This was on "Alf" about 20 years ago . . . still a classic.
A few years ago, Matt and I were sitting around, and it either came on or some reference was made to the song/video/episode, and we both started singing it spontaneously, remembering all of the words. It was impressive, though a bit disturbing. Not sure anyone else will appreciate this, but my brother and sister will love it.
In any event, enjoy.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Friday Classic Video: Total Wusses Need Not View This
Even if you haven't seen it yet, I hope you've at least heard of the 2 Chicks, 1 Cup video. And NO, I'm not posting it here, because this blog is for kids, goddammit. (In order to be able to appreciate the upcoming video, you'll have to at least give the Cupchicks video a shot. I warn you that it is by far the most disgusting thing you've ever seen, guaranteed. So needless to say, it's NSFW. It's right here)
And all you pussies who couldn't get past the first 15 seconds need to check your balls (or ovaries) at the door the next time we go out drinking.
Also, in case you weren't checking in on us the past day or so, you missed the single greatest comments thread in Where's Luke? history. I might even go so far as to say the best comments thread on any blog ever created, but -- no, wait, I just did. Check it out here.
But enough blatant self-promotion, on to the big show. Again, if you've watched Cupchicks, you'll love this. If not, be sure to watch it before this one.
And also, boy, do the Knicks suck!
Have a wonderful weekend full of the best puns ever!
(And for some more great videos and such, always go to College Humor.)
And all you pussies who couldn't get past the first 15 seconds need to check your balls (or ovaries) at the door the next time we go out drinking.
Also, in case you weren't checking in on us the past day or so, you missed the single greatest comments thread in Where's Luke? history. I might even go so far as to say the best comments thread on any blog ever created, but -- no, wait, I just did. Check it out here.
But enough blatant self-promotion, on to the big show. Again, if you've watched Cupchicks, you'll love this. If not, be sure to watch it before this one.
And also, boy, do the Knicks suck!
Have a wonderful weekend full of the best puns ever!
(And for some more great videos and such, always go to College Humor.)
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
No Static, Got An Automatic
Too Much Of Anything Makes You An Addict
Is there any reason in the world that someone should own 10 pairs of Adidas Classics? I'm ready to admit it. I have an addiction. I just really like them. And I don't think I can stop any time I want.
These are all of my Adidas in the order I bought them. Those last three pairs, the blue stripes, baby blue, and khaki colored, I bought all this week from endless.com all at the same time. That spells problem. In my defense, though, I try to only buy them when they are a good price. I got most of these for less than $45. (Not the navy blue ones, but I waited forever for them to go on sale.) The first, second, and seventh pair I got off the clearance rack.
And I'm still upset about the one pair I didn't get. That third pair, which is supposed to be that tan color is made of hemp and I got them at Journey's, which has great shows, for the record. At the same time they had another hemp pair that was green with white stripes. I always wanted to go back and get those too, but when I finally decided to get them they had stopped making them. Or at least stopped selling them there, and I can't find them online anywhere, either. I was pretty disappointed.
I was super excited when I got the first pair. If you can't tell in the pictures, they are white with purple stripes. I had been looking for that particular combination forever, and they don't really have them anywhere. I've never seen them on sale before or since. And to top it off, they were on the clearance rack at Modell's, I guess since no one but me wants Adidas with purple stripes, so I think they were $28. And in case you can't tell, those brown ones are actually corduroy. They're fucking awesome, also twenty something dollars off the clearance rack. Given that most Adidas Classics cost in the $65-$75 range, I feel it's my duty to buy them when they are on sale for deep discounts. I'm actually saving money by buying them. Yeah, that's it.
Also notice the first and third pair with the rubber shell top that is now yellow. Both of those used to be as white as that last pair. In the case of the hemp ones, though, the yellow actually makes them look a little better, so I'm hoping that the khaki ones will be similarly improved when they age, even though they're pretty awesome now as they are.
"Beirut" or "Beer Pong"?
As I sit here, wasted at 2:20 a.m. listening to MMG's wedding album ("Red Neck Yacht Club" is playing), I think it's time to clear something up.
I recently got home after playing a tournament in which myself and a partner competed against two other players in a game many of us know well. Some of us call it "Beirut," some of us call it "Beer Pong," and some of us -- well, only Side Bar -- call it "Throw Pong." Though I did not win tonight's tournament, I feel that the name of the game deserves some attention.
Here's all there is to it: If what you're doing is throwing a ping-pong ball into one of several cups, you are playing Beirut; if you are actually using ping-pong paddles to swat a ping-pong ball into a cup, you are playing Beer Pong.
It's really that simple.
I've played both, and I must say "Beer Pong," played properly, is a lot of fun. And does it not earn its name? You actually use paddles to hit a ping-pong ball.
I have no idea why "Beirut" is called "Beirut." But if you are throwing a ping-pong ball into a cup -- using only your hands, as opposed to a paddle -- you're playing Beirut.
If you've never used ping-pong paddles to try to knock a ball into a cup, I recommend you do so right away. Until then, you have never played "Beer Pong." It's really quite fun. Here's a quick tutorial:
These days, "Beer Pong" is advertised all over the place. There's even a World Series of Beer Pong. So that has become the accepted name of the game.
Incidentally, during that tournament tonight in which I competed, I had to throw a ball into my opponents' cup. It was called a "Beer Pong" tournament. There were no paddles.
I didn't mind what they called it. Know why? Because if I lost, I drank a lot. If I won, I got to drink more. It's a win/win, right?
Beirut/Beer Pong. Potato/Po-tah-to.
(Oh, and if you haven't checked out the Beth and Val Show yet -- which I have recommended in the side bar [not the Side Bar who calls it "Throw Pong" like a douche] -- check this one out.
I recently got home after playing a tournament in which myself and a partner competed against two other players in a game many of us know well. Some of us call it "Beirut," some of us call it "Beer Pong," and some of us -- well, only Side Bar -- call it "Throw Pong." Though I did not win tonight's tournament, I feel that the name of the game deserves some attention.
Here's all there is to it: If what you're doing is throwing a ping-pong ball into one of several cups, you are playing Beirut; if you are actually using ping-pong paddles to swat a ping-pong ball into a cup, you are playing Beer Pong.
It's really that simple.
I've played both, and I must say "Beer Pong," played properly, is a lot of fun. And does it not earn its name? You actually use paddles to hit a ping-pong ball.
I have no idea why "Beirut" is called "Beirut." But if you are throwing a ping-pong ball into a cup -- using only your hands, as opposed to a paddle -- you're playing Beirut.
If you've never used ping-pong paddles to try to knock a ball into a cup, I recommend you do so right away. Until then, you have never played "Beer Pong." It's really quite fun. Here's a quick tutorial:
These days, "Beer Pong" is advertised all over the place. There's even a World Series of Beer Pong. So that has become the accepted name of the game.
Incidentally, during that tournament tonight in which I competed, I had to throw a ball into my opponents' cup. It was called a "Beer Pong" tournament. There were no paddles.
I didn't mind what they called it. Know why? Because if I lost, I drank a lot. If I won, I got to drink more. It's a win/win, right?
Beirut/Beer Pong. Potato/Po-tah-to.
(Oh, and if you haven't checked out the Beth and Val Show yet -- which I have recommended in the side bar [not the Side Bar who calls it "Throw Pong" like a douche] -- check this one out.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
I Guess Their Social Studies Teacher Isn't Succeeding Either
Here's a conversation I had with a student yesterday, the day before Thanksgiving:
Student: "Mista, what are you gonna do for Thanksgiving?"
Me: "Not much. Eat turkey. Watch football."
Student: "What? Who the hell watches football on Thanksgiving?"
To which I had no appropriate response.
