Blog Cabin

At least that's what they told him...

2008-05-08T21:28:00.004-04:00

So a blind guy bowled a perfect game recently in Iowa. But that's not what I find amazing. I'm also not amazed that he did it despite being 78 years old. The fact that he's a World War II vet? Nope. How about that his friends call him "The Hammer"? Eh.

No, what really gets me about this guy is that after the perfect game, they get him to pose for a picture for the newspapers, and no one -- absolutely no one -- bothered to tell him to smile. The guy bowled 12 straight frames of strikes -- something most people consistently fall, oh, 10 or 11 short of -- but no one said "Cheese"?

Jeez, the guy looks depressed. Then again, he's 78 and blind. Maybe a perfect game only makes up for so much.

I Got Five On It

2008-04-28T21:24:00.002-04:00

Gas prices, as we all know, are what the French call "Le Crazy" (actually, they probably don't -- my lack of a grasp on the French language aside, I think gas is like nine bucks a gallon there, but not served by the gallon since it's all metric-tastic -- but I digress). I read a story today that says we could be headed for $7-$10/gallon gas in the next few years. If that happens, the new five-dollar bill below will quickly become obsolete.

Leah likes to get freaky

2008-02-13T19:08:00.002-05:00

You know it's a slow news day when gorilla sex warrants the attention of a major news service. Yet, here it is. Apparently, a gorilla named Leah -- who also happens to be the first gorilla seen using tools -- was the first gorilla to be observed engaging in "face-to-face" mating.

Of course, it takes eight paragraphs for them to mention the name of the male gorilla (George, if you're curious) who was ~~nailing~~ ~~boning~~ mating with Leah. What, like it was all her, and he had nothing to do with it? I'm just saying, a little credit where credit is due.

On top of everything (pun not intended, but subsequently realized and giggled at while typing), should we really be that impressed by gorillas finally learning missionary position? Call me when Leah figures out reverse cowgirl.

I suck, but here's how I make it up to you

2008-02-12T23:10:00.005-05:00

Yes, it's been months and months. I don't know if anyone even bothers to come here anymore. But if you do, here is your reward:

The world's smallest bodybuilder. He's 2-foot-9 and from India, and apparently he can lift 9 kg dumbells! (Sure, that doesn't sound like much, but it's the metric system! That's probably what, like 4,000 pounds American?)

The guy is 19 years old and, judging by one of the other pictures in the article, roughly the size of a cricket bat. (Again, just like kilograms, this does not make sense to my American readers. A cricket bat is not some weird hybrid of chirpy bloodsucker, but rather a big paddle used to hit something or other in a sport of some kind. See? How much clearer can it get? You're welcome.)

Also, he says he wants to travel the world and "to perform in London with my idol, Jazzy-B." You know, whoever that is.

More Food Lion fun

2007-11-15T16:14:00.000-05:00

For once, the customers in Food Lion weren't ignoring the fact that lane four is the express lane. Usually, there are people with carts full of crap and no employees regulating the line so that people like me, who buy three things per trip (hey, I live close by, cut me some slack) can get in and out quickly.

Today, it was just me and a crackhead-looking woman buying about seven items. Well, she goes to pay and decides that the grand total -- probably something on the order of about 10 bucks -- isn't going to be compatible with her preferred method of payment, which consists of several crumpled up singles and an envelope full of change. So she asks the cashier to take several items off the order.

The cashier apologizes to me, noting that she can't check me out until a manager overrides the crackhead's transaction. Then the crackhead apologizes, adding, "This happens to me all the time." Well, guess what bitch? Maybe you should, oh I don't know, keep a mental running tally of how much you're spending as you start picking shit up. You know, not major mathematics, just a quick, "Hmmm, do I have enough change for this pie crust?" (Note: that actually was one of the sacrificed items.)

Seriously, this cannot be that hard. I could see it happening once in a while. Shit, I've walked through Food Lion, done a whole bunch of shopping and gotten to the register only to realize I left my wallet at home. It happens. But if you're going to excuse yourself with the statement that "This happens to me all the time," maybe you've got bigger problems than no pie for dinner.

Mama Said Box You Out

2007-10-16T01:25:00.000-04:00

Is it weird that boxed wine is really bagged wine? Because on the inside, it's a plastic bag holding all the wine, not the box. Like, if you came home with a box of cereal but were carrying it in a shopping bag, and someone asked, "Hey, whatcha got there?" you wouldn't say, "Why, I've got a bag of cereal!"

And not just because you don't start declarative sentences with the word "why."

It's because you're thinking of the box inside of the bag that's actually constraining the cereal, preventing it from going all over the place. Why can't we do that with bagged, er, boxed wine?

I don't know. Maybe it's just all the boxed wine talking, but we should be able to get this done.

Fab Five (Dollars Every Time it Airs)

2007-10-05T01:57:00.000-04:00

Okay, why the fuck does Jalen Rose have a "starring" role in an infomercial? Sure, it's late. There are infomercials on. What are you going to do? But one of them is for "American Grants" apparently some kind of company that gives you information to get grants.

So my question is, what does Jalen Rose have to do with it? What does he need a grant for? Well after his prime, he was still collection NBA checks for millions of dollars. Does he a) really need to supplement that income with infomercial work, and b) need a grant for anything?

Although I guess if you're going to have a spokesman for free money, it might as well be someone from Michigan's Fab Five.

Ugottabe McKiddingme

2007-08-09T15:40:00.001-04:00

Yes, yes, it has been a long time. And I've received some complaints to that effect (Hi, Kara!). But I'm back because I read today that the Pittsburgh Steelers have their first-ever mascot, and they have picked a name for it.

The name ... wait for it ... is "Steely McBeam" -- seriously. I was wondering how long it took to think of that one. Ten seconds? Twenty?

Turns out the name was fan-submitted, and the winner gets Steelers VIP tickets to a game against Buffalo. But the best part is that there were 70,000 entries. You're seriously going to tell me that no one came up with anything better than Steely McBeam? My only hope is that the day of this game, Buffalo unveils its own mascot named Billy McBison.

Also, anyone notice how in the picture from the article how much this new mascot looks like Barry Bonds? Yeah, I thought so.

You Wanna Get Nuts? Let's Get Nuts!

2007-07-05T22:28:00.000-04:00

Hello, all (five people who probably read this). I'm back from the road.

I'm watching an episode of the Wonder Years, and in it, the bully Eddie Pinetti, fills Kevin's locker with jockstraps. That got me thinking: Everyone in the 1960s wore a jockstrap for gym class? I certainly never did. Then again, I didn't grow up in the 60s, I grew up in the 80s. I wore one for football, but that's it. And even now, a cup isn't necessary for playing in the NFL, at least according to this and several other similar stories.

So between not using them in gym class and not using them for a sport in which 300-pound men fly at each other with such ridiculous velocity that a ruptured testicle would seem like getting off easy, I have to wonder: When exactly did we start playing fast and loose with our balls?

Since I really have no other thoughts to wrap this up, simply watch this video of John Belushi, doing his best Joe Cocker imitation (you know, because I was watching The Wonder Years):

Going Yard

2007-04-13T23:05:00.000-04:00

I know I haven't blogged in forever, but with good reason. I'm currently on a three-month baseball road trip that features blogging and entertaining video. Check it out every day at:

http://www.cstv.com/goingyard/index-blog.html

Check back there every day for more goodness, as I likely won't be posting here much (if at all) until I'm back home in July.

Eat S*** and DIY

2007-02-15T13:55:00.000-05:00

As I sit here sweating, my fingertips still stained a grayish-black, even after a vigorous scrubbing, I'm pondering exactly what the penalty would be for hunting down and killing whoever it was that designed the headlights on the 2003 Hyundai Elantra.

It seemed the easiest of do-it-yourself tasks, even for a car-retarded know-nothing like me: changing the bulb in my headlight. So first I consult the manual. (Actually, not true. First I bought a new bulb at Wal-Mart, unwittingly committing myself to completing this job, despite my recurring desire throughout the project to simply smash the headlight with a baseball bat and then bring it to someone else to fix.) Anyway, the manual says: "The next paragraph will instruct you on how to change the bulb." The next paragraph proceeds to tell me that I should now change the bulb. These are the instructions? Were they just poorly translated out of the orginial Korean? Or does someone actually think that constitues "directions"? Allow me now to briefly interject into my own rant so that I may give you my award winning recipe for roast duck:

Step 1: Get all the ingredients and make it. Bon apetit!

Okay, we're back. How was the duck? Succulent, I hope. Anyway, being a resident of the 21st century, I consult the Web for answers. A complex picture-laden tutorial (not from Hyundai, incidentally) tells me how I can get this thing changed. Near the end, it says, you should now have eight bolts/screws taken out. This was the mantra I kept repeating to myself out by the car as I froze and wondered if this could really be good for the cold I was unsuccessfully trying to fight off. Eight. Eight. Eight. In my mind, I sounded like an alternate take of the Beatles' "Revolution 9" which would have been cool and kinda trippy, but I was preoccupied by only having seven bolts/screws.

Finally, I spy the final bolt, way way down below. This first requires removing a piece of hard plastic tubing that looked like an extension to the vacuum cleaner hose. As I haphazardly yanked it out, I considered what kind of job it might do on those hard-to-reach places behind the furniture. I tossed it on the ground. At this point, mind you, I had several car pieces on the ground around me, and I was having a bad fantasy about this turning into a stupid sitcom/cartoon moment where I finish the job only to say, "Oh yeah, and these parts were left over ... but I'm sure it's fine."

And here's the next problem, Bolt No. 8 is so far down, it seems impossible to get at. I'm working with some old adjustable wrenches (lacking one of those cool clickety ones that doesn't need a lot of space to work...ratchet? is that what it's called? I know, I know, I'm a goddamned moron). Anyway, reaching down there to try to turn this bolt -- which is on tighter than Tim Hardaway's butthole in a prison riot -- and it's about as easy as trying to get a stuffed animal out of one of those claw machines. At least I'm not wasting quarters trying to change this bulb.

After a combination of various tools and both of my hands (alternating as they became tired) I finally get the last bolt off and liberate the entire headlamp from my car. Sweet, sweet victory is finally mine as I pull out the old bulb and carefully insert the new one, making sure not to touch the acutal bulb, which the aformentioned Web site told me could ruin the bulb (gasp!) or shorten it's lifespan (double gasp!). Really it's the latter that has me worried, because if I have to do this again anytime soon, well, let's just say I won't be happy.

Thanks, English town!

2007-02-12T12:24:00.000-05:00

Thanks to a printing error on calendars in a small English town, I will have two birthdays this year. Somehow, they managed to add a second May 28th to the Crawley Council's official 2007 calendar.

Thanks, Crawley! Of course, they say next year they're going to get it right. Fine, be that way.

There's still a chance they'll keep it with an extra May 28th. At least there will be once I write them a pleading e-mail to continue letting me have two birthdays. I will keep you updated if they respond.

I Am The Shortest Man Alive!

2007-02-09T12:10:00.000-05:00

So last night I go to cover the Carolina-Duke women's basketball game, since what could be more fun than back-to-back nights of Carolina-Duke action? But since I'm a fairly late addition to the list and there are 70-plus members of the media in attendance for this No. 1 vs. No. 2 showdown, I have to sit in auxiliary seating. My options are: a) up in the crow's nest at Carmichael Auditorium, where temperatures are known to range from "man, it's freakin' hot" to "wow, i think i literally just sweated my balls off" or b) in a regular seat in the stands on the baseline.

Being that I felt no desire to sweat through my clothing, I chose option B. Anyway, after sitting there for a few minutes, a woman I can only describe as gargantuan asks me to get up because she's a couple of seats down from me, and I'm on the aisle. Turns out it's USA Basketball coach Anne Donovan, who is 6-foot-8.

Incidentally, I only found out who she was right around the same time I became the shortest man alive. That would be when ESPN sideline reporter (and former member of my hometown WNBA squad, the New York Liberty) Rebecca Lobo comes up and asks if I can get up so she can sit between me and Coach Donovan. Now, Lobo is a mere 6-4, so she looks short a couple of minutes later standing on the floor interviewing Donovan. But up there in the seats next to me (standing a scant 5-11), both are huge. I could not be shorter if I tried.

Of course, it wouldn't have been much better at the other end of the floor where 7-foot former Tar Heel Sam Perkins was in attendance. Oh well, if I want to feel tall, I guess I'll have to hold out til Carolina starts a horse-racing team.

Doe? A Deer.

2007-02-01T13:44:00.000-05:00

Apparently, a hunter in Florida shot a hermaphrodite deer the other day. And it was the second time in two days that someone bagged a he-she deer.

Even stranger (at least to me, and I'm the one writing here, so play along) is the fact that everyone apparently now must have a name somehow related to their newsworthiness. The other day, I wrote about Rep. Weed from New Hampshire who wanted to legalize pot, and then today, as I read this story, I can't help but notice that Florida's "deer managment coordinator" is named Robert Vanderhoof.

Hoof? Seriously? I thought the only people whose names were humorously related to their occupation were porn stars. But who knows, maybe it was intentional. Maybe this guy's name used to be Robert Vanderfoot, and he was like, "You know, now that I've got this deer-management gig, I should probably change it."

Hey, it could happen.

Sincerely yours,
Bloggy McBlogstein

Extra! Extra! Weed all about it!

2007-01-24T13:39:00.000-05:00

Man, have I been slack in the new year!

Well, to partially make up for it, here is by far the funniest news story I've seen in a while. Apparently, a New Hampshire representative wants to make using and selling marijuana legal. What's so funny about that? Well, nothing, unless the lawmaker in question is Rep. Charles Weed.

Seriously? Rep. Weed wants to legalize weed? Call me crazy, but I'll be his wife Mary Jane was the one who talked him into it.

What's next? Maybe Senator Joe Blow will call for the legalization of cocaine.

How the South Stole Hanukkah

2006-12-16T19:10:00.000-05:00

Luckily, I had some leftover Hanukkah candles from last year to hold me for the first couple of nights of that loveable Jewish holiday known as the festival of lights. But there won't be light for long if the local merchants here in Chapel Hill don't come up with some friggin' candles.

My first stop was Harris Teeter, which since it stocks matzoh all year round seemed like a good bet. The guy there that I asked was quite helpful, walking all around the store and finally talking to the manager before determining that they were sold out. I didn't bother asking if they'd be getting any more since this will all be a moot point in a week. Nice planning, Harris Teeter.

Then I go to the Food Lion, which I obviously had no hope for. Since Hanukkah candles are not made of tainted meat, cigarettes or strange Latino tropical juice drinks, it was a pretty good certainty that the Lion would not be stocking them. But I ask anyway. The exchange is pretty much what I expected, only slightly more ridiculous and painful.

Me: Do you have Hanukkah candles?
Customer Service Girl: What?
Me: Hanukkah candles.
CSG: What are those?
Me: Candles, for Hanukkah.
CSG: Like the really tall ones?
Me: Uh.....no.
CSG: Oh you mean for the, um .... (At this point, she breaks into a hand motion that is either a crudely air-drawn menorah or an amateurish attempt at conducting a symphony orchestra. I'm pretty sure she's on the right track, but her ignorance makes me want to make it difficult for her, so I just say nothing and continue staring at her like the backwoods retard she is. Finally she manages to blurt out some more words.) Like the thing with five things?
Me: Eight, but yeah.
CSG: No. We don't have those.

So the candles are lit, but I'll have to find some more tomorrow somewhere or the holiday will very, very ironically be cut short due to my lack of eight nights worth of candles to celebrate the holiday that commemorates the miracle of one night's worth of oil lasting eight.

But somehow I have a feeling that delicious irony will be just as lost on the people I'm dealing with as Judaism is. So I'll search on, wondering to myself, who do you have to crucify to get some friggin' Hanukkah candles in this town?

Witch is it?

2006-11-21T11:54:00.000-05:00

As I walked out to my car this morning, I noticed that there was a flattened out witch's hat -- you know, tall, pointy and black with a big round brim -- sitting underneath the front of my car. I quickly deduced that one of three possible scenarios led to it being there:

Scenario #1: I ran over a witch last night and totally didn't remember.

Okay, I admit this is unlikely. Surely, I would've noticed running over something as large as a witch. The other night, a cat ran out into the road and I could not avoid him. The good news is I think I only clipped him, because he appeared to bounce back up and make it to safety. The ironic news is I was on my way to see Cat Power play a show at Cat's Cradle. Seriously. Anyway, point is, I didn't run over a witch. I think.

Scenario #2: A young girl from a black-and-white alternate universe, in which she lives in my car, was caught in a tornado, causing my car to crash land on a witch in the parking lot.

This one is also very unlikely. Number one, there are no very short people here to help her out. Number two, there is no Emerald City nearby. Durham? Sorry, that's the Bull City. Carrboro? That's a town, friend, and one without a catchy nickname. Number three, I'm just rooting against this theory because could you imagine what would happen to my car's suspension if it had been dropped from the sky? Yeah, me neither. But it can't be good.

Scenario #3: Someone lost the hat several weeks ago on Halloween, and it just happened to blow under the front of my car last night thanks to the cold, windy weather.

