players and coaches and staffers who came to see him as a teacher, a guru, a role model, a surrogate dad. They asked his advice on everything from sneaker contracts to marriages. He called on their birthdays and got tickets for their in-laws. He built lifelong bonds.

But for the past seven years, maybe more, dementia has drawn the curtains closed on Dean Smith's mind. Now he is 83 and almost no light gets out. He has gone from forgetting names to not recognizing faces to often looking at his friends and loved ones with empty stares.

Here is the special cruelty of it: The connector has become disconnected. The man who held the family together has broken off and drifted away. He is a ghost in clothes, dimmed by a disease that has no cure. Even the people closest to him sometimes slip into the past tense: Coach Smith was. They can't help it. They honor him with what amounts to an open-ended eulogy. At the same time, they keep looking for a crack in the curtains. They do what people do when faced with the longest goodbye. They do the best they can.

"If you have cancer," she says, "you can process it and come to resolution in areas that you need to, or make sense or meaning of your life, and meaning of what's going on, and express your wishes."

She looks out the window.

"And we didn't have that."

The phone rings every few minutes. Linnea lets it ring. There hasn't been much new to say lately. There's no cure for dementia. But people keep calling, checking, hoping. "I'm sure they think," Linnea says, "is this going to be the last time? Is this my goodbye?"

She wonders the same thing, of course. People can live with dementia for decades. They also can die from complications out of the blue. In between, most of the time, there is a vast and disconnected space. But the ones who care about Dean work for those few brief moments of connection, a smile or a song or a bouncing ball.