Student: "Mista, what are you gonna do for Thanksgiving?"
Me: "Not much. Eat turkey. Watch football."
Student: "What? Who the hell watches football on Thanksgiving?"
To which I had no appropriate response.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Thumbs Up, Thumbs Down
After a short hiatus, the very popular (well, Chuck likes it) "Thumbs Up, Thumbs Down" is back with another installment. Here goes:
Thumbs Up go to . . . . Barack Obama. Describing herself to a new boyfriend on 30 Rock last season, Tina Fey confessed that she tells all of her friends that she is voting for Barack Obama but will probably just vote for John McCain in the end. It was a great line because it struck the
chord of Obama's popularity as the "hip" candidate, but not one that anyone viewed as actually crossing the finish line. That seems to have changed in the last few weeks. Obama is now first in Iowa (in a pretty reputable poll), and appears to have a legitimate shot at staging a credible challenge to Hillary, who seemed like a foregone conclusion only a month ago. I have never been excited about Hillary as a candidate, and if Obama emerges as a real contender, I would drive the bandwagon. My only gripe with Hillary (she is generally an advocate of the positions I would take on most issues) is that she seems so totally disingenuous in everything she says . . . now people say that's true of all politicians, but that doesn't seem to be the case, as Obama is proving. I like him, and am getting excited about his candidacy.
chord of Obama's popularity as the "hip" candidate, but not one that anyone viewed as actually crossing the finish line. That seems to have changed in the last few weeks. Obama is now first in Iowa (in a pretty reputable poll), and appears to have a legitimate shot at staging a credible challenge to Hillary, who seemed like a foregone conclusion only a month ago. I have never been excited about Hillary as a candidate, and if Obama emerges as a real contender, I would drive the bandwagon. My only gripe with Hillary (she is generally an advocate of the positions I would take on most issues) is that she seems so totally disingenuous in everything she says . . . now people say that's true of all politicians, but that doesn't seem to be the case, as Obama is proving. I like him, and am getting excited about his candidacy.Thumbs Down go to . . . . the Baseball Writers' Association of America (BBWAA). Jimmy Rollins, a notorious murderer of kittens and hater of rainbows, was named NL MVP by this crowd. Matt Holliday had a better year, hands down. Whatever - David Wright will take it next year and put this nonsense to rest.
Kittens, man. Kittens.
Thumbs Up go to . . . . the New York Giants. Now look, we've been down this road before, and Open Bar has written extensively on this point, but the fact is they are 7-3 with a defense that looks like it can keep them in the game against all but the very best teams (i.e., Dallas and New England). Given the remaining schedule, they could legitimately win 10 if not 11 games, and maybe get a home playoff game. Given how this season looked in August and September, that is dramatic improvement, and a nice consolation prize for still suicidal Mets fans.
Thumbs Down go to . . . . nytimes.com. Has anyone noticed the creeping mediocrity of the New York Times online? The conversion to a Yahoo!/MSNBC type website has been subtle, but undeniable. Half of the site is now a blog (which just means you can write a story without having to edit it), and everything is linked to "reader comments." This is supposed to be the paper of record in this country, but it is starting to look like the MySpace page of a 14 year-old on Ritalin. If I gave shit what Nikos from Greece thinks the Knicks need to do to rebuild I would ask him. Just watch, nytimes.com will have a "Who Should Get Voted Off Dancing With The Stars" poll up by years end. What a travesty.
Thumbs Up go to . . . . this guy. Hey, when a man wants a beer . .
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Stupid shit I do to myself
I consider myself a fairly smart person. I know quite a bit about a few things, but mostly I know a little bit about a lot of things. I love those trivia games on those Max machines in bars. I love watching Jeopardy.
But despite all that apparent genius, I still often find that I'm a total dumbass. But I hope it's not just me.
Here are a few things I often do to myself that make me feel like an idiot:
But I wonder if these sorts of things happen to you. If not, go to hell. But if so, what are they? And do the ones I've mentioned happen to you too?
But despite all that apparent genius, I still often find that I'm a total dumbass. But I hope it's not just me.
Here are a few things I often do to myself that make me feel like an idiot:
- Bite my tongue. Holy Christ, how bad does that hurt? Usually, I'm just chewing my food -- a very normal activity -- and out of nowhere, it's like FUCK! OW! A variation on this is biting my cheek. Why does this happen? I've been chewing food for years, you'd think I'd be good enough at it by now, right?
- Stub my toe. Again, so much pain, and why? Did my body momentarily forget how to walk? Obviously, this sort of thing happens more often during the summer, when I'm wearing flip-flops. But I also like to walk around the apartment barefoot from time to time so, occasionally, the floor apparently jumps up an inch or so and BAM! Bloody toe. This one sucks in particular because it makes walking hard. Walking. Not like I have to do that much.
- Hit my head on the kitchen cabinet. This one is rarer than the first two but, because of that, is much more embarrassing and hard to understand. Have I not opened those same cabinets a million times? Do I not know where they are? I'll simply be putting the dried dishes away from the dishrack -- glasses here, bowls there, etc. -- when SMACK! My temple is bleeding.
- Poke myself in the eye. Fortunately, this one seems to be getting more and more infrequent. But once in a while, for whatever reason, my hands are near my face and OOPS! This'll basically put me out of commission for a while. I can't see, so best to just stop everything, try to stay still, and let myself recover. Meanwhile, I'm thinking, "How the fuck did that happen?" Answer: Well, dumbass, you just put your finger into your eye socket, did you think it wouldn't result in exactly this?
But I wonder if these sorts of things happen to you. If not, go to hell. But if so, what are they? And do the ones I've mentioned happen to you too?
Saturday, November 17, 2007
El Duca
The Mets signed former Rockies catcher Yorvit Torrealba to a three-year, $14.4 million contract yesterday. Paul LoDuca, the Mets' (now former) catcher, Brooklyn native, and fan favorite, was not even offered a deal.
Am I the only one who feels like the Mets are suddenly a very mediocre team? I mean, in July, August of 2006, we were watching the development of Wright and Reyes, a cornerstone of the franchise for the next ten to fifteen years, and giddy with anticipation for the playoff run. That was only fifteen months ago. When 2006 fell short (swing at the fucking curveball you idiot! what? oh, sorry. flashback), they played uninspired baseball for virtually all of 2007 (after going 32-17 to start the year, they were a .496 club for the rest of the season), folded in September, and the only noteworthy off-season move that has followed was to dismiss the lone inspiring player on the team.
LoDuca catches flack from management for being too outspoken, for criticizing Willie, and for being too "surly" (he does get thrown out of too many games, but that's why people love him . . . . that's why he is an inspiring guy to have on the team), and I don't understand it. The Mets have always been too focused on this kind of thing, and it haunts them (see, e.g., David Cone, Jeff Kent, Carl Everett (who, in fairness, was a complete lunatic), etc.).
I usually bristle when people criticize Minaya for signing players with a Hispanic background, because I think the vast majority of his deals have been for the best player, period. I am struggling with this one, though. Torrealba is a bit younger, yes, but he is no improvement on offense (arguably a downgrade), and he is certainly nothing special behind the plate. He does have a reputation for being a "gritty" guy, but we already have one of those. I am really baffled by this move.
I hope I am wrong, and maybe this is just lingering malaise from a dreadful collapse, but this team does not excite me yet for 2008.
Am I the only one who feels like the Mets are suddenly a very mediocre team? I mean, in July, August of 2006, we were watching the development of Wright and Reyes, a cornerstone of the franchise for the next ten to fifteen years, and giddy with anticipation for the playoff run. That was only fifteen months ago. When 2006 fell short (swing at the fucking curveball you idiot! what? oh, sorry. flashback), they played uninspired baseball for virtually all of 2007 (after going 32-17 to start the year, they were a .496 club for the rest of the season), folded in September, and the only noteworthy off-season move that has followed was to dismiss the lone inspiring player on the team.