Admittedly, this is the least likely of the three scenarios. Wind? Come on. Halloween costume? Puh-leeze. And if it really was part of a Halloween costume, why did this hat have to blow under there? Why couldn't I wake up to come outside and find an entire slutty nurse pinned underneath the bumper? Is that really too much to ask?

Now, of course, you're thinking: What an idiot. (Unless you're a guy, then you're still thinking about slutty nurses.) But be glad I didn't blog about the story I had Sunday, when a deranged security guard at a basketball game went on a crazy rant about the previous day's Michigan-Ohio State football game ... TWICE. Same rant. Twice. While picking his nose and wiping it on his arm. Not his sleeve, mind you, but his actual arm. Needless to say, watching to ol' booger-arm weave his prosaic magic was NOT the ideal cure for my hangover.

On that note, Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Man In Black

2006-10-24T12:02:00.000-04:00

Anyone ever heard of the web site MyHeritage.com, which allows you to upload a photo of yourself and then uses facial-recognition software to tell you who you look like? Well, if not, you have now. And it is gloriously hysterical.

So I upload a photo figuring, hey, why not see what celebs I look like? After all, whenever people play that game where they say who would play you in a movie, they have a hard time coming up with someone to play me (before eventually settling on Jack Black, but that is a rant for another time).

The software goes about its business, I fill out the quick registration form, and bam: here come my results. Boy, was I in for a surprise. Not just because Jack Black wasn't in any of the results (Suck it, anyone who ever said Jack Black would play me in a movie!) but because four of the top five results were black men!

Here, in order, were the top five matches:

1. Laurence Fishburne, who personally I liked better when he used to call himself Larry. Pretentious bastard!

2. Jamie Foxx, who has too many Xs in his name.

3. Joschka Fisher. First white guy alert! Of course, I have no idea who the fuck this guy is, but a quick Google search told me that apparently, he is the former Vice Chancellor of Germany. Ohhhhhhkay.

4. Will Smith. Well, I have been known to occasionally get jiggy with it. But only occasionally.

5. Jesse L. Martin, the black guy who was Jerry Orbach's partner on Law & Order.

Now, I'm no expert, but maybe, just maybe, this facial-recognition software is flawed. Sure, the aforementioned guys are talented and handsome just like me (except the German dude -- he was a little freaky), but that just can't be right. Either that, or I need to have a serious talk with my parents about my ancestral lineage.

Either way, I'm cool with it. As Fishburne's character, Furious Styles, said in Boyz n the Hood, "Can't afford to be afraid of our own people anymore, man."

Tag Hag

2006-10-18T17:45:00.000-04:00

I remember one time in elementary school, maybe third grade, when I was sitting on the side of this rolling-pin-type slide on the playground. Somehow I lost my balance and ended up falling backwards to the ground. All I really remember about it is having a teacher over me asking if I was okay. That, and how my head and ass inexplicably hurt (sort of like Paris Hilton after a night on the town).

You know what I did next? I got the fuck up and went back to class when recess was over. Why? Because I'm not a total pussy. Oh, and because that's just what kids did back then. Fall down, get up. Scrape a knee, put a band-aid on it. In my entire childhood, I don't remember a single kid suffering a fatal or even near-fatal wound from horseplay.

Yet now everyone thinks they should ban the game of tag, the latest nix on fun and games coming from a suburb of Boston. Soon, kids will be going to school in padded suits and helmets and then only to sit behind their desks without moving all day.

We complain that our country's kids are all fat and lazy, yet the one thing they like to run around and do is off limits. But, hey, I guess it makes sense. I mean, if kids played tag, they might fall down, break their necks and die, and then they'd never get the chance to grow up and have an eating disorder that would allow them to achieve that lovely bag-of-antlers look that is so popular these days.

Don't get me wrong. Tag is about the dumbest game ever. Run, chase, tag, run, avoid being tagged, get tagged, run, chase, tag, run, ... well you get the idea. Seriously, it's not that much fun.

When I was younger, we also used to play a game called Suicide, in which you'd bounce a tennis ball or racquetball off a brick wall and everyone would try to catch it. If you dropped an attempt to catch, you'd have to run and touch the wall before someone pegged you with the ball, or you were out. Yes, pegged. As in hit with a ball thrown as hard as possible. As I recall, no one died from that either. (And being that it's called Suicide, you'd think it'd be more deadly.) Now that was fun!

As it stands, cigarettes, booze, speeding city buses and a sex with the aforementioned Ms. Hilton all have a better chance of offing me at this point than any stupid playground game ever did. And that's not even counting that time I fell of the slide just because I'm a moron.

Call me crazy, but someone needs to put a stop to the safety madness. People, only you can save the game of tag. You're it.

N-Pee-S-U

2006-09-29T11:43:00.000-04:00

As my buddy Bartow would say, "There are many forms of class, this is just one of them." And in this case, "this" is the fact that apparently N.C. State students are just peeing wherever they want during football games. Like right there where they're sitting.

According to that AP story, contributed to by none other than my friend Aaron Beard, who last time I tried to identify him on the blog asked me to take his name out (which is why I'm purposefully putting it in this time), students are just taking a leak where they stand during football games so that they don't lose their seats. I have a couple of other theories as to why this could be happening. Perhaps the Wolfies are: a) not housebroken, or b) laughing so hard at Chuck Amato that spontaneous urination can not be avoided.

And for a moment, let us ignore the hysterically hysterical fact that the headline on the story is "N.C. State aims to keep students from urinating in seats" (get it? aim? urine? oh, forget it.) and focus on the fact that normal people don't do this. At Carolina, nobody's going to steal your seat if you leave to piss. Maybe it's because people just hold it in until late in the third quarter, so they can combine their potty break with their let's-go-to-Franklin-Street-this-team-sucks stroll out of the gates. Or maybe it's just that their civilized people.

But hey, it could be worse at N.C. State. Last year, you could get shot in the parking lot. Now the worst-case scenario is getting blasted with the ol' lemonade cannon. Way to raise the bar.

Screech, Moan ... Same Differnce

2006-09-27T12:12:00.000-04:00

Well, I think we all knew it would come to this someday.

Maybe not when you were a kid, sitting there watching Saved By The Bell re-runs. But later, when you were older, wiser, more mature, you knew something like this would have to happen. In this internet age, where anyone remotely famous and/or remotely washed up wants their 15 minutes of fame, you just knew that Screech would one day have his own sex tape.

That's right. This morning brought us not one, but two reports (though there are probably countless more out there) that Dustin Diamond, a.k.a. Samuel "Screech" Powers, has made a sex tape.

Look out, Paris! You too, Pam and Tommy! The Screech Man reportedly has a sex tape of him and two women, and here's the most disturbing part: Apparently, ol' Screecherino employs the technique known as the Dirty Sanchez in the tape. For those of you who are uninitiated in the catchy lingo for disgusting sex acts, here's the definition of a Dirty Sanchez.

The best part is that his agent thinks this will help Diamond avoid the "Screech typecast" and, hence, get more work. Unless of course Lisa Turtle is the one on the receiving end of the Poop 'Stache.

Surely, though, this plan will have to boost Diamond's career. I mean, look what being in "Showgirls" did for Elizabeth Berkeley. Now she's a huge superstar ... oh, wait. Scratch that. Oh well, at least it keeps the news entertaining.

In closing, allow me to say that I'm so excited, I'm so excited, I'm so ... scared!

Drug-Crazed

2006-09-21T13:55:00.000-04:00

Drugs are always a hot-button issue, but tell me, who looks crazier here: The guy who wrote a letter to the editor of the MetroWest Daily News saying that God said in the bible that reefer is a-okay, or the U.S. House, which passed a bill saying that teachers can strip search students "on the flimsiest of pretexts" as the article puts it?

(Hint: The answer is not "the guy who wrote the letter.")

So you're telling me that in a country where it seems we have (at least) weekly news reports about some horny (and often gross) 40-year-old teacher having sex with a 14-year-old boy, we're now making it easier for these teachers to have an excuse for getting in kids pants?

Excuse me, ma'am. Could you stop blowing that boy?

Oh, I'm not blowing him, Officer. I'm just, uh, um, making sure this isn't a crack pipe.

What could possibly go wrong?

Stinging Criticism

2006-09-14T15:12:00.000-04:00

Man, it's been a while since I posted, and this is hardly a big deal to get me fired up for finally posting, but I saw this story today about a stingray stinging a turtle and wondered what the hell it was doing on a news site. Of course, that question is answered in the fourth paragraph - as if you hadn't already guessed the reason. And the answer, of course, is that the Crocodile Hunter was killed by a stingray recently. So suddenly, anything stingray-related qualifies as news.

Earlier today, I saw two squirrels chasing each other up a tree near my back porch. I was all set to alert the local news media when I remembered something: no celebrities have been chased by a squirrel recently. Hence, the news value of my sighting equals zero.

Of course, had I seen a sharpei running through my backyard, or perhaps eaten some diseased clams last night, I probably could have attracted some media buzz based solely on the recent internet pictures (of the NSFW and/or not-safe-for-not-being-nauseous variey, I should add) of Lindsey Lohan's shriveled-out vadge.

Ah, celebrity worship. So entertaining on it's own, but when it basically dictates what the media reports on as "news" it's a little scary. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to CNN.com's front page to see if there have been any developments in the death of Anna Nicole Smith's son. Hey, it's the main story, it must be important.

'I See Poor People'

2006-07-20T12:02:00.000-04:00

Today, I read a story about how child star Haley Joel Osment, now 18 years old, was in a car accident on Thursday morning. On the surface, no big deal. Right?

That is, until you consider the car that Osment crashed: a 1995 Saturn! Are you shitting me? The kid was in several blockbuster movies, and he drives a 1995 Saturn?! My sixth sense tells me someone at the movie studio forgot to pay Osment's salary forward into his bank account.

But hey, maybe he just loves his Saturn, so we can cut him a break there. Until... Until... Until you read this story, which is all about how Bil-, uh, Ale-, um, Stephe-, oh, um, uh, Daniel Baldwin -- yeah, that's the one -- wrecked his Ford Thunderbird in Los Angeles.

Yeah, that's right Haley -- Daniel Freakin' Baldwin has a cooler car than you. And you don't need to see dead people to see that if you're lower on the car food chain the fourth of a group of brothers whose collective body of work (Alec's SNL hosting stints notwithstanding) stinks worse than Paris Hilton's snatch after a night on the town, you're in big, big trouble. Even a bespectacled Kevin Spacey can't help you now.

Kids Hate Christmas, and other things I learned from the World Cup

2006-06-19T11:53:00.000-04:00

Just a quick one here, but stupid, stupid, stupid.

I was watching the US-Italy match in group play of the World Cup the other day. The announcers were explaining why each of the players from both teams would be walking out holding hands with a kid as the teams were announced onto the field. (And to be fair, I wasn't really listening closely, so I don't know why the hell they had kids with them.)

So then one of the television announcers declares: "Those kids will have smiles on their faces that won't wear off 'til Christmas." Well, of course, because kids hate Christmas! That'll wipe the smiles right off their stupid little faces!

Parent: Hey, Timmy. Guess what tomorrow is.
Timmy: I don't know.
Parent: It's Christmas!
Timmy: Fuck off.

See? Kids and Christmas don't mix. Unless the announcer meant that the children's smiles would last up to and including Christmas, which would be totally different. But hey, if that's what he meant, that's what he should've said.

Name of the Day

2006-06-16T13:20:00.000-04:00

Funny names are a part of life, especially for sportswriters, since we often encounter, um, unusual monikers.

Here's a funny one, an Eastern Illinois linebacker named ... get ready for it ... Lucious Pussy. No word on whether he has a brother named Harry.

Serial Cereal Stealer

2006-05-21T23:17:00.000-04:00

It's not important how it came up (though for the record, it was in a conversation about how I could potentially resemble the Cookie Crook, of Cookie Crisp cereal fame), but the subject of the Cookie Crook and his thieving ways got me thinking: Why are so many cereals marketed via an ad campaign that constantly features someone trying to steal the cereal?

In searching for a picture of the Crook online, I stumbled across the wikipedia entry about the cereal and found the following paragraph:

The Cookie Crook was the anti-hero mascot and one of the earliest mascots for the cereal, who often attempted to steal the Cookie Crisp. He has a comb moustache, and wears a red chef's hat with cookies all over it. He also wears a black mask that goes over his face and nose, and a purple shirt.

The Cookie Crook, according to the entry, had quite a long run, serving as the scourge of cookie-like cereal lovers everywhere from 1980-1997 (and, it should be noted, went unchecked as a baked-good bad guy until Officer Crumb finally came on the scene in '83).

And then there is the long-suffering Trix rabbit, who has been trying to get ahold of a bowl of those delicious fruity orbs since 1959 (and technically he did in 1991 when tons of kids voted that he should be allowed to have a bowl). In every commercial, the rabbit is making off with a bowl only to get caught at the last second.

And poor Lucky the Leprechaun, always being chased by kids. Those lousy little bastards are relentless in their pursuit of that little Irishman and his tasty marshmallow pieces.

It makes me wonder why other other cereals -- or other products entirely, for that matter -- don't try this approach. You know why no one likes Grape Nuts? Because a cartoon character has never tried to steal a bowl of it.

Why hasn't the auto industry gotten on top of this? Why keep driving cars over crazy mountain terrain or through a closed course of obstacles in commercials? Get creative. Get a cartoon mascot. Maybe a masked man who uses a coat hanger to break into the car (let's say, a 1995 Honda Civic, our country's most-stolen car) and drives off just as the owner returns to lament, "He jacked my Civic!" See? Loveable scamp of a cartoon mascot, catchy slogan, and the overall sense that you will be buying a car that's desireable. I mean, who wants a car that thieves don't even want?

Someone needs to implement this plan immediately -- it's magically delicious.

Most Wanted

2006-05-18T20:44:00.000-04:00

Well, the early reviews are in on the glasses, and the first two were just fine. It was the third, from my mom, that was the most disturbing.

Her: "You look like you should be on the wall at the post office."
Me: "Huh?"
Her: "You look like a serial killer."
Me: "Oh."

Needless to say, not the look I was going for. Also, I'm just hoping that no serial killing occurs in the greater Chapel Hill area for fear that I will immediately become a prime suspect. On the upside, when pushed, Mom eventually conceded that I looked like a good-looking serial killer. Thanks, Mom.

Four Eyes

2006-05-16T12:58:00.000-04:00

Maybe the reason I haven't posted very much lately is not because I'm totally lazy but simply because I couldn't see what I would be typing.

Okay, okay. It's the first reason. I'm lazy. But it could just as easily have been the latter. You see, for the first time in my life, I will be wearing glasses, starting tomorrow. I won't need them all the time, just for covering games and night driving, mostly.

The main problem is that I have trouble doing what physicians call "seeing stuff." Specifically, stuff that's far away. For instance, you know the part of "Paradise City" by Guns N' Roses, where Axl Rose sings, "So faaaaar away ... so faaa-aaaar awaa-aay?" Yeah, well I totally can't see that part of the song.

And I'm a little nervous, never having had glasses before in the past. But I keep telling myself there's nothing to fear, it's just some glass and plastic. I mean -- I got that type of shit in the cabinet over my sink. I just don't wear 'em on my head. The upside is that now it allows me a whole array of sight-related jokes I couldn't make previously. Like when the eye doctor said something about making sure my name was associated with my payment so she wouldn't have to come track me down.

"Yeah," I deadpanned, "but now I'd see you coming."
"And from far away!" she added giddily, after way too long a pause.

And I thought to myself, bitch, don't beat this joke into the ground. Jeez. ANYWAY, I'm pretty fired up, both for the glasses and for the great price I got at Upchurch Optical (shameless plug!) in scenic north Durham, thanks to the fact that the glasses guy is a big Tar Heels fan, and we discussed the fact that I cover them. So wish me luck with the new eyewear. I'll be seein' ya. Literally.

Speling Iss Tuf

2006-04-12T01:55:00.000-04:00

I just read an article on the internet, and it was followed by reader comments, one of which included the words "simular" (sic) and "entrepreneur."

Now tell me, how exactly does one end up knowing how to spell "entrepreneur" but not know how to spell "similar?"

Seeriusly, help me out hear.

Congratulations

2006-03-19T13:55:00.000-05:00

Just a quick shout-out from up here at the NCAA Tournament in Dayton, Ohio, to my little bro Keith and his now-fiancee Mary, who got engaged yesterday. Congrats!

Also, congrats to myself and my buddy Bret, for actually finishing the liquor-laden fishbowls at The Fieldhouse, suggested to me by Keith, who attended the University of Dayton and neglected to mention that Bret and I should have shared said fishbowl instead of each ordering one.

Liquor, yay. Engagement, yay. Now it's time to cover the Heels.

"Pets, Press ... Same Difference"

2006-03-01T12:36:00.000-05:00

Here's an alarming, yet somewhat amusing, piece of news: Americans know more about The Simpsons than about the First Amendment to the Constitution, according to a story from the BBC.