LoDuca catches flack from management for being too outspoken, for criticizing Willie, and for being too "surly" (he does get thrown out of too many games, but that's why people love him . . . . that's why he is an inspiring guy to have on the team), and I don't understand it. The Mets have always been too focused on this kind of thing, and it haunts them (see, e.g., David Cone, Jeff Kent, Carl Everett (who, in fairness, was a complete lunatic), etc.).
I usually bristle when people criticize Minaya for signing players with a Hispanic background, because I think the vast majority of his deals have been for the best player, period. I am struggling with this one, though. Torrealba is a bit younger, yes, but he is no improvement on offense (arguably a downgrade), and he is certainly nothing special behind the plate. He does have a reputation for being a "gritty" guy, but we already have one of those. I am really baffled by this move.
I hope I am wrong, and maybe this is just lingering malaise from a dreadful collapse, but this team does not excite me yet for 2008.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Friday Classic Video #2: Enjoy the weekend
I don't mean to clutter the site with videos, but I just came across this and it immediately put a huge smile on my face. Just seems like a good clip to watch as we all commence our weekends of drinking and football and Thanksgiving-y stuff at Chucks.
Plus, I just wanted to know where I'd be able to find it immediately at some point in the future.
Man, I love that friggin' show. I'm gonna go watch some full-episodes now. Bye...
Plus, I just wanted to know where I'd be able to find it immediately at some point in the future.
Man, I love that friggin' show. I'm gonna go watch some full-episodes now. Bye...
Friday Classic Video: For you, Chuck
A little while ago, we had quite the little discussion of Saturday Night Live.
So in honor of that, I did a little detective work and found out that the very first skit ever on SNL was called "The Wolverines."
Ta-daaaaaa!
So in honor of that, I did a little detective work and found out that the very first skit ever on SNL was called "The Wolverines."
Ta-daaaaaa!
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Sigh
Amongst my friends I'm known as a sports team hater. I like the Mets but will root for the Yankees. At times, I have been known to root for the other team - the one your team is playing against right now.
My one real exception, historically, has been the New York Knicks. They were (and maybe one day will be again) the team I cared about.
As has been documented in my blogging career since 2005, I have gone through many emotions over the last few years.
The Scott Laden era was difficult but my interest was piqued when Isiah Thomas came on board; my hope was sparked when he traded for Stephon Marbury; and I was downright optimistic when they hired Larry Brown and signed Eddy Curry.
I was frustrated by that awful 2005 - 2006 season and disapointed, but thought maybe - just maybe - Isiah could fix the house when he took the coaching reins last year. Alas, a decent team was not to be.
They went out and got Zach Randolph this off season and I tried to muster some optimism but after the last few years, a lost sexual harassment trial and Stephon's bizarre behavior this summer, it really sort of felt like a lost cause.
With this past week's turn of events with Isiah deciding to bench Stephon, Stephon's getting off the team plane in Arizona, flying back to New York, having Isiah declare the matter would stay 'in house', having Stephon be fined $200k and then flying to meet the team in LA and playing 30 minutes the Knicks have just reached a level of absurdity that is just, well, disgusting. They don't even feel like they owe the fans an explanation for the last few years of total absurdity. This is their show and we're just watching.
The Knicks suck and they are going to continue to suck and suck and then they will suck some more.
James Dolan, son of Cablevision head-honcho Charles Dolan is a rich kid fuck-up whose Dad gave him the keys to the Knicks and the Rangers mostly so he'd have something to do that couldn't fuck up his own important cable business too much. A whiny tantrum throwing bitch.
Isiah just keeps stockpiling talent that doesn't fit together, harassing women and trying to cultivate this 'us against the world mentality' except the problem isn't the world being against 'us' it's that the 'us' just sucks. He seems like a totally self interested prick, which got him out of the Chicago Streets and made him an all-time great basketball player but he can't seem to understand that that skill-set isn't working here.
I don't know if Stephon is just an egomaniac or sort of insane but I think it's probably both. He embarassed Dolan with his off court behavior this summer, with that strange interview on Mike'd Up, his assertion of dog-fighting as a legitimate sport and his performance at the Isaiah trial over this summer with gems such as the pickup line "Are you gonna get in the truck?", his cousin being a dickhead and his singing on the way out of court after his disastrous testimony. Now Dolan hates him and Isaiah is trying to keep his job and is pissed off at him anyway for what he sees as Marbury's losing the trial for him (didn't help but Isaiah has himself to blame), so he's trying to make Starbury the scapegoat.
Oh, and the team isn't very good. Still. Oh, and they're like a billion dollars over the salary cap so they can't do much about being terrible.
I'm exhausted just typing all this.
They are an embarrassment to the NBA and New York.
Last year I was at the point where I didn't really care about them much anymore.
This year, it's like they don't even exist.
The root of the problem is Dolan and he owns the team so he isn't going anywhere.
I guess maybe one day if Dolan, Thomas and Marbury are gone, we could get back together but I've essentially broken up with the Knicks. It was an unhealthy relationship. We can't be friends. I still care deep down and maybe someday, down the road, we can reconcile, but right now they've gone off the deep end and there is nothing we Knicks fans can do about it.
Ah shit...
It seemed to good to be true. Not too long ago, it seemed almost certain that Alex Rodriguez was out of New York. No longer a yankee. Alas, that will not happen.
It now appears that A-Rod is about to sign a 10-year, $275-million-dollar contract, basically making him a yankee for life.
In my unbiased opinion, this is a big loss for all of the decent, well-intentioned, democracy-loving, non-Al Qaeda-affiliated, smart people of the world. 'Tis a sad day.
Although some very dumb sportswriters and ignorant talk-radio callers have claimed -- in a complete mockery of logic and reason and "general baseball knowledge" -- that the yankees would be better off without A-Rod, the yanks now seem to have locked up the best player in baseball, who will almost certainly end up breaking numerous hallowed, all-time baseball records. And he will do it wearing fucking pinstripes. A sad day, indeed.
I can't fucking stand A-Rod. His doucheiness has been on display, among many other incidents, when he:
(Oops.)
But in spite of his doucheiness and my personal loathing, he has somehow put up a ridiculous level of production year after year, ever since he became an everyday player. In the face of some of the toughest media coverage on the planet, he has managed to win two MVP awards in four years here in New York. (I'm anticipating that this year's award will go to him. If you'd like to argue with my speculation, please do.) After this season, there can be no doubt that he is the best player out there.
Yet still, there are the doubters.
Some of the frequent criticisms of A-Rod are:
1. He doesn't perform in the postseason.
I will agree that during the 2005-07 ALDS's, A-Rod was not very good:
His totals were: 44 AB, 7 H, 4 R, 1 2B, 1 HR, 1 RBI.
'05: .133 AVG/.200 OBP/.435 SLG
'06: .071/.133/.071 (wow that's bad)
'07: .267/.353/.467.
Prior to that, he had the 2004 postseason with the yanks. Let's take a look at those numbers.
First, the ALDS:
19 AB, 8 H, 3 R, 3 2B, 1 HR, 3 RBI, .421/.476/.737. Holy shit, that sounds...good? Good enough, in fact, to win the MVP of the series.
Now, the 2004 ALCS:
31 AB, 8 H, 8 R, 2 2B, 2 HR, 5 RBI, .258/.378/.516. Still pretty damn good.
Now for his entire postseason experience with the Mariners (covering the '95 ALDS, CS; '97 DS; '00 DS, CS):
53 AB, 18 H, 6 R, 3 2B, 3 HR, 8, RBI, .340/.396/.566. Those are very, very good numbers.
His entire postseason totals:
147 AB, 41 H, 21 R, 9 2B, 7 HR, 17 RBI, .279/.373/.483.
And just for the hell of it, if you remove the 2005-07 ALDS's (I'll explain why in a sec), he's hitting .361/.405/.611. Do you not want someone like that on your team?
I don't think anyone should be judging A-Rod's postseason production based solely on the last three years. He had a total of 44 at-bats in that time. Name me one player of significance who hasn't had a 44-at-bat slump. Just one. And if you insist upon using that as a gauge, I would love to instruct you to look at the numbers he put up in his 103 at-bats prior, which is more than double that sample size.
This whole "A-Rod disappears in the postseason" line is horseshit. That's based on 44 fucking at-bats! It's like saying, "Peyton Manning sucks because, hey, did you see him throw six picks last week?" (Incidentally, before last year, wasn't everyone saying that Manning wasn't that good because he "never won a Super Bowl"? Hmm...)
2. He's not a "team player."
He's the kind of "not team player" who volunteers to switch from shortstop to third base, even though he's clearly a better shortstop than the incumbent (the untouchable master of clutchiness, Mr. Super Captain Clutchy Clutchness, St. Derek) and also volunteered to give up part of his enormous salary to play for the Red Sox, but his own union prevented him. He also, I might add, goes and hits all these solo home runs, which is clearly selfish. What a dickhead he is to go ahead and score a run on his own after his teammates utterly failed to get on base beforehand. Asshole. Why even bother hitting a home run when no one's on base? It's not like there's a better possible thing a batter could do at the plate than hit a home run. He clearly must hate his teammates and therefore decides to hit home runs when they're not on base. It has nothing to do with the pitchers pitching more carefully when runners are on base.
3. He's kind of a dick.
Yes, he's a dickhead. You know who else was a dickhead? Ty Cobb -- unrepentant racist. Rogers Hornsby -- ibid. Bob Gibson -- threw at batters' heads and bragged about it. And to look at some other sports? Ray Lewis. Terrell Owens. Ron Artest. Bill Romanowski. Bill Belichick. And that doesn't even begin to address the drug addicts (Bonds, Gooden, Strawberry). So A-Rod isn't a felon or a junkie, but he's still a prick, fine.
4. He's not Scott Brosius.
If you can produce a solid argument as to why Scott Brosius is better than Alex Rodriguez, I will donate both of my kidneys to science immediately. I may die, yes, but only because I have seen reasoning that only God could express, and therefore, what else is there to see on this green earth?
Again, this is a sad day for Mets fans, Red Sox fans, people who like their families (even a little bit) and Jesus. He is upset right now. I think the Rapture may be near.
It now appears that A-Rod is about to sign a 10-year, $275-million-dollar contract, basically making him a yankee for life.
In my unbiased opinion, this is a big loss for all of the decent, well-intentioned, democracy-loving, non-Al Qaeda-affiliated, smart people of the world. 'Tis a sad day.
Although some very dumb sportswriters and ignorant talk-radio callers have claimed -- in a complete mockery of logic and reason and "general baseball knowledge" -- that the yankees would be better off without A-Rod, the yanks now seem to have locked up the best player in baseball, who will almost certainly end up breaking numerous hallowed, all-time baseball records. And he will do it wearing fucking pinstripes. A sad day, indeed.
I can't fucking stand A-Rod. His doucheiness has been on display, among many other incidents, when he:
- Slapped Bronson Arroyo on the arm
- Yelled at that Blue Jays third baseman
- Allowed his agent to make his opting-out announcement during the eighth inning of the deciding game of this year's World Series.
(Oops.)
But in spite of his doucheiness and my personal loathing, he has somehow put up a ridiculous level of production year after year, ever since he became an everyday player. In the face of some of the toughest media coverage on the planet, he has managed to win two MVP awards in four years here in New York. (I'm anticipating that this year's award will go to him. If you'd like to argue with my speculation, please do.) After this season, there can be no doubt that he is the best player out there.
Yet still, there are the doubters.
Some of the frequent criticisms of A-Rod are:
- He doesn't perform in the postseason.
- He's not a "team player."
- He's kind of a dick.
- He's not Scott Brosius.
1. He doesn't perform in the postseason.
I will agree that during the 2005-07 ALDS's, A-Rod was not very good:
His totals were: 44 AB, 7 H, 4 R, 1 2B, 1 HR, 1 RBI.
'05: .133 AVG/.200 OBP/.435 SLG
'06: .071/.133/.071 (wow that's bad)
'07: .267/.353/.467.
Prior to that, he had the 2004 postseason with the yanks. Let's take a look at those numbers.
First, the ALDS:
19 AB, 8 H, 3 R, 3 2B, 1 HR, 3 RBI, .421/.476/.737. Holy shit, that sounds...good? Good enough, in fact, to win the MVP of the series.
Now, the 2004 ALCS:
31 AB, 8 H, 8 R, 2 2B, 2 HR, 5 RBI, .258/.378/.516. Still pretty damn good.
Now for his entire postseason experience with the Mariners (covering the '95 ALDS, CS; '97 DS; '00 DS, CS):
53 AB, 18 H, 6 R, 3 2B, 3 HR, 8, RBI, .340/.396/.566. Those are very, very good numbers.
His entire postseason totals:
147 AB, 41 H, 21 R, 9 2B, 7 HR, 17 RBI, .279/.373/.483.
And just for the hell of it, if you remove the 2005-07 ALDS's (I'll explain why in a sec), he's hitting .361/.405/.611. Do you not want someone like that on your team?
I don't think anyone should be judging A-Rod's postseason production based solely on the last three years. He had a total of 44 at-bats in that time. Name me one player of significance who hasn't had a 44-at-bat slump. Just one. And if you insist upon using that as a gauge, I would love to instruct you to look at the numbers he put up in his 103 at-bats prior, which is more than double that sample size.
This whole "A-Rod disappears in the postseason" line is horseshit. That's based on 44 fucking at-bats! It's like saying, "Peyton Manning sucks because, hey, did you see him throw six picks last week?" (Incidentally, before last year, wasn't everyone saying that Manning wasn't that good because he "never won a Super Bowl"? Hmm...)
2. He's not a "team player."
He's the kind of "not team player" who volunteers to switch from shortstop to third base, even though he's clearly a better shortstop than the incumbent (the untouchable master of clutchiness, Mr. Super Captain Clutchy Clutchness, St. Derek) and also volunteered to give up part of his enormous salary to play for the Red Sox, but his own union prevented him. He also, I might add, goes and hits all these solo home runs, which is clearly selfish. What a dickhead he is to go ahead and score a run on his own after his teammates utterly failed to get on base beforehand. Asshole. Why even bother hitting a home run when no one's on base? It's not like there's a better possible thing a batter could do at the plate than hit a home run. He clearly must hate his teammates and therefore decides to hit home runs when they're not on base. It has nothing to do with the pitchers pitching more carefully when runners are on base.
3. He's kind of a dick.
Yes, he's a dickhead. You know who else was a dickhead? Ty Cobb -- unrepentant racist. Rogers Hornsby -- ibid. Bob Gibson -- threw at batters' heads and bragged about it. And to look at some other sports? Ray Lewis. Terrell Owens. Ron Artest. Bill Romanowski. Bill Belichick. And that doesn't even begin to address the drug addicts (Bonds, Gooden, Strawberry). So A-Rod isn't a felon or a junkie, but he's still a prick, fine.