Per the article: "Only one in four (Americans) could name more than one of the five freedoms it upholds but more than half could name at least two members of the cartoon family.

"About one in five thought the right to own a pet was one of the freedoms."

Wow! While I'm sure Snowball II and Santa's Little Helper would be thrilled, this is just a little scary. Of course, we could always give the American people the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they just forgot what the First Amendment guaranteed. People forget stuff all the time.

"Remember that time I took a home wine-making course and forgot how to drive?"
"Homer, you were drunk!"
"And how!"

See? Forgetting stuff and replacing it with Simpsons knowledge is totally understandable.

For the record, I actually do know the five freedoms the First guarantees us (speech, press, petition, assembly and religion), so I'm allowed to fill my brain with useless Simpsons trivia. Plus, I'm not sure that knowing two members of the Simpsons family really counts (that was the test, according to the article).

Sprint Sucks (and other stuff you already knew)

2006-02-22T17:27:00.000-05:00

I get my Sprint cell phone bill today, and it's WAY higher than usual. Further investigation reveals that I have been charged $36 for "upgrading" my phone. Apparently, if your phone is broken, you SHOULD NOT buy a new one to actually use the cell service you pay a monthly bill for. Just sit there twiddling your thumbs.

Naturally, I decided to call Sprint and complain. Usually when making complaints to big companies, I play it cool. Start with the call-center peon, and when they insist they cannot help you, pull the Can-I-Speak-To-A-Supervisor card. But Sprint so repeatedly tries to bend over myself and every other customer it has that I opted instead to launch right into a tirade.

Sprint: How can I help you today?

Me: Well, you charged me $36 for getting a new phone. I'm assuming I was supposed to keep using the broken phone I had so that you could continue robbing me by making me pay for a service I couldn't possibly use with a phone that didn't work. So you can go ahead and tell me how you can't do anything about it, and I'll continue to bend over and take one from Sprint.

Sprint: I can remove the charge from your bill.

Me [in complete shock]: Awesome.

Of course, then she tried to sell me phone internet, text messaging and anything else she could think of, so that it still took 10 minutes on the phone to execute a simple 30-second change.

But the lesson here is an important one: When it comes to corporate America, you can get whatever you want if you complain enough.

Case in point: The other day, in planning an overseas trip, I realized that my credit card limit was not high enough. But the company in question does "automatic" reviews of your limit, upping it whenever they feel like it. To solve this problem, I had to go the get-turned-down-by-the-first-person route, and then go to the supervisor.

The supervisor told me it was absolutely, positively impossible to get an increase in my credit limit outside of the periodic reviews. She urged me to check back in a few months to see if it went up. I explained how that would not help me book my travel plans and then dropped the bombshell: "This lack of customer service makes me wonder why I'm a [credit-card company] customer at all."

She put me on hold and voila! When she returned, she told me the limit increase that she deemed "impossible" a minute earlier was suddenly very doable. And I had double my previous limit.

Suck it, Corporate America!

Flying With The Partially Famous

2006-02-13T22:45:00.000-05:00

I was just telling Ogle about how big-time track star and former Tar Heel Marion Jones was on my flight to Miami yesterday. And he said, "You could've been on 'that flight that marion jones was killed on.' What's funny is that I actually considered the very same thing when I was on the plane (hey, a little turbulence will get you thinking).

But now, after Ogle repeated my own thought to me, it seems weird. Is that not a very bizarre thought to have -- to say nothing of the fact that lots of people seem to have it -- at first glimpse of a celebrity on a plane? Sitting there going, Man, if we die, it's gonna be Marion Jones this and Marion Jones that ... -- and not even in a bitter way. It would just seem odd.

I mean, this ain't Valens, Holly and the Big Bopper here. It's one famous chick and 100-some-odd randoms. A plane crash would be big news anyway. But having a celeb on board, even a pseudo-celeb, just adds some sort of element of scandal maybe that titillates the imagination. Or maybe it was the part of the flight when I wasn't allowed to use my iPod and I got bored. Who knows?

All I do know, is I distinctly recall mentioning my iPod in another recent post. All this free publicity for Apple. They should send me a free iPod. Stay tuned, as next time I possibly plug even more products I enjoy and would love to have for free.

A Hungover Ode to Hector's

2006-02-11T14:16:00.000-05:00

Last night we should have gone to Hector's. But the line was so long at this fine Chapel Hill late-night eatery that we decided to hit up another classic, Time Out. And while chicken on a biscuit is awesome, I'm having some buyer's remorse this next afternoon because apparently Hector's is going to be closing.

Why you ask? So that the stupid East End Martini Bar can expand skyward. It just isn't right. So in honor of Hector's, here's a short hungover poem I just wrote:

Hector’s is the place to eat a
Cheeseburger upon a pita.
One guy throws it toward the grill,
Landing smoothly – that’s the drill.
Some girls in line are pretty hot,
I think I’ll get some tater tots.
But suddenly it’s got to close
So that martini-drinking hoes
Can have more room to drink their drinks
Various shades of reds and pinks.
I’m anti- the martini cause --
I’d rather have Tzatziki sauce.
So as martini people get their wishes
I’ll say fuck that –- Hector’s bitches!

I Can't Stop Believing This Coincidence

2006-02-09T18:08:00.000-05:00

So today, I'm going into the gym with my iPod already plugged into my ears and music playing, in this particular case, Journey's "Don't Stop Believing."

But when I walk in to scan my card, I usually pause the iPod because the girl behind the desk usually makes brief Hey-How-Ya-Doin' small talk. And when I hit pause on the iPod, I still hear "Don't Stop Believing."

Freaked out that Steve Perry has taken over my brain, I freeze up briefly with an alarmed look in my eyes until I realize that the very same song is playing over the gym's speaker system, in roughly the same part of the song I just paused. Upon recovering, I embraced the coincidence with Open Arms and went back to Faithfully enjoying my iPod.

Two Kinds of Disturbing

2006-01-26T22:19:00.000-05:00

Today I got to attend my very first snake feeding.

My buddy, who we'll call "A" got a rat snake for Christmas, and it only gets fed once every two weeks. Of course, that means every two weeks, he gets to watch the snake bite, squeeze and swallow a live mouse. Long story short, we picked up the mouse at some reptile store down the street from A's house. The store gives it to you in a brown paper lunch bag, which didn’t dawn on my until right now as weirdly coinidental, since the little guy was about to be dinner. Or at worst a very late lunch. When you only eat once every other week, I’m sure it doesn’t matter what you call it.

The mouse kept scurrying around inside the bag on the way home, so I decided to name him Mr. Scurry. (Note: It is never a good idea to name something that you know you will be feeding to something else within the half-hour.)

Once home, we drop Mr. Scurry in the cage, and he proceeds to begin sniffing around. The snake, named Vic Mackey after Michael Chiklis’ character on The Shield, does some smelling of his own and springs into action. Mr. Scurry and Vic come face to face for what was about two seconds, at the most, but felt like a lifetime. Mr. Scurry sniffed some more, obviously having never seen a snake before, but unfortunately for him, Vic was all too familiar with mice. Vic struck, biting and coiling up Mr. Scurry in one motion.

Now here’s the disturbing part: Mr. Scurry’s little face was exposed through the coils, so we could see it, with his mouth wide open as Vic literally squeezed the life out of him. Then came the coup de grace: Blood came out of Mr. Scurry’s mouth, like a movie character that has been stabbed or gut-shot. Vic then proceeded to slowly swallow Mr. Scurry whole. When he got near the end of the job, we noticed something odd under Mr. Scurry’s tail. There was a big pink bubble that he didn’t have before the feeding. Vic had squeezed so hard, he blew out Mr. Scurry’s asshole. Blew it right out like Bubble-Yum. Disturbing stuff.

And then I had to decide what was more bizarre: what I had just seen, or the fact that "A" and his roommate "B" (I'm not just using the alphabet in order, these are their initials) had planned a trip to a Raleigh gentlemen’s club at midnight to see a much-advertised “Midget Night.” When we and "B" were all back at the house (having eaten dinner separately), we recapped for "B" the events that took place between Vic and Mr. Scurry.

“So we’re going to see the midget strippers at midnight, right?” "B" asked "A".

“Yeah,” "A" said. “But I’m gonna take a nap first.”

“Okay,” "B" said, leaving the room. “I’m gonna go bake a cake.”

And "B" went to begin baking a cake. And I’m assuming "A" is taking his nap. As for me, I had to pass on midget strippers because, really, how many fucked up things can you see in one day?

Update: Originially, I had used real names, until "A" asked that I use with initials. He also later reported that the midget strippers were "creepy."

When It's Time To Change, You've Got to Rearrange

2006-01-24T15:45:00.000-05:00

I woke up today with an undeniable feeling of inside itchiness, which either meant something big was going to happen, or I had internal chicken pox, which I had never even heard of much less likely come in contact with.

Then it struck me. I was in my room getting ready to change for the gym, when something in my brain said, "Fuck the gym." Usually that voice is urging me to do other things, like have another cup of coffee or smoke a cigarette, and that's why my little invisible friend doesn't want me to go to work out. But this time it was different: the little voice told me to reorganize my room.

Now, I've lived in the same townhouse for the last seven and a half years. Calling it a rut would be like calling Britney Spears a fat, sloppy trailer-trash whore-bag. It's just not quite strong enough. Dig?

So I undertook to move the loveseat and nighttable and guitar amplifier so that I could attempt to somehow move my queen-size bed (insert your own gay jokes here). On a happy side note, I discovered that the middle supporting beam of the frame had come un-screwed, making history as the first thing to become un-screwed in my bed. *rimshot* Of course, this explained why my bed was the squeakiest bed on planet Earth and why my neighbor, who could hear the squeaking through the wall once said to me, "I wondered if you had a squeaky bed or if you just had lots of sex." (This comment, at the time seemingly innocuous, would later become greatly ironic, though that does not need to be documented here.) Of course, I thought it would be impolite to tell a girl I barely knew, "Yeah, it's mostly the sex," so I went with, "Bed's just squeaky. I don't know why." Well, now I do, and thanks to my little friend the wrench, it is now non-squeaky.

I moved the bed, moved the table, and a bunch of other shit before finally vacuuming to complete the effect of new, clean room. And let me tell you: It is awesome.

I decided to retroactively check my horoscope on this matter, not because I believe in astrology, but because sometimes it's fun to see if something you've done that day is freakily mentioned in your horoscope for that day. It's happened to me before, but that involved stealing a bunch of newspapers and jokingly asking a friend of mine to marry me before she and I scattered them across our friends lawns in the pre-dawn hours. But I digress.

Here's what the horoscope had to say: "Tackle this problem one step at a time and be constantly aware of not only how the problem changes, but how your feelings for it mutate, too. In that way, you'll be able to prevent it from happening again."

Turns out, that wasn't much of a help. My feelings were pretty much static as I rearranged furniture. I was excited and remained so. Plus, is furniture moving something you really have to prevent again? I've already used my "feelings" to determine how I will prevent this from happening in the future. Should I see someone break into my bedroom and attempt to move things around, I will shout forcefully, "Unhand that boxspring, scoundrel!" I figure that should pretty much take care of business. No one likes being called a scoundrel.

Feliz Ano Nuevo

2006-01-03T15:36:00.000-05:00

Welcome to 2006, everybody. Just wanted to get on here and wish a happy new year to everyone I know (except the piss-drunk cock who punched a dent into my hood on new year's eve -- that guy can suck it 'til December).

This year, I figured I'd make a resolution not to make any resolutions. Kind of like in the movie Singles when Campbell "I Can't Get Work Anymore" Scott tells Kyra "I Look Like a Goblin But Am Married To Kevin Bacon" Sedgwick that he "doesn't have an act" and she tells him that not having an act is his act. Of course, I'm sure one of you smart-asses will now go to imdb.com and inform me that Campbell Scott has several movies in post-production or some crap like that. Regardless, I'm sticking with my original zinger.

Also, I wanted to give a belated shout-out to our good buddy Matt Dees, who, in the tradition of fine journalists everywhere, desperately needed sources for a story about murder-for-hire and blogs and apparently thought that was Regis sitting across from him, so he phoned a friend, i.e. - me.

That resulted in some mad love for this blog in the venerable News & Observer. Here's the excerpt (so you can skip all the murder stuff):

But not all blog controversies are matters of life and death.

Each installment of Evan Markfield's "Blog Cabin" usually entices no more than a few comments from readers. (One post titled "Brush with Greatness" alerts readers that he recently purchased a shower brush.)

But in May, Markfield posted about a college buddy, Mike Ogle, a journalist who had offended residents of Guam with a piece he wrote for ESPN.com about a cockfight he witnessed in the island territory. It wasn't long before several dozen outraged Guamanians found their way to Markfield's blog.

Suddenly he was in a hassle half a world away, with some anonymous posters using profanity and ethnic slurs to argue that Guam was misrepresented in Ogle's piece.

"It was kind of fun or exciting at first, because all of a sudden a lot of people were reading my blog," Markfield said. "It became kind of annoying when things started taking a nasty turn."

Also, a big shout out to Keith and Mary for hosting new year's down in Wilmington, and to the boys for enacting the “ridiculous tie and ridiculous shirt” plan, and to the acne-faced checkout kid at the Food Lion who mocked my Scooby Doo tie. And of course, to all of you. Happy new year!

The Greatest Invention Since ...

2005-12-11T04:13:00.000-05:00

Okay,the cotton gin is cool. Nuclear power is probably pretty great, too. But people throw around the whole "greatest invention" thing around too much. I mean, sliced bread? Sure, it's convenient. But not great.

So here are a couple of nominations, albeit in the wee hours of the morning after some partying, for great inventions everyone uses but doesn't appreciate:

1. Paper towels: Come on, you spill something, you want to clean it up, and you reach for a Brawny. Or Bounty. Or something else that starts in B and ends in Y. But when it's all said and done, you don't have to wash shit. You use the "towel" and you throw it out. Brilliant.

2. Running water: Earlier today I took a shower. Many times today, I had to urinate and then somehow dispose of the result. Just a minute ago, I went and filled up a glass with water. In each of those scenarios, all I had to do was turn a knob or push a lever. The result was flowing water. Amazing.

3. Motion pictures: Maybe it's the Back to the Future III talking, but movies are pretty great. Incidentally, it's the part where Doc is dancing with that nice schoolteacher Clara. Good ol' Mary Steenburgen. Really, who doesn't love Mary Steenburgen?

Random _______ of the Day

2005-12-06T14:04:00.000-05:00

Here's a fun game, where the blank from the headline is filled in to accomodate some useless information that no one could care less about. I'd say you could play at home, but I will have already filled in the blank repeatedly. So to speak.

1. Annoyance: The rich people who won't call me back for this freelance story I have to do about rich people who like to drive fast cars. A little quick math tells me they should be calling me back. First, they say time is money. So, in the equation Time=Money, where all these jokers have lots of money, they have lots of time. Which is to say, lots of time in which they could be calling me back but aren't. It's the transitive property, people. Work with me.

2.Thing I Got In The Mail: The Xavier University men's basketball media guide. This is what happens when you belong to the US Basketball writer's association. Lots of unwanted media guides. And lacking an unbalanced table leg, I have no use for this at all.

3. Nostalgia-Killer: They cancelled my 10-year high school reunion. Just got an email about it. No explanation in the email. Just the knowledge that it ain't happening. Maybe it's just me, but it seems like something that you had 10 years to plan shouldn't just go up on a puff of smoke one day inexplicably.

4. Thing I Didn't Expect to Read In Forbes: Many infant girls are being tested for a rare movement disorder when they're actually just masturbating. Here's the link, in case you don't believe me. This is interesting news only for the fact that so many girls claim not to masturbate. Well, ha! The joke's on you. You probably masturbated and didn't even know it. Either that or you had a rare movement disorder. So pretty much either way the joke's on you.

5. Socks: The ones I'm wearing right now. I don't remember buying them. In fact, I'm 100 percent sure I didn't. But they somehow ended up in my laundry some time ago and have been washed by me, and now they are mine I guess. They're comfy.

Sing, Sing a Song

2005-12-01T17:41:00.000-05:00

I was thinking about my Christmas plans to drive to Florida with my brother, and I found myself wishing there was more music about Florida that we could play on the road trip.

All I came up with was Will Smith's "Welcome to Miami" which is simply not going to cut it, most notably because we're not going anywhere near Miami (my last trip there notwithstanding). And then I started thinking - what other places are in need of more songs about them? Be forewarned though. It's questions like these that will keep you in the shower about 20 minutes too long.

First off, anyplace with a band named after it is already eliminated. That's plenty of love. So sorry Boston, Kansas and Alabama (which didn't need the help anyway, thanks to Lynyrd Skynyrd - is that how you spell that?). This also knocks out Europe, courtesy of the 80s band that sang that classic sports-arena tune "The Final Countdown."

And we can eliminate Africa thanks to the Toto song from the 80s. To the best of my memory, it went something like this: "Something something something ... something AAAF-RICA!" Feel free to sing along at home. Australia's done too, after that "I come from the land down under..." song.