4. He's not Scott Brosius.
If you can produce a solid argument as to why Scott Brosius is better than Alex Rodriguez, I will donate both of my kidneys to science immediately. I may die, yes, but only because I have seen reasoning that only God could express, and therefore, what else is there to see on this green earth?
Again, this is a sad day for Mets fans, Red Sox fans, people who like their families (even a little bit) and Jesus. He is upset right now. I think the Rapture may be near.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Finally, a direct challenge to the alleged toughness of paper
In Mike Tyson's Punch Out, something always struck me as odd.
You boxed as "Little Mac," and the nickname could not have been more appropriate. Mac was really fuckin' little:
Doc: "Punch him in the left-right-left nut!"
Even though the perspective is somewhat on a downward angle, the fact that Bald Bull is FARTHER AWAY yet still WAY FUCKING BIGGER means that Little Mac clearly has his work cut out for him. If these two were side by side, how high up would Mac come next to Baldy? His belly-button? How the fuck is some white dude who's too pussy to even take off his tank top while he's BOXING gonna handle this gigantic, mean-as-hell-looking motherfucker? It'd be like putting Mini-Me up against a enraged, drunken elephant that not even Paris Hilton could help.
Yeah. That Kelly LeBrock.)
Punch Out asked me to accept that somehow Little Mac could handle such clearly larger foes as Soda Popinski and King Hippo (not to mention Mike frackin' Tyson), and in order to continue playing, I did. This sort of thing was remarkably prevalent in childhood. And I don't just mean Santa and the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny and whatever. They at least gave you things, so saying, "Okay, I'll go along with this [utter bullshit]," was somewhat understandable.
But Punch Out was a video game. Unlike 'Nam, it had rules -- which you couldn't argue with. But then there were things like Freeze Tag. "Okay, you tagged me. So now I have to stand here perfectly still? Why? So the fat kid whose ass I just kicked in Wall Ball can come tag me? Fuck that. I'm just gonna run away. What's he gonna do, get upset? Tell on me?" But those were the rules, so when I played I stood still upon being tagged. It was dumb, and I knew that even then.
However, there was one childhood game which perplexed me more than most. That feeling has never really left, either. There was one particular aspect of this particular game that I immediately spotted as Bullshit, and even though I played along, I always maintained my inner grievance. The game? Rock-Paper-Scissors.
Some of you may have seen what I'm about to show you. (As I type right now, it's the Number 1 story on Digg, so clearly this thing has ventured all over the Worldwide Interweb of Information.) But wow, when I read this, it was like whoever wrote it had read my precociously intelligent 11-year-old mind:
Fucking-A!
(Picture first seen here.)
You boxed as "Little Mac," and the nickname could not have been more appropriate. Mac was really fuckin' little:
Doc: "Punch him in the left-right-left nut!"Even though the perspective is somewhat on a downward angle, the fact that Bald Bull is FARTHER AWAY yet still WAY FUCKING BIGGER means that Little Mac clearly has his work cut out for him. If these two were side by side, how high up would Mac come next to Baldy? His belly-button? How the fuck is some white dude who's too pussy to even take off his tank top while he's BOXING gonna handle this gigantic, mean-as-hell-looking motherfucker? It'd be like putting Mini-Me up against a enraged, drunken elephant that not even Paris Hilton could help.
(That reminds me -- remember how Wyatt and Gary were too pussy to take a shower with Kelly Le-fucking-Brock in Weird Science without taking off their jeans?
Yeah. That Kelly LeBrock.)Punch Out asked me to accept that somehow Little Mac could handle such clearly larger foes as Soda Popinski and King Hippo (not to mention Mike frackin' Tyson), and in order to continue playing, I did. This sort of thing was remarkably prevalent in childhood. And I don't just mean Santa and the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny and whatever. They at least gave you things, so saying, "Okay, I'll go along with this [utter bullshit]," was somewhat understandable.
But Punch Out was a video game. Unlike 'Nam, it had rules -- which you couldn't argue with. But then there were things like Freeze Tag. "Okay, you tagged me. So now I have to stand here perfectly still? Why? So the fat kid whose ass I just kicked in Wall Ball can come tag me? Fuck that. I'm just gonna run away. What's he gonna do, get upset? Tell on me?" But those were the rules, so when I played I stood still upon being tagged. It was dumb, and I knew that even then.
However, there was one childhood game which perplexed me more than most. That feeling has never really left, either. There was one particular aspect of this particular game that I immediately spotted as Bullshit, and even though I played along, I always maintained my inner grievance. The game? Rock-Paper-Scissors.
Some of you may have seen what I'm about to show you. (As I type right now, it's the Number 1 story on Digg, so clearly this thing has ventured all over the Worldwide Interweb of Information.) But wow, when I read this, it was like whoever wrote it had read my precociously intelligent 11-year-old mind:
Fucking-A!(Picture first seen here.)
Friday, November 9, 2007
Friday Classic Video: We Rule
Eight posts this week, bitch! (Nine, counting this one.) Allow me to pat the writers of Where's Luke? on the back. Job well done, lads. And I'd also like to thank all of you lovely commenters (okay, I know it was mostly us commenting on our own posts, but hey, we'll take 'em however we can get 'em) for your brilliant contributions and probing opinions.
(Golf clap.)
So I've decided to take the lead of the following video and go get a new haircut, celebrate with some jager bombs at the Black Bear Lodge, and meet some skanks.
And for a truly remarkable in-depth examination of the "guido," you need go no further than the Cajun Boy in the City.
Have a good weekend!
(Golf clap.)
So I've decided to take the lead of the following video and go get a new haircut, celebrate with some jager bombs at the Black Bear Lodge, and meet some skanks.
And for a truly remarkable in-depth examination of the "guido," you need go no further than the Cajun Boy in the City.
Have a good weekend!
You know what's fuckin' awesome? America, part III.c
Before you read, please be sure to check out parts 1 and 2. Cheers!
(So where were we? Ah yes, H-Squared and I just exited the Stratosphere, and we had begun to walk the Strip, which I had never done before. Also, women are teases, and rides in Las Vegas are ripoffs. I think that pretty much sums it up.)
Finally, here I am. Walking the Strip in Las Fucking Vegas. Granted, the Strip that everyone considers “The Strip” is still a ways off, but fuck it. I’ve got a few scotches in me, H-Squared is doing well on his Harvey Wallbangers, so a little mid-afternoon stroll is in perfect order. But man oh man, it’s friggin’ bright. (Las Vegas is in the desert, have you heard?) I could use some sunglasses.
It’s Friday, May 4, 2007, and tomorrow holds so much promise: Cinco de Mayo, the Kentucky Derby, and the biggest boxing match in recent history (De La Hoya vs. Mayweather). What better place to be for such a monumental weekend? After all, the centerpiece—the fight—is being held at the MGM Grand, where H-Squared and I intend to watch the Derby in the afternoon, then the fight on its megascreens later that night. Ah, I can’t fucking wait.
So first things first, it’s time to get me a hat. H-Squared already has this little straw fedora thing he showed me on the flight.
So I know I’m gonna be second-class if I don’t have equally excellent headgear. Though I like what H-Squared bought, there's the slight possibility of being mistaken for (gasp) a hipster. And that just can't happen. I'm thinking about something a bit more rugged, a bit more manly. Something like...
Yeah, that'll do it. And since we’ve got ourselves a nice long walk down the Strip to get back to Vegas proper, I’m pretty sure we’ll pass by some establishment that treats in the hat-selling realm. So we walk.
Not soon after, it hits us. God, are we stupid—we don’t have drinks! Suddenly desperate to correct this horrific failure, we sprint across the street to a gas station, which, of course, has a huge beer selection. We toss around the idea of getting something exotic, maybe a rare microbrew we couldn’t get back East or something, but then we see it. The obvious answer: 24-ounce cans of Coors Light for one whole American dollar. Sweet. “And two brown bags, please,” I say to the nice Armenian-looking man behind the counter.