This leaves us with Asia and the Americas. And since in hypothetical-question world, we'll be making the music here, let's stick with the Americas (North and South, if you're scoring at home in addition to singing).

(Also, it should be noted that the Middle East is eliminated because any song about it would invariably be some shitty American-pride country song sung and listened to by Wal-Mart-shopping, giant-belt-buckle-wearing rednecks).

All small towns are eliminated, thanks to John Cougar Mellencamp's "Small Town." Nice work, Cougs. So what cities, states and countries need the recognition? Allow me to randomly decide, based on nothing other than my insatiable need to babble nonsense. Here they are, the big list of places that need songs about them:

1. Boise, Idaho. A friend of mine is moving there next week. What the hell's he supposed to listen to on his way out there? (Side note: good luck, Murph.)

2. Regina, Saskatchewan. If for no other reason than the fact that, at some point, you will almost certainly have to rhyme "Regina" with "vagina" just to keep the lyrical flow going.

3. Paraguay: Or Uruguay. Either one will work just fine.

4. California: Not really. Just wanted to make sure you were still paying attention.

5. Anywhere in Alaska: Come on, Juneau you want to hear a song about Alaska!

6. Portland: Either Maine or Oregon is fine, although ideally it's a song somehow connecting the two Portlands.

7. Wilmington, Delaware: Because, even though it appears to be the postal point of origin for just about all unwanted credit-card solicitations, there has to be something else going on there. There just has to be.

Ah, Hopeless Romantics

2005-11-15T16:30:00.000-05:00

No wonder I haven't found the right woman yet. I haven't thought to resort to arson, kidnapping or attempted murder. That's the real way to a woman's heart.

At least I assume it is based on a couple of news stories I read today. In the first one, a guy set fire to the house where his lover and her partner lived. After she visited him in prison, she decided, hey, what the hell, I'll marry him. The best part? This isn't some 19-year-old dumbass. The arsonist in question is 56 years old! But we'll give him bonus points for his great name, Cornelius Frieslick, and assume that it's the reason he's getting a second chance at, um, making his girl all hot.

Our second contestant, kidnapped and shot his now-betrothed. This guy shot her and then held her prisoner in the garage for six days. And while it's crazy enough that she thinks they're "soul mates," there's also the fact that the guy's parents tried to cover up the whole thing and were charged as accessories. He must be really, really loveable I guess.

So forget about online dating, singles bars and the like. Just head over to Wal-Mart, get yourself some rope, gasoline or a nice new handgun and who knows, maybe love will find you, too.

I Think He's Saying 'Oil Can'

2005-11-14T12:49:00.000-05:00

Flipping through television stations last night, I came upon that venerable classic, "The Wizard of Oz," during the scene in which Dorothy and the Scarecrow first get the Tin Man up and moving, causing him to do a fun song and dance, naturally.

At one point, the Tin Man freezes up on a hill and points to his right knee, at which point my just-as-venerable roommate Fitt shouts out, "He needs oil!" It was then I realized that never has there been a cast of characters in a movie that would approve more of the American war in Iraq than this bunch.

Let's start with the Tin Man: Dude needs oil. Case closed. He knows where his bread is buttered.

And of course the Scarecrow would be in favor of it -- he doesn't have a brain!

One can only assume that the Cowardly Lion would be pro-war, assuming that he doesn't have to fight in it. He can take his pretty little red bow and flower-pot crown and head to Canada, but he'd still be down.

Then, of course, there's Dorothy. As we all know she's from Kansas. Being a resident of Middle America, she is in going to be in favor of whatever the Republicans tell her to be in favor of.

Anyway, the whole thing just struck me as odd. It also made me realize we probably could have saved a lot of money and lives had we just dropped a house on Iraq. It appears to be a fool-proof method of eliminating hated dictators. But hey, live and learn, right?

Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiillllllma!

2005-10-29T23:01:00.000-04:00

Bienvenidos a Miami! Sure, it’s all Will Smith songs and palm trees down here. Right? Well, not this weekend.

This weekend, it’s all hurricane aftermath, and I ain’t talking about Miami’s 34-16 comeback victory over the Tar Heels, the reason I’m in town in the first place. No, this is all about power outages, pizza men and general suckitude.

Allow me to recap for you the ridiculous adventures of a little something I like to call Me Covering a Football Game In a Place That Should Be Fun But Isn’t Much Fun When A Hurricane Hit There on Monday. Okay, so it’s a working title. Just call it MCAFGIAPTSBFBIMFWAHHTOM if you insist on being brief.

So, earlier this week I learn that courtesy of Hurricane Wilma, the Courtyard I booked a room in does not have power but could get it back soon. Naturally, I book another Courtyard, this one slightly further away from the airport. Upon arrival, I call the first Courtyard, which does not have power yet. Therefore I cancel my reservation, which is accomplished by the dude on the phone, who apparently hears my last name as Steele the first three times I say it, by crossing it off a list. Remember, there are no computers. So I fully expect to be billed for this room as soon as they’re back on line. But I digress.

From the airport, I call the second Courtyard, informing them that at their earliest convenience, I am ready to be picked up by their complimentary shuttle. They inform me that the shuttle is not running because of the gas shortage in Miami. This results in a $40 cab ride from a cabbie who insists that even though he does in fact accept credit cards, he doesn’t like it. So cash is paid.

In the interest of keeping this from being ridiculously long, let’s just say dinner did not go as planned Friday night, with us being turned away from an unnamed chain establishment (read: Cheesecake Factory) because they weren’t seating anyone else … at 9 P.M! (Side note, what do you do when you want to put an exclamation point at the end of an abbreviation? Period then exclamation point doesn’t look right, but neither does what I did right there. Oh well.) Needless to say, we found a place and traveled all the way to Miami from North Carolina to eat … drum roll … barbecue.

Anyway, on to Saturday. I’ll spare everyone the whole speech about what an absolute dump the Orange Bowl is. It would be like if a piece of shit took a shit, and then that shit took a shit, and then they took that final piece of shit and put orange seats in it … well, you get the idea.

Everything’s fine. Stories are sent. We’re all headed back to the hotel with dreams of hitting up the Cheesecake Factory before it stops seating. Since it’s only 7 o’clock, we figured we were golden. As you can probably guess, if we had actually been anywhere near golden, you wouldn’t be reading this. We were more burnt siena.

We’re denied at the CF. Then at the other restaurant next to it. So we settle on going back to Shorty’s, the barbecue place we went the night before and our final option. The power is out all the way down the street where Shorty’s is located. Even the Burger King was out. At this point, Miami has more outages than a gay-rights parade.

Completely lacking in options, we attempt (for the third or fourth time that night) to engage in constructive meal-planning conversation with our Colombian front-desk guy, who tells us, yes, we can order pizza. After an ordeal that involves four of us making individual orders to Papa John’s over the front-desk phone, we each go to our rooms to await delicious nourishment. N&O columnist and cranky hungry person Caulton Tudor becomes panicked upon receiving a phone call saying the pizzas might not make it. Down at the desk, the Colombian dude calls PJ and tells us, no the pizzas are on the way. Tudes is now just rambling incoherently to Robbi about the Texas-OSU game, losing focus on the pizza.

After numerous calls to PJ, including me translating my own concerns to the guy on the phone after the Colombian dude at the desk unsuccessfully tried to convey what I was saying, we learn the driver is just seconds away! Finally, the pizzas arrive. Never has mediocrity been so delicious.

So now we’re all set. We’re calm, already eating, and all we need are drinks. Robbi says she’ll have a Diet Coke and I figure I’ll have the same. I go to the machine (which incidentally is on the third floor), and start pumping money in.

I hit the Diet Pepsi button.

I get Sunkist.

I hit the other Diet Pepsi button.

I get Sunkist.

Thinking I’ll outsmart the machine, I hit the Sunkist button.

I get Sunkist.

And I start thinking, “This is what I get for liking Sunkist.”

Then I struggle not to crack up laughing in the elevator with the random maintenance dude because I’m pretty sure there is no way he is going to find this whole Sunkist fiasco as frustratingly hilarious as I am.

Luckily, Robbi and Robert (Tudor took his pizza and vanished) did find it funny, a perfect little microcosm for our whole trip.

In short, I’m sick of hurricanes, Hurricanes, and any combination of the letters that spell those words, including “richer anus,” something I certainly won’t have thanks to Papa John’s and Sunkist.

A Simple 'No Comment' Will Do

2005-10-19T19:07:00.000-04:00

I was going to contain myself. I really was. I was not going to lash out at the many, many spam comments that have recently plagued the bottoms of my posts. In fact, the only reason it was really bothering me was that all comments are emailed to me, and I was forced to read about dudes with links to turkey farms or whatever the fuck.

Anyway, I had no choice. I finally had to respond, finally had to draw the line, if only because my latest post about Christian Slater in the movie "Pump Up the Volume" elicited the following comment from some ass-bag spammer:

I discuss this topic daily myself. I also have a website that talks about web site hosting provider related things. Go check it out if you get a chance.

Oh, you discuss "Pump Up the Volume" daily? Really? Do you? Man, and I thought I was being exceptionally random in mentioning it offhand in this blog. But, shit, if this is something you talk about EVERY DAY, by all means comment away! That link in your post couldn't possibly be spam-related. I mean, where would you even find the time to visit random blogs and try to drive up your business site's traffic, what with all that discussion of "Pump Up the Volume" that you engage in DAILY!

Oh Mr. Spammer, you master of multitasking! You wizard of the Web! Where ever do you find the time?

If you can squeeze it into your busy schedule, Mr. Spammer, sometime in the near future, please feel free to kiss my ass.

Talk Hard(ly)!

2005-10-13T01:03:00.000-04:00

I was, for whatever the hell reason, thinking about podcasts earlier. For those of you not aware, podcasts are these random radio-like shows on the internet, where anyone can basically have their own show and anywhere from one all the up to, oh, let's say ... seven people will download and listen. (I'm kidding, there are some big-timers out there, too.)

Anyway, in thinking about that, I started to ponder the Christian Slater movie, "Pump Up the Volume." For those of you unfamiliar with this movie ... seriously, what's wrong with you? This is vintage Slater people! But seriously, if you really don't know, I will summarize the movie briefly for you:

1. Christian Slater is a disaffected teenage misfit who is painfully shy at his new high school in Arizona and bumbles awkwardly through his day, eating lunch by himself on the stairs (and who inexplicably looks almost 30 years old).

2. When Christian Slater comes home from school, he runs a short-wave radio setup in his basement, where he spends all his time talking about raging erections and copious ejaculation with the help of a voice modulator of some sort. And apparently, he really likes playing Leonard Cohen.

3. Kids flip for it, tapes are confiscated, and the PTA flies into a collective rage.

4. The too-cool-for-school-yet-still-sort-of-nerdy hottie love interest (who has been in nothing else that I can remember) takes off her sweater, revealing immaculate teardrop-shaped breasts.

5. Something about a jeep, um, and um, the phone receiver in the neighbors' shed, and ... uh, um ... did I mention the breasts yet?

Anyway, the larger point -- aside from how the chick somehow wasn't excruciatingly itchy while wearing a sweater with no bra -- is that, had this scenario been played out today, it would never be movie-worthy, and that is sad.

First off, short-wave radio? Hey, why not smoke signals? Or a series of telegrams? In the age of podcasting, you can reach anyone anywhere with whatever message you want. As a podcaster, Christian Slater would be able to piss off too many different PTAs for it to be cinematically viable.

Secondly, none of his "shocking" antics would be very shocking nowadays, even if its scarcely more than a decade later. Things way more gross than what Christian is spewing (figuratively speaking) are on the radio every day. Even NPR has Terry Gross, host of "Fresh Air." I mean, come on! (Side note: I have just outed myself as someone who listens to entirely too much NPR.)

Long story short, I'm sure podcasts are cool and all, but remember: for every little technological treat we give ourselves, we might just be robbing ourselves of a classic movie by a young star who will later go on to problems with booze, drugs and mediocre films ("Kuffs" comes to mind). Oh yeah, and the boobs-straight-out-of-the-sweater-unannounced thing. God, why is that such a turn on?

Things I Realized Over the Last Few Days

2005-10-06T16:08:00.000-04:00

1. Orange Crush soda cannot hold a candle to Sunkist orange soda. Sit back and debate Coke vs. Pepsi all you want. But that's like arguing which member of the Blue Man Group has the best makeup. The real schism is happening a little farther down the soft-drink aisle, folks. At one end is Orange Crush, and at the other is Orange True Love, or as it's more commonly known, Sunkist. It's not even close.

2. I have watched way too many movies lately that star Jennifer Jason Leigh. The latest was called "The Anniversary Party," and it was a good flick. But come on, aside from scoring the ever-elusive triple-first-name bonus, why is this chick in so many movies I see? She also looks like the creepy love child of Patricia Arquette and Elizabeth Shue. Seriously. Is this weirding anyone else out?

3. I am automatically suspicious of any product or event that begins with the prefix "mega." Yeah, we get it. Your product or event is great. No need to beat us over the head with it. In other news, thanks for reading my mega-blog.

Bite Me! and, um, Don't Bite Me

2005-09-29T12:20:00.000-04:00

Today we must speak about the two greatest threats to human life as we know it in the world – mosquitoes that turn people into zombies, and Sex and the City.

I was going to start off with those evil bloodsuckers that get under your skin until you're in horrible pain, but instead I figured I’d kick things off with the mosquitoes.

According to BBC News, there’s some small town in Cambodia where mosquitoes are passing on this new strain of malaria with a 100 percent mortality rate. I had heard mortality rates were going to go back up, but that’s ridiculous.

(Wait. On second thought, that might’ve been mortgage rates I was thinking of.)

From the article: “After death, this parasite is able to restart the heart of its victim for up to two hours after the initial demise of the person where the individual behaves in extremely violent ways from what is believed to be a combination of brain damage and a chemical released into blood during ‘resurrection.’”

Sounds like a zombie to me. Zombies! Who’d a thunk it? Real life zombies. That’s some freaky shit.

And it’s still not as scary as the idea that Sex and the City will soon be in five-day-a-week reruns.

Those girls have completely ruined bar-going for college students and, ahem, slightly older folks in college towns. Suddenly young females feel compelled to consume only libations of various fruity colors, often served in martini glasses.

In an experiment conducted last night on Franklin Street that can only be described as “wildly unscientific,” it was determined that this phenomenon creates an unfortunate chain reaction in which girls go places that will serve such atrocities, guys will follow girls to these places, and the formerly fun beer-swilling atmosphere of the college town will go the way of Hammer’s rap career.

And nevermind that the dudes following the girls probably have popped collars. Their looking ridiculous is irrelevant to this debate, regardless of how highly amusing it might be to people who don’t have to follow clothes-altering trends to be cool.

But, as usual, I digress. Back to the zombies - the actual ones, not the fad-following frat boys. As far as those zombies go, Cambodian officials have assured the public that the virus is contained. They say that there is no need to worry.

They obviously don’t get Sex and the City on their Cambodian cable package.

If You Need Me, I'll Be In Mudchute

2005-09-08T13:57:00.000-04:00

When my roommate's girlfriend recently got a kitten, many suggestions were bandied about as potential names for the feline. One moniker, suggested by my roommie, was "Otis Spunkmeyer" like the cookie guy. And it would have made a fantastic name, except that girls don't think stuff is funny the same way guys do.

One thing we can all agree on, though, is that places with funny names are, well, funny. Where's a thesaurus when you need one?

This needless preamble brings me to the fact that I recently came across a list of the top 100 rude names of places in Britain. Problem is, while the list is funny, the British are about as good at ranking funny things in their correct order as they are at making world-class cuisine. (See, I love England. It's cool. I could've gone the cheap-shot dental-joke route there, but I didn't. I went the cheap-shot food-joke route.)

The No. 1 name on the list? Cocks, Cornwall.

Come on! Once you see all the other names on the list, deciding that is the "rudest" (or even funniest) name, makes me want to rename Great Britain "Pretty Good Britain."

You're telling me that Cocks is funnier than Wetwang, East Yorkshire (which was No. 25)? Not only do we have the same part of the anatomy in play, but now we have a moisture-rich condition to boot. Yet it's 24 slots behind on the list.

Titty ho, Northamptonshire (No. 33)? Cumloden Court, Dumfries and Galloway (No. 80)? The Furry, Cornwall (No. 46)? None of these are funnier than Cocks?!

(Side note No. 1: What's up with Cornwall? Lots of funny names there.)

(Side note No. 2: If you think I'm not going to refer to the vagina from now on as "The Furry" you are sadly, sadly mistaken.)

And I'm sorry, but I love a good degree-of-difficulty bonus. No one watches the Olympics to see a dude dive straight into the pool. They want to see tucks and twists, something to make the damn thing interesting. Yet Cocks is the funniest thing going on British maps? Please.

My vote goes to No. 11 on the list, Hole of Horcum, North Yorkshire, just because, well, there's a lot going on there. So you have to work it out for yourself to some extent. I mean, if you opened a furniture store, what would be funnier, calling it "Shit to Sit On" or calling it "Sofa King Comfortable?" Cleverness ought to count for something.