Now back on the street (and properly equipped), we resume our search for my fedora. As we brown-bag it down the street, we pass by numerous groups of people covering all ages and races. But no matter how different each group is, one thing stands out—Vegas. The people in these groups are inevitably smiling; they are clearly having a blast, regardless of where they’re from or what they look like.
Just like us. With each group that passes, H-Squared and I exchange some new variation on how awesome is it to be here with them. At a dry 76-degrees Fahrenheit on a cloudless day while carrying a cold beer and riding a nice buzz, it’s incredibly nice to run into like-minded strangers, even for a fleeting moment.
A-ha! A souvenir shop! This place clearly sells hats (the sign says “HATS,” among other things), so we trek through a parking lot large enough to fit my apartment 40 times over and enter. At first, I just see postcard racks and T-shirts with numerous variations of “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas.” But along the back wall, I spy hats. Sweet.
After looking at countless baseball caps and cowboy hats, I still haven’t spotted my fedora, when—
“Sir, can you come over here, please?”
The security guard has the whole hat/sunglasses/desert-style-uniform thing you might think the Minutemen wear along the border. I walk over, and he kindly tells me, “Your beverage is not allowed in here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say.
“You just have to go out to the sidewalk.”
What a punishment! What a town! “You can’t drink here! You just have to go over there, which isn’t far away!” In my dreams, these are the rules.
We walk for a while longer down the Strip, eventually extinguishing our tallboys, but we happen upon a friendly site: Margaritaville.
"Where's the damn salt?!"
Now, while I love Jimmy Buffett, I must admit that (sorry, Side Bar) H-Squared is by far the biggest Parrothead I know. (He and I once went to Buffett’s annual Today show performance in Rockefeller Center at 5 a.m. At 3:30 that night, he showed up at the bar where I was working with a floral shirt for me, so I poured us a bunch of frozen margaritas in giant plastic cups, which we then drank over the next two hours. It was a good time.) I’ve never been to a Margaritaville, and hey, we’re out of drinks, right?
In case you hadn’t guessed, this restaurant is fantastic. (Obviously) Buffet music plays nonstop, but the bonus is that tonight, the giant screen is playing one of his concerts. And anyone who knows Jimmy Buffett knows that his live music is far superior to the studio-album crap. We sit at the bar and have some margaritas. (Good, but surprisingly not exceptional.)
Out of nowhere, the music stops. Someone on the P.A. orders us to look up. On the second floor, there’s a superhot woman in a bikini. For some reason, she jumps down this big-ass waterslide and lands in a GIANT MARGARITA. Everyone claps. I’m still not sure what the hell is going on, but I clap. I guess that was…cool?
My phone rings. It’s Red Dragon, and he wants to meet up. He’s done golfing (ugh) and wants to start gambling and drinking. Way ahead o’ you, man, at least on the drinking tip. We agree to meet at the Bellagio, which is nearby. So H-Squared and I pay our tab and bounce, passing all sorts of pirate imagery. I nearly buy something, but I don’t because I’m smart. I went to a public school, after all.
The Bellagio is an amazing casino. While many of the places I’d seen so far were stunning, the Bellagio is a step up. Every detail of the architecture, the art on the walls, even the carpets, just oozes class and luxury. I’ve heard that Vegas casinos pump pure oxygen through the vents to get you slightly high, but the Bellagio seems to be pumping that which Ricky Bobby pisses: Excellence.
H-Squared and I tell Red Dragon about the cool new drink: the Harvey Wallbanger. Red Dragon LOVES it. As he and H-Squared sit down to play some Blackjack, he immediately orders one for each of us. This will clearly be our drink for the rest of the weekend. Boss! Since I don’t really gamble (as I’ve said, I have too many vices already, thank you), I decide to walk around. What a place. If you’ve been to Vegas but haven’t visited the Bellagio, make that your first trip next time. It looks and feels like one of the world’s great museums. Your eyes are constantly enthralled at each turn. Even the tiniest details of the molding along the ceiling are meticulously crafted. It is not the cheap, schmaltzy, neon-tinted stereotype of Vegas. It is the polar opposite.
I grab another drink and head back to my boys. H-Squared isn’t playing anymore, and it looks like—yep, Red Dragon just lost his last chip. So we get up and simultaneously realize that, holy shit, we gotta get back to the Palms. We’re going to the hottest club in the city tonight, Pure, and it’s getting near time to leave.
We hop in a cab, during which nothing interesting happens.
Back at the Palms, we wait for the elevator. When it opens, who walks out? Amanda (the married cocktease) and Elisa and their whole bachelorette-party crew. I stop and chat with Amanda for a second, we exchange numbers, and agree to meet up later on that night when we’re both done doing the whole bachelor/ette party thing. For some reason, I think this is a good idea. Fucking women…argh.
We go upstairs, get our party clothes on, and do some pre-gaming in our various rooms. After a bit, our whole crew of about 20 guys heads downstairs. There’s me, H-Squared, Red Dragon, Goliath (the bachelor), JV (the best man), and lots of other people, most of whose names I forgot within two sentences of meeting them. (If, during the duration of this story, one of them does something blog-worthy, they will get a cool nickname. Ah, the honor.)
Pure is located in Caesar’s, one of the more well-known casinos. When we finally arrive, we still have a bit to wait before our appointment, so we head to the casino bar. We have drinks. Harvey Wallbangers, of course.
"Just like what I get my mom for her birthday every year.
But with Vodka!"
JV soon comes by and informs us that it’s time to go.
To get to Pure, you have to exit the casino and walk around a bit to its entrance. And HOLYFUCKINGSHIT are there a lot of people there waiting to get in. It’s not like the typical line outside a club in New York. No, this is a gigantic mob of several hundred drunken idiots converging from all directions on the small opening of velvet rope that two bouncers are guarding.
“How the fuck are we gonna get in?” I wonder. After all, this is Friday night at Pure. Why in the world would they let a group of 20 guys with NO WOMEN (women usually being the key to being allowed into a club, as far as I’ve experienced) in when all these other people are here first? “This ain’t happening,” I say to H-Squared. “We may as well be wearing fur coats trying to get into the PETA awards—”
“You!” someone shouts. “Come on!”
I look up and some enormous black guy who I can only assume is a bouncer has cleared a path for us. (By the way, he is wearing some outstanding sunglasses. I wish I had a pair like that.) Literally, it looks like the Red Sea has parted. And JV is Moses. He smiles and points us in the direction of the entrance. Our group of 20 guys now walks single-file through the mass of idiots around us, escorted by security. JV, in my opinion, is like Hercules—less than a god, but more than a man.
This has never happened to me before, and I can’t help but take advantage of the moment. I look at each and every person I pass who can’t get in and smile the most-mockingest smile I can conjure. Fuck all those pricks. Hey, when the hell else am I gonna have this opportunity to scoff at “people who go to clubs”? Trust me, if you ever have the chance to do this, DO IT. It feels great, and even better afterwards, because you know you weren’t making fun of people less fortunate, you were making fun of douchebags. (To this day, I sometimes jerk off to that feeling.)
After passing through the throng of fuckheads, we finally enter. No one ID’s us. No one asks us any questions. We are simply led. Led through the first floor. Led up the stairs, passing the second level. We finally reach the top and, oh boy.
We have an entire section on the roof to ourselves. Just as we’re all congratulating each other on the astounding view, a couple of Mexican guys (natch) roll out a tray full of all that is good and holy: bottles of tremendous liquor, Red Bulls on ice, fruit juices and mixers, and plenty of ice.