All About You

2005-08-14T15:02:00.000-04:00

So I'm at my local Best Buy, walking around perusing the CD titles, when what do I happen upon but an absolute bargain, a downright steal, Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet for $6.99! Okay, sure I'm a loser who still enjoys random 80s hair bands. This true. But come on, it's a great album. Seriously. Hey, wait....where are you going?

Don't worry, I don't plan to wax poetic about every last track on the album. Just one. And one from another Bon Jovi album. And the big question is, has anyone in the history of music ever parlayed the overuse of rhyming the word "you" with itself like Jon Bon Jovi? I mean, obviously, we're not granting him genius lyrical status anyway considering such gems as "Our love is like a hunger, baby we'd die without it." But the man can work the shit out of y-o-u.

To wit, from Slippery When Wet's eighth track, "I'd Die For You":

I'd die for you
I'd cry for you
I'd do anything
I'd lie for you
You know it's true
Baby I'd die for you
I'd die for you
I'd cry for you
If it came right down to me and you
You know it's true, Baby I'd die for you

That's right, count 'em, EIGHT "you" sightings in that chorus. But Jon wasn't done. No, he didn't get all the "you"s out of his system on Slippery When Wet. So he and the boys came back with a vengence on their next album, New Jersey, and put out another you-filled winner in "I'll Be There For You." Here's the refrain:

I'll be there for you
These five words I swear to you
When you breathe I want to be the air for you
I'll be there for you
I'd live and I'd die for you
Steal the sun from the sky for you
Words can't say what a love can do
I'll be there for you

Once again, eight times JBJ manages to use "you" in a chorus. It makes me wonder, is this some mystical number for Bon Jovi? Can he do no more and no less of the same word in a chorus? Is this a fine-print stipulation from his deal with the devil? I must have answers. In the meantime, I'll settle for waving my lighter over my head while I listen to "Never Say Goodbye."

Paging Dr. Howser...

2005-08-08T15:20:00.000-04:00

Well, since my rant on store greeters only prompted my former store-greeter friends here to defend themselves, let's talk about a group of people that everyone finds indefensible (even though, yes, I know it's their job): telemarketers.

Let's just say life has been grand ever since signing up for the Do Not Call list. Now only companies I "do business" with can call me (you know who you are, Bell South, and no I don't want to get long-distance service). But there is still the occasional random call from people (with charities, maybe?) who are allowed to ring me up.

I got a bizarre one today, and it went a little something like this:

Telemarketer: Hi! Is the lady of the house available?
Me: There is no lady of the house. At least not that I know of.
Telemarketer: Then can I speak to the man of the house.
Me (feeling vaguely powerful and manly): You've got him.
Telemarketer: Are you under 16 years old?
Me (feeling slightly less powerful and manly): Uh, no.
Telemarketer: Oh, well. Thanks for your time.

Whose house did they think they were calling, Doogie Howser? Why would I be the man of the house and be under 16? Briefly, I worried my house was sinking and perhaps the call was to alert the women and children first to get the hell out. After a brief check of the window to confirm my porch's waterlessness, and then a quick self-reminder that I live in a second-floor townhouse, not an ocean liner, I decided I was safe.

On a total side note, it cracks me up that the guy who played Vinnie Delpino went on to play one of Tony's random helper guys in The Sopranos. Every time he was over at the house picking up Tony, I kept sitting there with my fingers crossed, hoping he might just blurt out "Hey Doog!" for no reason at all.

Alas, it was not meant to be. Although, now that I'm writing about it here, I feel vaguely Doogie-esque like when he wrote in his little computer journal at the end of each episode. Except that the only valuable lesson I've learned from all of this is never, ever mention or even think about that show unless you want to have it's cutesy little theme music stuck in your head all day.

Comic Strip

2005-07-31T13:07:00.000-04:00

Once I saw the new Charlie and the Chocolate Factory last week, I thought there would never be a catchier song in my head than the one that goes "Willy Wonka, Willy Wonka, he's the famous chocolatier..." and so on.

I was totally wrong. Turns out the ridiculous songs that were playing in the, um, gentlemen's establishment where my friend Bob celebrated his upcoming nuptials were way, way more catchy (and hysterically funny) than anything about a dude who makes chocolate.

Among the lyrical gems were refrains like: "Titties and ass," "There are some whores in this house" (or something like that), and "Wait'll you see my dick." Seriously.

Then of course we decided that a little mixing and matching could provide some excellent songs for let's say, oh, i don't know, a transvestite strip club.

Titties and ass. Titties and ass. Wait'll you see my dick.

We were lucky enough to have an authority in our entourage, and he pointed out that this style of music is known as "ghetto tech" and comes mostly from Detroit. I like to describe it as a modern-day, more-techno-ish 2 Live Crew. And as the funniest music naked girls have ever danced to. Or done anything to, for that matter.

I just hope that on the drive back to North Carolina, something from my iPod gets into my head and gets stuck there. Otherwise, I'll spend the next week walking around places like the grocery store, humming the tune in my head, inadvertently advising strangers to wait to see my dick. And we can't have that now, can we?

All About Balls

2005-07-29T20:40:00.000-04:00

Maybe it's the delirium from a seven-hour car trip back from Vermont to New York. Maybe it's the well-over 200 beers we drank while in Vermont. Whatever the reason, there's a thought I can't shake.

We (me, Bret, Ogle) stopped in Springfield, Mass., at the Basketball Hall of Fame, on the way back. (Hence, the seven-hour trip instead of five.) And at the entrance to the museum, they have a list of prohibited items.

Among them are the usual suspects: large bags, handguns, food, drink, weapons of mass destruction. You know, garden variety prohibitions, really. But the last thing on the list?

Basketballs.

Basketballs! No basketballs allowed at -- and if you were paying attention you remember that we were clearly inside a building dedicated to the celebration of this -- the Basketball Hall of Fame! When does this come into play, this people carrying things they're coming to learn about into the place where they're going to learn it?

I don't recall anyone trying to sneak paintings into the Museum of Modern Art. And definitely not at the Museum of Natural History. Excuse me, sir. You're going to have to leave your triceratops outside the museum. Thank you.

Well, since you read the title and thought this whole thing was going to be about testicles, I'll stop disappointing you now. But still, it's weird.

Thoughts on Hands-On Notetaking

2005-07-13T15:40:00.000-04:00

You know what I never do anymore? Write myself notes on my hands. This was a staple of middle and high school and proved occasionally useful in college as well. If you need to remember something, simply jot it down on the ol’ left hand (unless you’re a lefty, I guess).

But now I never do it. I was just reminding myself to remember – always a dubious proposition – that I need to bring my friend back his Sopranos DVDs this evening when I go to his place for a poker game. Then I thought that since he had mentioned ordering pizza, I should bring the coupons that came in the mail today.

Coupons. Sopranos.

Sopranos. Coupons.

Remember to remember. And then I thought, why don’t I just write that down on my hand? But then I imagined later, mid-poker game, having to explain to someone what was written on my hand. And why those two words contained so many of the same letters, which is kind of weird anyway.

Also, if you were sitting across the table from me, “coupons” would look a lot like “suodnoc” … and what the hell does “suodnoc” mean? I’d look like a crazy person, with made up words written on my hands. I simply can’t have that.

Although it would be funny to write “NOT CRAZY” in big letters on your hand and then just not acknowledge it until someone else brings it up. Then, when he or she asks, “Why does it say ‘not crazy’ in big letters on your hand?” you can just respond, in total deadpan, “So I remember I’m not crazy.”

Then let your gaze linger on them for an extra half-second. I bet that would totally freak someone out.

How the hell did I get off on this tangent? I forget.

If You Can't Stand the Greet...

2005-06-29T16:29:00.000-04:00

Hi, readers. How are you doing today? Can I help you with anything? A funny post maybe?

Woah, sorry. I bet that was annoying. But I figured when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

By Rome, of course, I mean “any business establishment in America.” And by Romans I mean “the annoying customer-service types who pepper you incessantly with inane pleasantries regarding your personal well-being and potential need for help in the store.”

When did this start? And how did it get so quickly out of control?

In Blockbuster the other day, I saw a woman enter only to be greeted by a store employee, who asked if she needed any help finding what she was looking for.

Now, I know better, so I respond to these greetings with short, monosyllabic grunts whenever possible.

But, sadly, this woman foolishly replied, “I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

Oh, you poor simple woman! Never tell them that!

I wanted to scream out, “Noooooo! Run for your life!” but it was too late. The woman was already getting a full-guided tour of the place, complete with brief reviews and suggestions on what seemed like every New Release.

Oh well, you can’t save them all.

I mean, I had to look out for numero uno, you know? It’s a pleasantries jungle out there, and if you’re not careful, you’ll get eaten alive.

Take for instance the dangerous creature known as the way-too-smiley, handshake-happy manager at my local Bank of America branch. This guy is friggin’ relentless.

Always smiling, always shaking my hand and asking me how I’m doing. As if I couldn’t survive my two minute wait for a teller to greet me. I keep meaning to see if my bank has a suggestion box (probably next to the free cookies and coffee), so I can give them a tip: “Leave me the fuck alone. I came here to deposit a check not have a fuckin rap session.”

Of course, this is why, whenever possible, I use the ATM, which stands for “Crazy People Scare Me, So I’m Not Going Inside.”

I’m waiting for the day – and I’m sure it’s coming soon – when my bank simply positions the Budweiser “whaaazzzzup” guys on one side and Matt LeBlanc, repeating “How YOU doin?” on the other to see who can make my head explode first.

All I’m asking for is a little less customer service. Please, spare me.

Hopefully, none of those greeting-happy freaks read this, or they’ll be storming the comments section like the folks from Gu-- ... well, I’m not even gonna say it. Cue angry responses in 3…2…1….

The Final Word on Guam, Finally

2005-06-17T17:26:00.000-04:00

Well, ESPN.com elected to take down Ogle's cockfighting story, and the very same day, people come out of the woodwork for 10 more comments on the original blog post.

Can we get the fuck over this, people? Or is Congress coming to me next for an apology? Let's hope its not, because that's got as good a chance of happening as Ogle enjoying a quiet, hassle-free vacation to the South Pacific in his lifetime.

Anyway, I say let's put this all to rest. Although I am curious how all these Guamanians found this blog in the first place. Is it the through the radio guy who keeps calling Ogle "Mike Ugly?" Is it simply word of mouth? I must know.

Still, I'm not sure what I'm more curious about: how the morons calling the two of us ugly found their way here, or how they managed to log onto the internet in the first place without hurting themselves.

So let's call it a day on this non-argument that has people riled up beyond belief for no good reason.

Mail me an "I Love Guam" T-shirt and I'll wear it. But don't come here acting petty, inarticulate and, worst of all, cowardly (this means you, anonymous commenters). You're the ones making Guam look bad.

Winnie, Vidi, Vici

2005-06-09T14:07:00.000-04:00

Oh, Winnie Cooper! We hardly knew ye! But that all changed when Winnie (a.k.a. Danica McKellar) went all slut-tastic for a Stuff Magazine photo shoot, a far cry from her days as co-star of "The Wonder Years."

I'm sorry, but when I think Winnie Cooper, I think of a sweater and a sweet smile, the blush-filled awkwardness of middle-school romance. I don't think of see-through bras and slutty boots.

At least as far as you know, I don't.

Upon further review of the Danica McKellar situation (read: looking up her bio on imdb.com), I discovered a pile of useless information fatter than that Doug kid Kevin hung out with.

First and foremost: The evil Becky Slater, arch-nemesis of Kevin Arnold and a general all-around bitch, was none other than Crystal McKellar, Danica's little sister.

No wonder Kevin seemed so tormented -- the object of his lust and the object of his scorn shared DNA in real life!

Second, apparently Danica attended UCLA, where she graduated with a BA in mathematics. And, according to the bio, she "had a 1998 paper published in Britain's 'Journal of Physics A: Mathematics & General' with UCLA professor Lincoln Chayes and student Brandy Winn which provided a mathematical proof for a theorem dealing with magnetism in two dimensions."

Take that Paul Pfeiffer!

We can also learn that Danica is fluent in French and is still pals with her old co-star, Fred Savage.

But what we can't learn is the most important lesson of all, one that Kevin Arnold should have learned back in seventh grade: When a chick as gorgeous as that Madeline girl throws herself at you, you dump Winnie and get some hottie ass.

What a butthead!

Random Conversation With a Food Lion Cashier

2005-06-07T01:44:00.000-04:00

[Me, standing in line, attempting to purchase three (3) Totinos frozen pizzas and two (2) jars of Classico tomato sauce. Her, tall and smiley, in a sweetly goofy sort of way, with short brown hair.]

Her: So, did you get the sauce to dip the crusts in?
Me (confused): No. I'm making ravioli. That's just a coincidence.
Her: Is it meat ravioli?
Me: No. Just cheese.
[awkward silence]
Me: I mean, don't get me wrong, I like meat. It's just, you know, with ravioli, I'm a cheese guy.
Her (handing me receipt): Have a good night.

A Pair of Small Victories

2005-06-06T20:08:00.000-04:00

In the interest of ~~moving this Ogle nonsense farther down the page~~ telling people about my day whether they care or not, here are a pair of small victories from this ~~lovely~~ swelteringly hot Monday:

1. I received a letter informing me that I am now a "Silver Elite" member of Marriott Rewards, by virtue of having stayed at 10 or more fine Marriott hotels this year.

This delighted me because:

a) one of the numbers had worn off my old non-silver rewards card, forcing me to remember what it was every time I made reservations (for the record, it was "6").

b) I love being described as two adjectives, in this case "silver" and "elite," when one will clearly suffice. I am no more elite than any other silver members of Marriott Rewards, as far as I know.

2. I made and ate ravioli for dinner, while wearing a brand-new white T-shirt, without getting any sauce on me.

This is on par, statistically, with:

a) not getting bitten even after deciding that jumping in the wolverine pit at your local zoo covered in ground beef was a good idea.

b) opening your e-mail without a single offer for "FREE_V1@gr@" or "Lonely MILFs Near You."

In other news, I love outline format.

Free Mike Ogle!

2005-05-31T18:32:00.000-04:00

Dubious congratulations are in order for our good friend Mike Ogle (remember, the guy who said, “Hey, why don’t you call it Blog Cabin?”). He is now officially the most famous person I know because … drum roll please … he is hated by the entire country of Guam.

Not to recap the whole obviously anti-Ogle agenda from the story – including on the side, where it includes his personal e-mail, so that you too can attack him! – but it goes something like this: He wrote about cockfighting, and the natives say he was “offensive and insensitive” to Guamanians.

In other news, “Guamanians” is a word, apparently.

Now our friend has the elite status usually granted only to politicians, athletes and criminals: “Ogle did not reply to an e-mail from the Pacific Daily News for comment yesterday.”

Congratulations, dude. You are officially “that guy” who could not be reached for comment. It’s like journalist bizarro world.

For those of us who know and love Ogle, we have long been aware that he is a world-class rabble rouser, making mischief in print for his own amusement, occasionally drawing the ire of his subjects.

Well, former North Carolina basketball player Jason Capel, long atop the list of Ogle haters – once going so far as to threaten him – is now a distant second to Guam, being that Cape is not an entire country unto himself, no matter how important he thinks he is.

Sure, OG pissed off the famed Cameron Crazies on ESPN.com’s Page 2 earlier this year, but being that they are only whiny little nerds (read: Duke students), it hardly counts.

Sending Guam into a tizzy? Now that’s a columnist coup! (The funny part being that he wasn’t actually trying to piss anyone off this time – it just sort of happened. Hey, when you got it, you got it.)

Anyway, Guam, being a U.S. territory, has a representative in Congress, although that member can’t vote on things. This leaves her with plenty of time to do other stuff.

Like demand an apology from Mike Ogle.

I urged him to apologize, if for no other reason than that will trump any story anyone he will ever meet will ever tell. Oh yeah? Well, I once had to apologize to a whole island!

Outside of that one good reason, I saw screw it. If the Guamanians don’t like reading my boy on ESPN.com, they can feel free to start up their own web site, ESPN.guam, and write about whatever the hell they want.

Free Mike Ogle! (Note: Ogle is not presently being detained by anyone. I just like saying that. A lot.)

They Say It's Your Birthday...

2005-05-23T13:02:00.000-04:00

Here’s some disturbing news. Apparently, a sex-toy company has determined May to be National Masturbation Month, and claim it “climaxes” with National Masturbation Day, which also happens to be my birthday.

Having a birthday at the end of May, I have grown accustomed over the years to it falling on Memorial Day every now and then, meaning I have to share my special day with our nation’s fallen soldiers. That’s cool.

I just didn’t realize that one day, it would be a day dedicated to little soldiers standing at attention nationwide.

But, hey, what are you going to do, right? Maybe I’ll have a party. Hope everyone can come.

Playing Your Cards Wrong

2005-05-19T11:44:00.000-04:00

Everyone hates the Hallmarks of the world to begin with, since they take perfectly nice events and crap them all up by forcing us to send everyone we know a greeting card of some kind to commemorate it.

Seriously, I’m sick of feeling guilty because I forgot to send Mom an Arbor Day card.

And now? Well, now they’ve gone straight off the deep end.

It’s not enough that there are cards tailored specifically to Mom, Dad, Bro, Sis, Aunt, second cousin and whoever else you might know. Or that you can actually get cards that indicate they're from your pets (most of whom, incidentally, would not even be able to reach that high on the card rack!).

Now some lady is coming out with cards for your mistress or other man. Are you kidding me? I don’t want to go all Nell Carter up in here, but gimme a break.

What are the cutesy poems in these cards going to sound like?

I just wanted to send you a note to say
Doing you at the Motel 6 made my day!
You’re the best thing I’ve got in my life,
If you don’t count my family and wife!
Happy Mistress Day!

People, this is what they make BLANK cards for, not that I have any idea why your mistress or other man (side note: why don’t we have a special word for that?) needs a card in the first place.

What, everyone you exchange bodily fluids with should get a piece of thin, folded cardboard as reassurance that you care?

Maybe hookers can start buying cards for their customers, too, while we’re at it. How would that be for a Dear John letter? *rimshot* (Frightening side note: that’s two entries in a row with the mention of hookers. What's goin' on here?)

But back to the point, which is that cards suck. Except birthday cards. And I only say this because my birthday is just nine days away. Bring 'em on!

Prone to Creativity

2005-05-18T12:38:00.000-04:00

Here’s something very interesting: according to a recent study, we’re more creative when lying down as opposed to standing.

It certainly explains why I have tons of brainstorms when I’m trying to go to sleep at night, yet not so many when I’m say, changing a lightbulb.

I mean, Michaelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel lying down, right?

What it doesn’t explain is why the New York Times bestseller list is not comprised entirely of books by hookers.

But oh well. Someday.

The theory also lends itself tremendously to a whole bevy of quality pickup lines. How 'bout you and I go "get creative" at my place, baby?

Of course, to explain said pickup line, you’d probably have to carry a copy of the aforementioned article around with you everywhere. Unless there were some other way to work it out. If only I could think of one.

I’ve got to go lie down.

I'm Too Sexy For My Job

2005-05-17T16:28:00.000-04:00

Good news for all the scribes out there like me: According to a poll conducted by Salary.com, “reporter” is the fourth-sexiest occupation out there.

Take that, event planners! (They finished sixth.)

Of course, I’ll be taking this information with a grain of salt, since the poll probably takes more into account the makeup-laden talking-head retards on the TV news than it does actual “reporters.” You know, people who gather and disseminate information, as opposed to learning to read a teleprompter really well.

Plus, whoever was surveyed for this has obviously never been at the buffet line for the press meal at a sporting event.

Let’s put it this way: at 240 pounds, I’m often one of the slender guys.

Also, the list seems to be a little full of bullshit. I mean, are we saying strippers aren’t as sexy as interior designers? Then again, I suppose that depends on your, shall we say, personal preferences. (Random stereotype alert!)

Also, nurse? Maybe if it’s a naughty nurse.

And veterinarian? Maybe if it’s a naughty veterinarian. (Now exiting this line of thinking before we start getting into rectal thermometers…)

Anyway, perhaps the sexiest scene of all time could be achieved if a private plane caught fire and had to have an emergency landing.

On board is an important CEO (No. 3) being served a drink by a flight attendant (No. 2) and discussing an upcoming gala with his lawyer (No. 10) and the event planner (No. 6) for the party when suddenly and engine catches fire and has to land. Luckily the pilot has radioed ahead that there is trouble, so a doctor (No. 9) and a nurse (No. 7) are on hand waiting when the plane lands. But so is a reporter (No. 4) because he heard about it over the police scanner. And of course, there is the big guy, No. 1, the firefighter, waiting to put out the blaze.

And nothing is sexier than a great big coincidence.

The Monster Mash

2005-05-16T12:36:00.000-04:00

I really am slacking off, I suppose, this being the first entry in nearly two weeks. But it will all be worth the wait when you see one of the best names in the history or sport, Kansas softball player Destiny Frankenstein.

If you’re last name is Frankenstein, do you just say “Oh, fuck it,” and give your kid a weird first name, too, knowing she is already in for hell when she gets to middle school?

This is not an isolated incident. Just ask Destiny’s sister, Cherish Meade Frankenstein. I shit you not. It’s in Destiny’s personal info section on the bio.

The creepiest part to me is how this Frankenstein girl – who rocks the nicknames “Money” and “D-Frank” – has kind of a boxy head, a la, you guessed it, her monster namesake.

It should be noted that all my references here are to movie depictions of the monster, not to Mary Shelley’s novel, as we will not let literature get in the way of cinematic recollections for the purpose of this argument. (Dummy translation: No book, movie.)

Seriously though, her forehead is so big it’s closer to a five-head. All she’s missing is the bolts in her neck.

Okay, okay, maybe that was a little mean. But I’m sure it will all work out for her. She’s smart (Academic All-Big 12 second-teamer, according to the bio) and athletic (could steal 20 or more bases this season). So I’m sure one day she’ll settle down, get married, and begin reproducing.

As long as Destiny doesn’t meet George McFly, who would then attempt to woo her in the malt shop with lines like, “Density, I am your density.” Could get ugly. But him being fictional and all, I’m not too worried about it.

Now matter how it turns out, one thing is for sure: I, for one, could not be more excited about Destiny’s child.

On a Totally Random Note...

2005-05-04T17:30:00.000-04:00

...I was having lunch with Matt Dees, who explained that his boss was a workaholic. And I wondered aloud, what is the opposite of "workaholic?" Is it "social worker?"

Dissin' Dakota

2005-05-04T17:19:00.000-04:00

I was reading something online today about that child actor, Dakota Fanning, who is in that scary movie with DeNiro, if I remember correctly.

And it just suddenly pissed me off that her name is Dakota. What is she, one of Bruce Willis’ kids? Do Rumor and Scout have a sister they don’t know about?

But I digress.

My point is this: There is no two-word state that you should be able to split up and use as a name, with the possible exception of Carolina, and then only if you live in a Spanish-speaking country.

Plus, why stop there? How ridiculous would it be if we started splitting up one-word states and using those parts for names?

LaWare, maybe? Perhaps Nebra could be the new Debra. Or you could address an envelope one day to Miss Issippi Smith.

But then I started thinking about this more and realized we already have a bunch of names like that (not even counting such obvious ones as Maryland, Louisiana, the Virginias, or even Wyoming, which sort of sounds like Yao Ming).

Take Ana, for instance, the last lonely part of Montana. Now, I could invoke the Spanish-speaking country rule here as well, but I’ll give the benefit of the doubt, even without the double N.

There’s also the old-old-school name Ida, which is only missing a ho, and then you’ve got yourself a state. Or a really slutty grandma.

And how about Egon, which as we all know finishes up Oregon.

Of course, you’re never going to end up talking to anyone named Egon, unless you often travel with a proton pack on your back and are “fuzzy on the whole good-bad thing.”

So the point here is, we’re all screwed. We can’t control this whole name thing. Except me. My kids will simply be numbered.

Massachusetts Institute of Tomfoolery

2005-05-03T11:58:00.000-04:00

Wow, has it really been this long since I had an entry here on the ol’ blog? Apparently it has.

That’s too bad. If I could go back in time and change it, I would. Then I would visit the Time Traveler Convention that will be held at MIT on May 7.

When do you go to something like this, when you're officially too nerdy for Star Trek conventions? (Not counting the time travelers themselves. They're cool.)

Also, is it just me, or does this sound a little too crackpot for an institution with the academic reputation of an MIT? I’m not sure what my favorite part is, the fact that they give latitude and longitude directions in case MIT no longer exists in the future that someone is traveling from, or the fact that there’s no dress code.

Because, really what’s more embarrassing than making a 3,000-year trek backwards through time only to learn when you arrive that this was a black-tie shindig?

Also, call me a skeptic, but the following sentence bothered me: “We welcome any sort of proof, but things like a cure for AIDS or cancer, a solution for global poverty, or a cold fusion reactor would be particularly convincing as well as greatly appreciated.”

Oh, you want proof? Sure, no problem. And I’m sure as soon as I, as a time traveler, leave again for my home in the distant future (assuming I haven’t had too many beers at this rip-roarin’ convention to drive the time machine), these MIT punks will steal all the good future innovations.

At the very least, I’m sure they will conveniently “forget” who brought what.

“Oh, you brought the potato salad, right?”

“No, the AIDS cure.”

“OK, potato salad it is. I’ll rinse that dish out and get it back to you.”

And really, nothing will ruin a time-traveler’s day like having to chase down some little snot from MIT who stole his stuff from the future. So, really, I mean why are we having this thing?

Oh, and one more thing, just for the hell of it: “They found me! I don’t know how, Marty, but they found me!” (What, you thought I’d have a whole time-travel entry without quoting Doc Brown? For shame!).

Sand-tastic

2005-04-26T00:53:00.000-04:00

Okay, there's nothing funny here. Sorry. But I just had to share this incredible video. Watch all nine minutes of it, seriously. It's pretty awesome. Now every time I go to the beach, I'll feel like I'm underachieving just by being in the presence of sand.

Tiger Double-Eagle Monkey

2005-04-13T00:11:00.000-04:00

So me, Fitt and Matt Dees are playing Tiger Woods 2004, and we all double-eagle the same hole on virtually identical shots.

This is clearly the greatest accomplishment that will ever come to pass on Fitt’s PlayStation 2. We were all pretty excited.

So Matt says, “Dude, you should blog about it. Make it funny.”

Then I launch into a comedic diatribe about how Matt would make a great upper-management type at a 1930s newspaper. I began speaking in a 1930s gangster voice, playing the part of Matt. “Hey, blog man. They say you’re funny. Why don’t you see if you can punch up this double-eagle story!”

Trust me, it was funny at the time.

And in this inane story about a story, I have managed to get that first story (the double-eagle thing, if you’re scoring at home) into the blog despite having virtually no good reason to do so.

I am Matt Dees’ dancing monkey, and I have obliged his desires to see our 90-seconds of video-game transcendence glorified in my blog.

Now I must go eat a banana.

The Hesitant, Yet Artful Dodge-r

2005-04-11T10:10:00.000-04:00

Today, I am officially a Southerner.

I had to drop my car off for a week of repair (thanks to a chick in my apartment complex who backed into my whole passenger side), and the good people at Allstate hooked me up with a rental car.

Enterprise, known by the slogan "We’ll pick you up," came and, well, picked me up. I just didn’t expect to get picked up in a pickup.

Nor did I expect that, since they were out of little cars most closely resembling my Hyundai Elantra, I would actually be driving off in the very same pickup truck, a Dodge Dakota.

When the very-hot girl from Enterprise who picked me up, so to speak, informed me of this, I said, very coolly, "Uh, yeah, sure, pickup. Yeah, no problem." As if I drove pickups all the time. I'm what the kids call "smooth."

She said it was either that or a minivan, and I figured Redneck status gave me ever so slightly more street cred than Soccer Mom status, so the pickup it was.

Of course, it took a little adjusting, as the Newtonian laws apparently apply slightly differently to a several-ton truck than they do to my regular car, which weighs about the same as my couch.

But once that was out of the way, it was fun. I even passed a minivan on my way home, and was glad I wasn’t the driver of it. "Sucker," I thought. "Ha!"

Wait, make that "Yeeeee ha!"

Punky Pregnant With Punk'd Producer's Progeny

2005-03-23T22:43:00.000-05:00

I’m up in Syracuse, without much to report at the moment, but felt compelled to write, just because I saw a headline tonight that I can’t imagine I ever thought I would see. It just seems weird to see those words in print: Punky Brewster's Pregnant.

This led to other such random thoughts, like, does it qualify as ironic that Punky had breast-reduction surgery, and now they’re just gonna get bigger again? Or, is it weird that she was Punky and her husband is a producer of "Punk'd"?

And whatever happened to Brandon the Dog? Think he’s still alive?

If he’s not, I only hope there’s a separate heaven that animals go to, and within that animal heaven is yet another separate heaven for celebrity animals. You know, somewhere that Brandon, Spuds McKenzie and Morris the Cat can all hang out and swap stories with the likes of real old-schoolers like Toto and Lassie.

Ooh, and that ferret from Kindergarten Cop should get in, too. I know that was really his only starring role, but he did bite that ponytailed villain right in the jugular. That’s got to count for something. I say put him in celebrity animal heaven.

Okay, and just for fun, let’s say cartoon animals were allowed in.

And from that, a quick hypothetical: you’re the St. Peter of celebrity animal (and cartoon animal) heaven, and Dave Seville kills himself and all three of the Chipmunks in a tragic murder-suicide. But you only have room for one of the Chipmunks. Which do you let into heaven?

My vote, personally, goes to Theodore. He was sweet and innocent. And if nothing else, he gets it by process of elimination. I mean, Alvin was an out-and-out a-hole, no matter how you slice it. And I felt like Simon was sort of a wannabe goody-goody with a latent dark side. Given the opportunity, he would have whipped up some scientific way to make Alvin "disappear" so he could be the alpha-chipmunk.

What did Theodore ever do that was bad? I’ll tell you what he didn’t do. He didn’t knock up Punky Brewster.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when I’m left unattended in a hotel in Syracuse when it’s snowing out and I have nothing better to do. Peace out.

Now Starting at Linebacker, Jesus Christ!

2005-03-02T17:36:00.000-05:00

It’s a sad day when you realize that there is a whole bunch of slang that you simply don’t know. At least I’m assuming there is based on this list of things the NFL shop won’t put on a jersey for you.

Some of them are obvious (let’s just say the portion of the list that begins with ‘F’ is extensive). But some are mystifying.

Take for instance “Glazed Donut,” which is one of the banned phrases. Do I even want to know what that means? (For those of you unfamiliar with rhetorical questions, the answer is no). The others aren’t necessarily words I don’t know, just words that I don’t understand how they got on the list.

For instance, “Masterbate” is on the banned list, yet “Masturbate” is not. So basically, if you can spell correctly, you are free to advertise to the world that you enjoy pleasuring yourself. Also, “Easy Slut” is on the list, for those who can’t resist redundancy.

For those who want to delve into ebonics, “Datnigga” is banned, whereas there is no listing prohibiting “Disnigga.” So basically it’s just a matter of where you’re standing.

“Kumquat” is not allowed, as the NFL obviously has something against small citrus fruits.

Also forbidden is “JesusChrist,” thus ending his dreams of a career in pro football after he gets that whole resurrection thing taken care of. The saddest part about that is, now we’ll never know whom his opponents would thank after the game. I imagine it’s hard to give all thanks to Jesus after he returns a punt for a touchdown on your ass.

Then there are some basic ones: you can’t get “Carruth” no matter how big a fan you are of former Panthers wideout Rae Carruth, who had his baby’s mama killed. That makes sense. But why can’t you get “Sweetness” – the nickname of Bears great Walter Payton? It hardly seems to be on par with “Skankywhore” or “Crotch Jockey” (also both on the list).

You also can’t get “Mother Love Bone” because the NFL obviously thinks it’s a characterization of your mom, not a band from Seattle in the early 90s. And if your mom’s name is Pearl, you probably can’t get Pearl Jam either. Unless you’re your dad. Then it’s probably cool.

Last but not least, the banned list also features “hoser.” But that’s fine. I was saving that one for when I order my jersey from the Canadian Football League anyway.

Lisa Leads Me to Link reLentlessly

2005-02-24T12:27:00.000-05:00

I’m all about links today. Let that be known. So if you’re looking for endless streams of witty remarks … oh, well, I guess there’ll be a few. But mostly links.

First, we must thank Lisa for sending this one, Tar Heel Hip-Hop. Go play Track 12, seriously. Where else will you find lyrics like:

Jackie Man-u-el / you be doin’ it well

or

Let’s hook up at Players / Drink some Holy Grails
A couple pale ales / she’ll be shakin’ her tail

It’s way off the charts as far as unintentional comedy. Now to intentional comedy. Or at least intentional cleverness. This is clearly the most sexually clever ad of all time. In fact, it’s making me a little sad I have a laptop, with one of these stupid touchpads. Let’s move on.

I know I’ve talked about this before, and I promise, I really have nothing against the place, but the Ikea nuts are at it again.

Things get even less normal in outer space, where Saturn has its own Death Star. That’s pretty sweet.

And finally, everybody’s favorite little newsmaker/video slut, Paris Hilton, let her PDA get hacked and now her entire phone book is online! There are some questionable entries in there, like “Fux, Connor.” So is that the dude’s name, or, um, oh nevermind. And who is “Egplant dike ass”? And, more importantly, does she know that’s her name in Paris’ phone book?

Well, I’m done here, so the only real question left is who do I call first, Anna Kournikova or former Guns n’ Roses drummer Matt Sorum? (Are you kidding me – Matt f@%$* Sorum???).

E All You Can E

2005-02-18T15:08:00.000-05:00

I have a fever, so bear with me here, but I saw this story today and couldn’t believe it. It’s about how American soldiers traumatized in Iraq and Afghanistan are being given Ecstacy to relieve flashbacks and recurring nightmares.