“Here you go,” Paco says. (Paco rules, incidentally. A good man. After a few hours, he and I were hombres.)
Needless to say, we all dive in. I come away with a Stoli and Red Bull, and other people get other stuff, blah.
By the time I’ve had my fifth such drink, we begin to hear rumors that Jessica Simpson is there. Apparently, she’s performing with the Pussycat Dolls at some point. Awesome, I think, and then immediately forget that fact.
"Seven. Minute. Abs."
As I head to the bathroom, I happen upon H-Squared and Red Dragon.
“Dude, we just met Van Pelt, he’s awesome,” H-Squared says.
“Wha…?” I mutter.
“Scott Van Pelt, from SportsCenter. He’s here, we just saw him. We were standing next to him, and I just yelled ‘Hey, Van Pelt!’ and he turned and we said hello and he was cool. Not a dick whatsoever.”
"Cooler than the other side of the pill--damn you,
“After you just yelled out ‘Van Pelt’?”
“Yeah! He shook our hands then walked away. What a guy.”
I finish my piss, reflect on how cool Scott Van Pelt was to placate a couple of drunken idiots screaming “VAN PELT!” and head back upstairs. On the roof, it’s kinda lame. We’re all hammered, yes, but no one’s doing anything stupid and ridiculous, you know? That kind of lame. So, like Robin Williams told me, I seize the day.
I jump on one of the couches, in full view of everyone out there, and begin to do my best attempt at a split. Fairly soon, I’m sitting there, spread-eagle, with my shoes rubbing the two armrests on either side of the couch as I lean back and sip my elevendy-fourth Red Bull-Vodka. I remain in that position for the next hour or so. Or ten minutes, who knows?
So after that, a bunch of things happen. (Editor’s note: Writer blacked out and cannot remember.) As everyone is leaving Caesar’s to go back to the Palms, H-Squared and I decide to stay put. And by stay put, I mean we literally sit down on the asphalt outside some exit. Why, you ask? It’s clearly time to reflect. And we let people know as they pass us.
“What are you doing?” asks some old woman (who just lost her grandson’s inheritance playing the slots).
“Reflecting,” H-Squared says.
“On what?”
“On…our lives,” I answer. She is stupefied by the brilliance of my answer and walks off, shaking her head in amazement.
Some other idiot walks out and asks us the same question, and we give him the same answer. Man, we are changing people’s lives, one at a time. Another guy walks out, looks over, and before he even asks, I yell, “REFLECT! (Pause.) On your life.” He goes home and finally calls his father, whom he hadn’t talked to in 25 years.
Eventually, some guy we talk to is so dumbstruck that he elects to sit down next to us. Which is a bit weird. I’ll call this guy Fucky. Fucky’s about 40, half-bald, and looks like Vegas has taken its toll on him. But he’s really digging our “Reflect” message. So much so that with every sentence, I’m getting more and more creeped out. I just want to tell people to reflect, I don’t want to actually hear about the things on which one might subsequently reflect. But there he sits, describing the wife who left him, the kids he hasn’t seen, the battles with the bottle, the blah blah blah… Go away, please.
Suddenly, H-Squared loudly farts. And it’s like we just discovered how to get into level 8 of Zelda (blow the whistle!), because Fucky gets up and leaves. Though the stench is abhorrent, I’m happy sitting there with just my friend, reflecting, sans creepy weird guy. Oddly, that gets boring. So we get up and leave.
A cab ride back to the Palms later, and we’re back, baby! It’s about 7 a.m. now, and we have no idea what to do, so we go to the bar. And—tell me if you saw this coming—Amanda and Elisa are there. At the same table as the night before. (Have I mentioned that Amanda is both married and a cocktease?)
After a bunch of “Hey!”s and whatnot, we’re all sitting down drinking. I’m still a bit annoyed at the shit I had to deal with the night before, but then again, I’m wasted and talking to a hot chick. So who gives a shit that she’s from Nebraska and married, right? We tell them about the awesome pool that opens fairly soon, and this excites them. We all agree to go upstairs and get our pool shit on, then meet downstairs at the entrance when it opens. I ask them what room they’re staying in, just in case there’s a problem, and it turns out they’re on the floor above us. So they go, and, once again, H-Squared and I finish their drinks. No manners on these girls, I swear.
We get back to our room and put on our swimming attire. “Wait,” I say, just as we’re about to leave. “Let’s get ready.”
“What?” he asks.
“Let’s do some push-ups. That way, our muscles an’ shit’ll be all swelled up, and we’ll look fucking hot.”
H-Squared needs no further convincing. We both hit the floor and start. And as someone once said about Chuck Norris, we weren’t pushing ourselves up, we were pushing the Earth down. Yeah.
Now properly swelled up (and totally fucking hot), we head downstairs. It’s about 9 a.m., just when the pool is opening. We wait for a few minutes, and the girls aren’t there. So we decide to go get them. We hop on the elevator, find their room, and knock on the door. And by “knock,” I mean "bang very loudly." And continue to bang loudly. Eventually, Elisa opens the door and tells us they’re sleeping and will continue to do so, despite the genius plan we had concocted not much earlier (and our push-ups). Bitches.
So, it’s about 9:30. We have no girls to enjoy the pool with (or “fuck”), and it dawns on us that it is now, in fact, Saturday. The Kentucky Derby will be starting shortly. It’s time to get out of these pool clothes, and into our Derby gear. Though I did not acquire the fedora I sought, we both still have some proper Churchill Downs-style apparel to wear.
Oh, and "sleep"? Fuck it. We arrived last night (two nights ago), slept for 90 minutes, partied all day, and now all night. Here we are, the morning of May 5th, going on no sleep at all, but that won’t stop us. There’s an amazing fight to behold, a horse race to bet on, and a town that invites such debauchery.
In fact, the only thing I care about at all is that I still don’t have a nice pair of sunglasses. Let’s go hit the breakfast buffet, figure it all out, then we’ll go and figure it all out.
(To be continued…)
(So where were we? Ah yes, H-Squared and I just exited the Stratosphere, and we had begun to walk the Strip, which I had never done before. Also, women are teases, and rides in Las Vegas are ripoffs. I think that pretty much sums it up.)
Finally, here I am. Walking the Strip in Las Fucking Vegas. Granted, the Strip that everyone considers “The Strip” is still a ways off, but fuck it. I’ve got a few scotches in me, H-Squared is doing well on his Harvey Wallbangers, so a little mid-afternoon stroll is in perfect order. But man oh man, it’s friggin’ bright. (Las Vegas is in the desert, have you heard?) I could use some sunglasses.
It’s Friday, May 4, 2007, and tomorrow holds so much promise: Cinco de Mayo, the Kentucky Derby, and the biggest boxing match in recent history (De La Hoya vs. Mayweather). What better place to be for such a monumental weekend? After all, the centerpiece—the fight—is being held at the MGM Grand, where H-Squared and I intend to watch the Derby in the afternoon, then the fight on its megascreens later that night. Ah, I can’t fucking wait.
So first things first, it’s time to get me a hat. H-Squared already has this little straw fedora thing he showed me on the flight.
So I know I’m gonna be second-class if I don’t have equally excellent headgear. Though I like what H-Squared bought, there's the slight possibility of being mistaken for (gasp) a hipster. And that just can't happen. I'm thinking about something a bit more rugged, a bit more manly. Something like...
Not soon after, it hits us. God, are we stupid—we don’t have drinks! Suddenly desperate to correct this horrific failure, we sprint across the street to a gas station, which, of course, has a huge beer selection. We toss around the idea of getting something exotic, maybe a rare microbrew we couldn’t get back East or something, but then we see it. The obvious answer: 24-ounce cans of Coors Light for one whole American dollar. Sweet. “And two brown bags, please,” I say to the nice Armenian-looking man behind the counter.