Hey, that’s cool. I’ve never tried Ecstacy, but it always seems fun when they take a recreational drug and find a medical use for it. Of course, then it only seems like a matter of time before some dilated-pupil trance-dancer is claiming, “Officer, it’s medicinal. You know, for my recurring nightmares."

But I digress. The best paragraph in this story is about how the Ecstacy treatment is administered:

The existing drug-assisted therapy sessions last up to eight hours, during music [sic] is played. The patients swallow a capsule containing a placebo or 125mg of MDMA - about the same or a little more than a typical ecstasy tablet.

Okay, well aside from the fact that they forgot the word “which” in the first sentence there, here’s my beef: Is it just me, or does this therapy sound suspiciously like a rave. I mean, if someone told you they ate some E and then spent the next eight hours listening to music, is the first thought that comes to your head going to be, “Ah, he must have had an army therapy session.” Probably not.

Well, now it’s back to Halls mentho-lyptus therapy for me. Music optional.

I Heart Hartford

2005-02-14T16:22:00.000-05:00

On this Valentine’s Day, it seems appropriate to note that this weekend I unexpectedly fell in love – with Connecticut. Well, maybe it was just more of a quality weekend fling. I don’t think I’m looking for any long-term commitment to The Constitution State.

Anyway, here’s why the whole thing went so well. I was in Hartford for the UNC-UConn game, and being that it was a Sunday 1 p.m. job, I was in town from Saturday evening to Monday. Saturday night, we went out in downtown Hartford, which was a surprisingly good time.

At the restaurant where we ate dinner, The Red Plate, the men’s room featured a small string with a ball on the end of it coming from a hole in the wall next to the toilet. A small sign above the string read: “Pull if you need help.” What service! I couldn’t, as I stood preparing to urinate, think of anything I needed “assistance” with (no matter how much I would like to flatter myself). Only in Hartford, I guess.

Sunday night, after the game, Robbi, Jeff and I opted to take a 45-minute ride out to the Mohegan Sun casino to shed some of our white-people guilt (read: cold hard cash). At first, both Robbi and Jeff were hesitant – notably Jeff, who had a 6 a.m. flight back to Greensboro. They had decided we weren’t going, until the following conversation took place in my hotel room.

Me: We don’t have to go, it’s fine.
Jeff: Well, I mean if everyone else wants to, I could be persuaded.
Robbi: Well, if we’re going to go, we should go now.
Me: Let’s do it!

Five minutes later we’re in the car on the way to Uncasville, Connecticut, with only the most marginally sketchy directions on how to get to the casino. But they don’t hide those things. Any place that wants to take your money makes itself easy to find, and 40 minutes later we were on an elevator to the casino floor.

I’ll spare the details of the gambling itself, aside from saying Robbi was very lucky, Jeff was pretty lucky, and I could not be reached for comment. The one fun moment for me, though, was when things turned Swingers-esque. I was drinking Jacks and Cokes (cue Penelope Cruz voice from Vanilla Sky) on the regular at my blackjack table, so the waitress just kept ‘em coming when she happened by each time.

But thanks to a full bladder and a desire to find the Let It Ride tables, we abandoned blackjack and headed across the casino. Part of the way into our journey, the waitress saw me and said, “Hey, aren’t you the Jack and Coke guy?” before handing me another drink.

I tried not to laugh as I thought of the scene in Swingers where the waitress goes into her whole “I carried that stupid Scotch around on my tray for an hour” schtick. Luckily I resisted the impulse to flip her a silver dollar and set up a 6 a.m. rendezvous. But it still would have been nice for someone, anyone, to tell me that I was so money and I didn’t even know it.

An Axe to Grind

2005-02-02T23:53:00.000-05:00

This afternoon I was simultaneously excited and disappointed as my new guitar arrived. Before I tell you why, first a little bit about this guitar, or rather, how I came to be expecting it in the first place.

Impulse is a dangerous thing. Like crack. Except you don’t need to find a dealer to get in trouble with impulses. And even if you did, you’d be all, “Hey, I’ll trade you this stereo for some impulse. Don’t worry, it’s not stolen. It’s my Dad’s.” But enough about you.

So on an impulse a couple of weeks ago, I bought a cube of wine at Target. A cube, you ask? Yup. A cube. It is, indeed, in the shape of a cube, and the phrase “cube of wine” sounds so much more dignified than “box of wine.” Even though a cube is a box. Kind of like the way all squares are rectangles, but all rectangles aren’t squares. If they were, Huey Lewis could’ve written a song called “Hip to Be Rectangle.” But he didn’t, so I’ll just get back to the point.

This was an impulse buy, this wine cube. So, no harm done, you say. What’s the problem?

Well, when I was drinking this impulse buy a recent evening, I stumbled upon a near-$500 guitar on sale online for $129.99. And, as they say in the bible, impulse begat impulse (only for “impulse” substitute in some old-school Hebrew names). Buzzed significantly off my impulse wine, I bought an impulse guitar.

So why the disappointment when it arrived? Well, I had two press conferences to cover, and the guitar arrived via UPS literally two minutes before I was set to leave. I didn’t even get to tune the thing before I had to leave for several hours.

It reminded me, all too painfully, of the day I got my first guitar. That axe, a P.O.S. glittery blue nightmare, came into my possession the very night of the Commack Middle School eighth-grade dance. All I could think about as I slow danced to Boyz II Men’s “End of the Road” or bounced to “Jump” by Kris Kross was how much I wanted to play my new guitar.

It was the same this time, except substitute a stuffy-nosed Roy Williams for any of the aforementioned craptacular songs. But I survived, got home, plugged in and tuned up, and all was well. And it turned out that maybe these impulses were a good thing, not at all wiggity-wiggity-wiggity-wack.

Mrs. Garrett, Meet Mr. Milosevic

2005-01-29T22:19:00.000-05:00

I’ve been meaning to post something about this for a while, but I keep forgetting. The one thing I don’t seem to forget is 1980s sitcoms. So this game I’m about to tell you about was perfect for me.

It came to my attention thanks to buddy Jamie Agin, who is also the Sports Guy’s intern and does some Daily Links. The game, you can find here. Be warned, it will consume you (unless you were the loyal blog reader who was kind enough to give me shelter Friday night – you, I’m afraid, will know none of it. Sorry!).

Imagine that: this thing will guess the Dictator or Sitcom Character you are thinking of. How’s this crazy internet site supposed to know if I’m thinking of Pol Pot or Potsie from “Happy Days”? I found it’s claims of omniscience to be dubious at best.

Until I did it. Repeatedly. And then more repeatedly. Until I was obsessed.

My friend Tyson and I tried a myriad of characters (but no dictators – I mean how many obscure dictators are there, really, that we could trick the computer with?). It knew them all. Except Sandy Duncan, who I might have messed up on, because I don’t remember what she did for a living on “The Hogan Family.” I do know she has a glass eye, for whatever that’s worth.

Anyway, this thing asks you questions and then guesses who you are. The game became not to stump it so much as to pick a character almost no one else had made it guess. Tyson won that little game, becoming only the seventh person ever to try to stump this thing with Grandpa from “Silver Spoons.”

OK, I didn’t even know there was a Grandpa from Silver Spoons – and those of you who know me, know that I know every sitcom character there is to know. The other night, I was watching some commercial and said, very matter-of-factly, “Hey, that’s Khrystyne Haje. She played Simone on ‘Head of the Class.’” I even knew her name started with a K and had two Ys in it. I'm a freak.

This induced some or other noise of disbelief from Fitt on the other couch. He'll get over it. Wait, why haven’t I tried her yet? OK, gotta go….

When "ize" Gets In Your Soap

2005-01-20T16:56:00.000-05:00

After another semi-long hiatus, I was finally moved to write an entry here thanks to something I saw while covering a basketball game at Clemson.

Now, the first problem is that if the world had an actual butthole, it would be located at exit 19B of I-85. Sure, you could argue that the town of Anderson is also off that exit and I shouldn’t necessarily lump it in with Clemson. But I could argue that my fingers are in my ears and I can’t hear you (la, la, la, la…).

So anyway, back to the point of the story, I’m in the bathroom, and what do I see but a soap dispenser labeled “Lotionized Hand Soap.”

Two thoughts immediately occurred to me:

1. Who sees the container of liquid hand soap and then, like a lab rat going for a reward pellet, presses away furiously waiting for a bar of soap to drop out?

The answer? No one.

2. There’s just no way that “Lotionized” is a word.

Turns out, I was right on this one. Unless of course I meant “lot ionized” or “lionized.”

Which clearly I didn’t. Although it would be nice to have some soap to look up to.

Tony Flags

2005-01-05T23:55:00.000-05:00

So the movie Desperado is on TV tonight, and my roommate, the venerable Aaron Fitt has not seen it. In one of the early scenes, when Antonio Banderas first walks into the Cheech-tended bar and gets into a gunfight, Fitt and I have the following conversation.

Fitt: It’s weird seeing Tony Flags as a bad ass.
Me: I’m sorry, did you just call Antonio Banderas Tony Flags?
Fitt: I like to Anglicize stuff.

And I started to wonder….are there other names we can do this to? And can we do it in reverse? Can we turn Josh Hartnett into Jose Red de Corazon? Okay, okay, that’s a stretch, I’ll admit it.

But seriously, someone give me something here. There have to be more of these, and my brain hurts.

Smokeless in Seattle (OK, not in Seattle)

2005-01-03T11:00:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year, all! So, it’s been a little while, as I have been on some sort of unofficial holiday hiatus (read: drinking binge). But now I’m back, and everything is back to normal again.

Oh, except that I’m not smoking. That’s right. Not smoking. It’s like smoking, but the complete opposite.

Here we are on day three of the little experiment called Project Stop Blackening My Lungs and Slowly Killing Myself. Or PSBMLSKM for short. (Note how I didn’t use the “and” in my acronym, as if one more letter would have made it any more unwieldy than it already was … especially a sweet, sweet vowel.)

So anyway, PSBMLSKM is going pretty well so far, with my homicidal urges coming at several-hour intervals. I figure they’re like contractions for a pregnant woman: until I start getting them every few minutes, there is no need to seek medical attention.

I’m chewing gum, toothpicks, straws – anything I can get my hands on. If my leg was stuck in a bear trap, I think I’d gnaw through it not to free myself, but just to satisfy my oral fixation. Luckily, I don’t keep any bear traps in my living room. Anymore.

When I’m not chewing on stuff, I simply try not to think about smoking and how deliciously wonderful and delicious it is. I mean was. Like, I’ll think about this line from some show (I can’t remember which one), that goes something like: “Cigarettes killed my father…(dramatic pause)…and raped my mother.” That usually gives me a good chuckle, which helps suppress those pesky homicidal urges for another few minutes.

And as long as I can dodge all those troublesome spots in which I’d want a cigarette (i.e. – drinking coffee, drinking alcohol, after meals, walking, driving, sitting, thinking, daytime, nighttime), it should be no trouble.

Of course, I just finished breakfast, and I’m drinking a cup of coffee. But I think I can hang in there….Now, what did I do with that list of people to kill?

Dissed by John Edwards

2004-12-22T03:45:00.000-05:00

I've got no problem getting dissed by interview subjects. It happens from time to time. People just don't want to talk. But tonight I had the most high-profile snub of all-time (for me, at least): former vice-presidential candidate John Edwards.

He was on hand at the North Carolina-Vermont tilt this evening, and at halftime, I attempted to get a one-minute interview for a feature called the Blue Q that we run every issue of Carolina Blue. He glad-handed me and smiled like a true lawyer/politician and told me we should do it another time. He even asked for my card. But seriously, as much of a media whore as John Edwards is, I know he's not going to call (full disclosure: I voted for the Kerry/Edwards ticket -- this is personal vitriol here, not any kind of political thing).

But I decided that if he does call, I should re-snub him with some sort of "Oh-sorry-I've-got-Dick-Cheney-on-the-other-line" sort of excuse....Assuming Cheney hasn't died of his 800th heart attack by then.

Then my buddy Ogle, who you might remember from his naming of this blog, suggested I go all Major League on his ass. As in, when minor-league manager Lou Brown (who also works in some sort of tire/auto shop) tells the Indians' general manager that he's too busy to talk about managing the Indians.

Charlie Donovan: How would you like to manage the Indians this year?
Lou Brown: Gee, I don't know...
Charlie Donovan: What do you mean, you don't know? This is your chance to manage in the big leagues.
Lou Brown: Let me get back to you, will ya, Charlie? I got a guy on the other line asking about some whitewalls.

Yeah, that's right, John Edwards....I've got Dick Cheney on the other line about some whitewalls. Me, one. You, zero.

More Sweet, Sweet Vindication

2004-12-20T14:36:00.000-05:00

The last post was about my vindication, via science, for being a pack rat. This one's even sweeter. As you might recall, I recently had a nightmare travel experience.

Well, vindication arrived this morning in the form of a letter from some dude named Fred B. Murchison at U.S. Airways. I had written them an angry letter after returning from the dreaded Bloomington trip, expecting to get nothing but a nice warm glass of shut the fuck up in return. After all, this airline is bankrupt - why would they refund my money?

The answer is, they didn't. But, they did give me a $50 voucher for the next time I fly U.S. Airways. Which could be soon. I mean, we're currently rocking a day-time temp of 26 degrees here in Chapel Hill, so it can't be that long 'til hell frezes over.

In summary, U.S. Airways = bad (but not as bad as they were before they sent me money); angry letters = good.

Pack It Up, Pack It In

2004-12-20T00:44:00.000-05:00

What do random pipe cleaners, a super ball, a dry-erase marker and my old watch have in common? Well, they’re all resting comfortably together in a shoe box in my room. Why do I keep these things, instead of just throwing them out like a sane person? Well, science has vindicated me at last. Turns out, being a pack rat is totally normal human behavior. Who knew?

Apparently, hamsters, given the chance, will obsessively collect glass beads. By comparison, it feels relatively normal knowing the aforementioned shoe box also contains matches from the Imperial Palace in Vegas; or a conversation tape I recorded for my first college Spanish class; or the Arabian Sandalwood incense that was part of a gag secret Santa gift from a buddy of mine years ago.

Or how about the receipt from when I got my ear pierced in 1997. Hell, I don’t even have the earring anymore. But the receipt for the piercing? You betcha.

The wallet that the Atlantic Ocean mercilessly destroyed some years back? Oh, I’ve still got it. In the box. Mind you, I have a perfectly good wallet in my back pocket right now. Yet I still have the old one.

And this is just one box. When my parents moved last year, I had to go into my childhood room and make some real hard decisions. (Note: for any normal person, these would be easy decisions.) It was traumatic throwing things away. I don’t like it. This is my biggest fear should I ever have to move: That I would have to throw out these random things in lieu of packing them to bring them somewhere else.

What’s a poor pack rat to do? Well, play with this super ball for starters. Maybe burn some incense lit with a Vegas match, lean back and listen to an old tape. Que divertido!

Brush With Greatness

2004-12-10T16:23:00.000-05:00

I just got out of the shower (fear not, I’m clothed), and I wanted to discuss a couple of things. Namely, two products I got at Target recently. These items can only be described as fantastically wonderful. Or I guess wonderfully fantastic would work, too. Up to you.

The shower-related products in question are a no-fog mirror and a brush on a stick. In the interest of saving the best for last, let’s start with the mirror.

A couple of months ago, on a trip to Utah, I found myself sans shaving cream, and in need of a shave. So, being already in the shower, I opted for the shaving-with-soap route, and miraculously it worked. My skin can be a bit sensitive, so I’m a little particular about how I shave (making the electric razor my sworn nemesis). But once this worked, I decided I was going to shave in the shower all the time (albeit with shaving cream). Hence, the mirror. So far, so great.

But the real winner is the brush. I mean, the mirror is good, but the brush…Whoa (if I might quote Joey Lawrence). It was an impulse buy, and when I first saw it, I thought of the Simpsons episode where Homer gets intentionally fat to go on disability. In this episode, Bart fantasizes about being fat in the future and saying, in his best redneck voice, “I warsh myself with a rag on a stick.” That freaked me out a bit, but, hey, I’m not that fat, so whatever. Using something on a stick to reach my back was a choice, not a requirement.

Anyway, the brush is a godsend. So much so that it has inspired me to (literally) sing its praises. So that everyone can play, I have selected a tune that most of the people reading this (including our friend Glitzy) should know: a portion of the UNC alma mater.

*clearing throat*

Hail to the greatest brush of all,
It cost six ninety-nine!
Shower back brush, priceless gem,
Receive all praises thine!

I could go into it being a back-brush born and a back-brush bred, but that would be over the top. Plus, I never want to imagine my back brush dead. So, in closing, Go to Hell, State.

Shiver Me Timber

2004-12-08T22:23:00.000-05:00

My brother suggested I blog about a random subject that is an occasional favorite of mine: the pee shivers.

Now, ladies, I know you won't know what I'm talking about. I discovered that the pee shivers (the definition of which will follow) is a uniquely male phenomenon. At least according to this girl Kristen that I dated some time back. I came out of her bathroom one day saying, "You know when you get the pee shivers..." Needless to say, this was met with a blank stare. Probably in part from the fact that she had no idea what I was talking about. But also because it involved the word pee. I doubt pee is used very often as a modifier for anything, much less shivers. So I quickly endeavored to explain, before she noticed the shiver had made my nipples hard.

When us guys go No. 1, sometimes while you're peeing, you get this whole body shudder, sort of like the chills. It makes you shimmy like you're doing a very, very subtle touchdown celebration. It feels strange but good. So as long as your aim remains true, it's really not a bad thing.

(For the record, I have no idea why it happens, but apparently it does not happen to girls. Maybe it's the guys' standing-up factor, or just another fun bonus for those of us with our junk situated externally.)

After I first told Kristen and she responded with utter disbelief, I began to worry that the pee shivers were some bizarre affliction that only I suffered from. I could picture the doctors standing over my corpse some day in the future, going, "Well, this man appears to be completely healthy...It seems he died from a little-known malady as 'shiverus urinia' more commonly known as the 'pee shivers.'" Lousy doctors!

So I asked my guy friends. They put my mind at ease by revealing that they, too, had had the pee shivers. Whew! Finally, I could go back to enjoying them when they happened. So, ladies, do you really never get them? For real? Can anyone tell me why? Seriously, as much fun as it is to have a penis for entertainment purposes alone, this is where you are really missing out. Pee shivers. Man, I love saying that. Pee shivers.

Oh, the Places You'll (Eventually) Go!

2004-12-02T20:53:00.000-05:00

I have had some nightmarish travel experiences in my day, the most notable being a Thanksgiving “flight” from Raleigh-Durham to Islip that resulted somehow in a bus trip from Baltimore to Long Island and concluded mercifully at 6 a.m.

Well, now the adventure I had Wednesday trying to get from RDU to Bloomington, Indiana, now officially ranks right up there. What follows is the summarized version (for the sake of both your and my sanity):

My fellow U.(As)S. Airways passengers and I had nearly a two-hour delay in Raleigh thanks to “high winds” in Philly, which was were I was connecting to Indianapolis. From Indy, I’d rent a car and drive the hour or so to Bloomington.

So these winds screw us right off the bat, as I arrive in Philly well after my connecting flight has left. So they put me on a flight three hours later. I should mention that I’m flying the day of the game I have to cover, so if I’m not in Assembly Hall by 9 p.m., there’s no reason for me to be there at all.

Now I’m on a 4 p.m. flight to Indy, arriving at 6 p.m. – allegedly. We get pushed back to 4:30, and we’re still not on the plane yet. So I inquire with a gate agent about flights back to RDU, figuring if it gets too late for me to make the game, why even go to Indy? He tells me to wait. I do, for 20 minutes. Then this jerk announces a gate change, and the herd migrates hurriedly.

At the new gate I wait in line again. He blows me off til it’s boarding time. I ask again, and he says I’ll have to wait. Wait til when? I have to get on the damn plane! I explain to him that I’ve been waiting 40 minutes for him to check on something that would take him two minutes. The following exchange occurs:

Gate Agent (smugly): Well, your patience is appreciated.
Me (angrily): Well, your condescension is not.

So I get on the plane and ask the flight attendants if they have one of those books with all the flights in it because the guy at the gate has ignored me and been mean. They say no, but I should ask him again, or go check the screen and then come back.

I leave the plane and exchange some more unpleasantries with the gate guy. He tells me to get on the plane NOW because he’s closing the doors. But when I get on the flight attendants stop me and tell me how nice I was to them, whereas other people (or me at any other given moment) normally yell at them for stuff that’s not their fault.

So, get this. They bump me to first class. Thanks, girls of Flight 1089 – you’re aces. They are, as my roommate might say, two of the all-time greats.

So I made it to the game, and I learned an important lesson: Sometimes being nice and polite in the face of frustration is better than raging out with profanity.

No, wait, that wasn’t it. Oh yeah, the lesson was: U.S. Airways sucks. And the Philly airport, too.

Day two travel note (I feel like Peter King): The next morning (Thursday), leaving Indy, I get pulled aside by security. The guy tells me he is going to wand me and then pat me down. He then says: “If at any time you’d like a private screening, let me know.”

While he seemed like a nice, strapping young Indiana lad, I can’t think of one good reason why I’d want a “private” screening from him. No thanks, guy, you can pat me down right here in front of everybody.

Is this like the airport equivalent of the strip-club VIP room? Excuse me, sir, how much for the, ahem, private screening. Bow-chicka-wow-wow.

Of course maybe I shouldn’t have been stuffing dollar bills in his g-string. Oh well, live and learn I guess.

Beam Us Up?

2004-11-30T20:36:00.000-05:00

So I'm talking with our buddy Mike Ogle the other day (the guy no one has ridiculed yet for naming my blog "blog cabin"). And he tells me that he had read a story which said the government approved money for research of teleportation. Seriously.

So that's weird, I'm thinking, and then Ogle drops this: The story completely glossed over the fact that the government was earmarking a whopping $25,000 for the research of teleportation. Twenty-five Gs! That's it!

It is at this point that I begin laughing. Was this just one of those things someone snuck onto a bill in Congress and it slipped through? Then I thought, 'Wow, the teleportation lobby in D.C. must not be so strong if that's all it could muster.' (Well, to be honest, first I giggled bemusedly at the idea that there might even be a teleportation lobby.)

Think of what we spend on some random-ass shit. For many inconsequential projects and programs, our government can drop tens of millions of dollars every year (not saying these projects/programs are unimportant, but we spend a lot, as a nation, on stuff that we probably never think about). Yet the teleportation people went in and said, 'Yeah, you know, if you could give us like, oh, I don't know, $25,000, we could make teleportation happen. Sure.'

Never mind that a crew of three guys doing road construction (only one of whom, by rule, can actually be doing work at any particular moment) makes that in a day of standing around and congesting traffic.

Hmm, that would be some quality irony: If we stopped spending millions upon millions of dollars for road repairs, which invariably fall three years behind schedule during the first week -- because we could teleport!

And why do I keep italicizing "teleport." Or putting it in quotes for that matter. I've also been on a big exclamation-point kick lately. It's fun!

On that note, I leave you with some other thoughts on teleportation, er, rather, teleportation:

Prof. Frink: I take it from that little impressed noise that you are interested in purchasing that matter transporter, sir.

Homer: Ah...er...two bucks!? And it only transports matter!? Well, uh, I'll give you 35 cents.

Prof. Frink: Sold! But I must warn you this devices carries a frighteningly high risk of catastrophic...

Homer: I said I'll take it!

Give Me a Name, Atreyu

2004-11-19T14:40:00.000-05:00

So in the long quest for a name -- anagrams notwithstanding -- it appears we have a winner, at least for now.

While I might continue to rotate names, Mike Ogle is the big winner thanks to suggesting "Blog Cabin." Feel free to comment ripping Ogle. He likes that.

The Ol' Baby on the Doorstep

2004-11-17T15:47:00.000-05:00

So I'm sitting here working peacefully in my apartment when I hear this wailing. I mean wailing. It's coming from outside my front door.

Immediately, my thoughts turn to Three Men and a Baby. I figure, great, there's going to be a baby abandoned on my doorstep, and what the hell do I do then? Where the hell are Steve Guttenberg and Tom Selleck when you need them, right?

So I open the door, and standing there is a little Hispanic toddler (definitely under two years old, I'd say, but she could walk). She takes one look at me and is instantly confused. This, no doubt, stems from the fact that she has no idea who I am. Nonetheless, she figures it beats the porch and toddles into my hallway. I am on the phone, so I say I have to go, and I turn my attention to the crying child in my apartment.

I pick her up, and she stops crying and just stares at me. Babies love me, this is a proven fact, although I have no idea why. Now the question is, what do I do? I ponder calling the cops, but I figure this baby couldn't have come from anywhere far away. She can barely walk, much less drive, so I'm sure she's local.

So, I carry her out of my apartment and down the steps. I ask two Mexican workmen -- who are apparently so busy in their re-roofing tasks, they failed to notice a wailing child on my welcome mat -- "Hey, did you guys see where this baby came from?" Lacking the ability to speak English, one of them points in a general direction I'll call "away from them."

So I wander down a bit, and sure enough, two staircases down from my townhouse, is one with an open door. Surely, this is where this baby came from. I walk up the stairs, and in the hallway is a small Hispanic man holding a laptop. He looks at me as if I'm supposed to say something, even though I'm standing there holding his daughter. So I say, "She yours?" He nods and I hand her off as her older sister (probably about five) stands there watching.

He smiles to me and gives me -- get this -- a thumbs up. Now call me old fashioned, but I think the thumbs up is a gesture better suited for presidential motorcades, movie reviews, and the Olsen twins when they were on Full House. It is NOT, however, an appropriate subsitute for, "Thank you for finding my lost child, who I apparently didn't even notice had wandered out of my apartment, down the long flight of stairs, up another long flight of stairs and into your apartment. It will never happen again. Thank you so much!"

He didn't even look the least bit concerned. Before leaving this stupid-grinning schmuck, I say, "Hey, guy, you might want to keep that door closed. Or at least keep an eye on your kids."

I went with that only because, despite holding a minor in Spanish, I do not know how to say, "Act like a parent, you irresponsible douchebag."

So now I'm back home, pondering calling up Guttenberg's publicist to see if ol' Steve wants to come live with me in case it happens again. I mean, what else has he got to do? The guy hasn't worked in years.

Where Have You Gone, Sexy Underwear?

2004-11-17T10:47:00.000-05:00

Evan loves you more than you will know...woah woah woah....

So anyway, I was reading this story today, and it said that in Australia, thongs and other such alluring undergarments are having their rightful place in the pantheon of sexiness usurped by, get this, a comeback of granny panties. Worn by non-grannies!

"There was a time when everything had to be a G-string but that has swung around to now when everything has to have a boy-leg," said Calvin Klein underwear sales and marketing manager Judith Anderson.

Well, needless to say, my, ahem, "boy leg" is none too excited about this development. I mean who doesn't like sexy girl underwear?

It reminds me of a time I visited my friend Janet up in NYC, and Janet complained to her older sister Laura about Laura's clothes-drying rack sitting in the bedroom window populated by big (relatively, since Laura was quite petite) underwear. "Laura, everyone walking by can see you wear granny panties, and they're not going to talk to us!" Janet complained.

And no one ever talked to them again. (OK, that's not true.)

This is also sad news, I suspect, to another NYC chum of mine, Tamer, a booty connoisseur, who had the unique talent of being able to tell exactly what type of underwear a woman was wearing simply by looking at her pants.

In the interest of full disclosure, no pun intended, I'm a boxer-briefs man. It's the best of both worlds. They provide security for your junk without being overly constrictive. Now, I realize that constrictiveness is not such an issue for the ladies as is the wedgie. But whatever undies they're wearing are going to ride up some anyway. Why not take the crack by the horns, so to speak, and just give it the thong?

There's probably something else to be said on the matter, but it will invariably involve the phrase "dumps like a truck" so I will simply leave it at that. Sorry Sisqo.

Bob Sanders

2004-11-14T15:23:00.000-05:00

Bob Sanders is a rookie cornerback for the Indianapolis Colts. I bring this up only because today, sitting watching football with my brother, I told him the Colts’ had scored on a fumble return by Bob Sanders, whom I had never heard of.

But that moment I decided Bob Sanders is a great name – just not for a football player. It’s a great name for some secondary-character type people.

Por ejemplo: I’d love to lend you my circular saw, but I already lent it to my next door neighbor, Bob Sanders.

Or… I’m not sure if those are the right forms; have you checked with Bob Sanders down in Accounting? I’m sure there are endless others.

So how does a young man – he’s a rookie from Iowa – with a name that reeks of such next-door-neighbory (this, clearly, is not a word) return a fumble 37 yards for a touchdown?

I don’t know. But on a side note, we were watching the Jets-Ravens game, and the Jets were about to punt for the fifth time (in five possessions) in the second half. I grew angry.

I began to boo as Curtis Martin ran into the line for no gain. Why was I booing the television? Can’t help myself. But then the fans on TV started to boo along with me. And this is why I love New York. If you run the ball up the middle 1,000 times in a row, the fans (consumers) have a right to voice their displeasure to the team. To wit:

“Boo” is just a short way of saying, “Dear Sir or Madam: We have found ourselves dissatisfied with your product. If you could eliminate the portion of your playbook that sucks, it would be greatly appreciated. We look forward to doing business with you in the future. Sincerely, The Guy With His Chest and Face Painted Green Even Though It’s 30 Degrees Out.”

This is why I love New York. And I also love the name of that guy….what was it? Oh, yeah, Bob Sanders.

Fore-what?, Fore-who?

2004-11-12T15:27:00.000-05:00

This will be short and random, but here goes: Every time I use the word "forego" -- i.e., to abstain from, for you non-dictionary types -- I always seem to end up using it in some story I'm telling in the past tense. Then I freak out. Is it forwent? That doesn't sound right. Foregoed? Nope, even worse. So finally, I looked it up today. Turns out it is "forwent" -- note the lack of the "e", although the present tense can go with or without the "e" like judg(e)ment does. So while I still feel a little foolish saying "forwent" at least I know it's right now.

Why do I have the feeling that this entry will cause some to forego reading this blog in the future?

Are You Ikea-ding Me?

2004-11-11T01:16:00.000-05:00

I just saw a story from the Arizona Republic talking about the opening of the first Ikea store in Arizona. Apparently, people have been camping out for the grand opening. Even if they're not really trying to buy something. They just want to be in first. And we wonder why people hate America?

The first guy in line, a 24-year-old named Scott Cesen, has been sleeping outside said store for eight days. I'm sorry, maybe you didn't hear me. EIGHT days. This is like the Hannukah of consumerism. So, by virtue of being the first in the store, he will win everything on the cover of the Ikea catalog, totaling about $1600. The first 100 people in line win a free $99 chair.

So this loser spent more than a week sleeping in front of an unopened store to win some chairs and end tables and whatnot? The only thing sketchier than that plan is the fact that, according to the story, this guy "took days off from his part-time job marketing sausages." Let's just hope that's not some kind of euphemism.

And to top it all off, the loser quote of the year, from 18-year-old Mesa Community College student Kitty Wells, "It sounds so hokey, but it really is pretty special. We get to be some of the first people in the store." The first people in the store?! It's a STORE, people. It's not the New World or Mars or something. Hell, it's not even the opening weekend of the first Batman movie (which was pretty crowded if I recall). It is a building where Swedes sell overpriced furniture! Get a grip people! Why are you in line for this?!

The more I think about this, the more it continues to boggle my mind. That said, I know people like Ikea. That's cool. No problem with Ikea here. But, citizens of the greater Phoenix area, this Ikea will still be there tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. Go home, relax on your non-Swedish couch. It's not that bad after all, right?

Your Name Here

2004-11-10T16:41:00.000-05:00

OK, so on the first day of blogging, I focused on the blogging itself and not so much on the title of my blog.

Today, I decided I should have something pithy atop this monstrosity, and my bro Keith suggested finding an anagram of the original name "Evan's Blog." Problem was, the two best candidates were "Bong Slave" and "Bag Novels." While bagging novels would theoretically free up more time for people to read my blog, it just wasn't catchy enough. And while the other alternative was a little catchier, I didn't want to paint myself as some kind of servant of, ahem, tobacco water pipes.

So now's your chance to reply to this post and come up with a better name for the blog. I beseech you (something people haven't done since Shakespeare's day) to provide some alternative naming solutions (which, if I had an e-business, that would be the slogan of it). Have at it. Please.

Internet, eh?....Blog, eh?....Maude, eh?

2004-11-09T20:48:00.000-05:00

So, here we are, the very first post in my blog. Why am I blogging? (And why does "blogging" sound dirty?) Not because I'm in Venezuela and am too lazy to email people every little random thought I have (hi Ian!). Well, I guess except for the Venezuela thing, that last part is true.

Mostly, though, I was thinking about blogging for some time, just didn't really have any motivation. But yesterday was a bad day, and I need something to take my mind off of things, so I am occupying my time with flinging shit into cyberspace and hoping some of it sticks to someone's brain. Or at least provides a chuckle or two.

So, to start things off, I just want to say that yesterday reminded me how awesome my friends are. From the three fellas participating (at least part-time) in my 12-hour drinking binge (Beard even brought me a 40!) to the people I talked to on the phone who cheered me up, it was pretty awesome. Even got an email from my boy Mark, who is in Japan, livin' la vida oishii (OK, OK. So the first part of that was Spanish, and oishii, which actually means delicious, was the only Japanese word I could think of. But I'm flying by the seat of my pants, here, so give me a break).

All in all, it was a pretty shitty day, but some old friends made it a hell of a lot better. So raise your glasses (figuratively if you're me and don't want to drink again tonight) to these fine people. I love you all.

OK, guess that's it for the first entry in my blog. Ha, blog. That's a funny word. Go ahead, say it out loud. Blog.