Now back on the street (and properly equipped), we resume our search for my fedora. As we brown-bag it down the street, we pass by numerous groups of people covering all ages and races. But no matter how different each group is, one thing stands out—Vegas. The people in these groups are inevitably smiling; they are clearly having a blast, regardless of where they’re from or what they look like.
Just like us. With each group that passes, H-Squared and I exchange some new variation on how awesome is it to be here with them. At a dry 76-degrees Fahrenheit on a cloudless day while carrying a cold beer and riding a nice buzz, it’s incredibly nice to run into like-minded strangers, even for a fleeting moment.
A-ha! A souvenir shop! This place clearly sells hats (the sign says “HATS,” among other things), so we trek through a parking lot large enough to fit my apartment 40 times over and enter. At first, I just see postcard racks and T-shirts with numerous variations of “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas.” But along the back wall, I spy hats. Sweet.
After looking at countless baseball caps and cowboy hats, I still haven’t spotted my fedora, when—
“Sir, can you come over here, please?”
The security guard has the whole hat/sunglasses/desert-style-uniform thing you might think the Minutemen wear along the border. I walk over, and he kindly tells me, “Your beverage is not allowed in here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say.
“You just have to go out to the sidewalk.”
What a punishment! What a town! “You can’t drink here! You just have to go over there, which isn’t far away!” In my dreams, these are the rules.
We walk for a while longer down the Strip, eventually extinguishing our tallboys, but we happen upon a friendly site: Margaritaville.
"Where's the damn salt?!"Now, while I love Jimmy Buffett, I must admit that (sorry, Side Bar) H-Squared is by far the biggest Parrothead I know. (He and I once went to Buffett’s annual Today show performance in Rockefeller Center at 5 a.m. At 3:30 that night, he showed up at the bar where I was working with a floral shirt for me, so I poured us a bunch of frozen margaritas in giant plastic cups, which we then drank over the next two hours. It was a good time.) I’ve never been to a Margaritaville, and hey, we’re out of drinks, right?
In case you hadn’t guessed, this restaurant is fantastic. (Obviously) Buffet music plays nonstop, but the bonus is that tonight, the giant screen is playing one of his concerts. And anyone who knows Jimmy Buffett knows that his live music is far superior to the studio-album crap. We sit at the bar and have some margaritas. (Good, but surprisingly not exceptional.)
Out of nowhere, the music stops. Someone on the P.A. orders us to look up. On the second floor, there’s a superhot woman in a bikini. For some reason, she jumps down this big-ass waterslide and lands in a GIANT MARGARITA. Everyone claps. I’m still not sure what the hell is going on, but I clap. I guess that was…cool?
My phone rings. It’s Red Dragon, and he wants to meet up. He’s done golfing (ugh) and wants to start gambling and drinking. Way ahead o’ you, man, at least on the drinking tip. We agree to meet at the Bellagio, which is nearby. So H-Squared and I pay our tab and bounce, passing all sorts of pirate imagery. I nearly buy something, but I don’t because I’m smart. I went to a public school, after all.
The Bellagio is an amazing casino. While many of the places I’d seen so far were stunning, the Bellagio is a step up. Every detail of the architecture, the art on the walls, even the carpets, just oozes class and luxury. I’ve heard that Vegas casinos pump pure oxygen through the vents to get you slightly high, but the Bellagio seems to be pumping that which Ricky Bobby pisses: Excellence.
H-Squared and I tell Red Dragon about the cool new drink: the Harvey Wallbanger. Red Dragon LOVES it. As he and H-Squared sit down to play some Blackjack, he immediately orders one for each of us. This will clearly be our drink for the rest of the weekend. Boss! Since I don’t really gamble (as I’ve said, I have too many vices already, thank you), I decide to walk around. What a place. If you’ve been to Vegas but haven’t visited the Bellagio, make that your first trip next time. It looks and feels like one of the world’s great museums. Your eyes are constantly enthralled at each turn. Even the tiniest details of the molding along the ceiling are meticulously crafted. It is not the cheap, schmaltzy, neon-tinted stereotype of Vegas. It is the polar opposite.
I grab another drink and head back to my boys. H-Squared isn’t playing anymore, and it looks like—yep, Red Dragon just lost his last chip. So we get up and simultaneously realize that, holy shit, we gotta get back to the Palms. We’re going to the hottest club in the city tonight, Pure, and it’s getting near time to leave.
We hop in a cab, during which nothing interesting happens.
Back at the Palms, we wait for the elevator. When it opens, who walks out? Amanda (the married cocktease) and Elisa and their whole bachelorette-party crew. I stop and chat with Amanda for a second, we exchange numbers, and agree to meet up later on that night when we’re both done doing the whole bachelor/ette party thing. For some reason, I think this is a good idea. Fucking women…argh.
We go upstairs, get our party clothes on, and do some pre-gaming in our various rooms. After a bit, our whole crew of about 20 guys heads downstairs. There’s me, H-Squared, Red Dragon, Goliath (the bachelor), JV (the best man), and lots of other people, most of whose names I forgot within two sentences of meeting them. (If, during the duration of this story, one of them does something blog-worthy, they will get a cool nickname. Ah, the honor.)
Pure is located in Caesar’s, one of the more well-known casinos. When we finally arrive, we still have a bit to wait before our appointment, so we head to the casino bar. We have drinks. Harvey Wallbangers, of course.
"Just like what I get my mom for her birthday every year.But with Vodka!"
JV soon comes by and informs us that it’s time to go.
To get to Pure, you have to exit the casino and walk around a bit to its entrance. And HOLYFUCKINGSHIT are there a lot of people there waiting to get in. It’s not like the typical line outside a club in New York. No, this is a gigantic mob of several hundred drunken idiots converging from all directions on the small opening of velvet rope that two bouncers are guarding.
“How the fuck are we gonna get in?” I wonder. After all, this is Friday night at Pure. Why in the world would they let a group of 20 guys with NO WOMEN (women usually being the key to being allowed into a club, as far as I’ve experienced) in when all these other people are here first? “This ain’t happening,” I say to H-Squared. “We may as well be wearing fur coats trying to get into the PETA awards—”
“You!” someone shouts. “Come on!”
I look up and some enormous black guy who I can only assume is a bouncer has cleared a path for us. (By the way, he is wearing some outstanding sunglasses. I wish I had a pair like that.) Literally, it looks like the Red Sea has parted. And JV is Moses. He smiles and points us in the direction of the entrance. Our group of 20 guys now walks single-file through the mass of idiots around us, escorted by security. JV, in my opinion, is like Hercules—less than a god, but more than a man.
This has never happened to me before, and I can’t help but take advantage of the moment. I look at each and every person I pass who can’t get in and smile the most-mockingest smile I can conjure. Fuck all those pricks. Hey, when the hell else am I gonna have this opportunity to scoff at “people who go to clubs”? Trust me, if you ever have the chance to do this, DO IT. It feels great, and even better afterwards, because you know you weren’t making fun of people less fortunate, you were making fun of douchebags. (To this day, I sometimes jerk off to that feeling.)
After passing through the throng of fuckheads, we finally enter. No one ID’s us. No one asks us any questions. We are simply led. Led through the first floor. Led up the stairs, passing the second level. We finally reach the top and, oh boy.
We have an entire section on the roof to ourselves. Just as we’re all congratulating each other on the astounding view, a couple of Mexican guys (natch) roll out a tray full of all that is good and holy: bottles of tremendous liquor, Red Bulls on ice, fruit juices and mixers, and plenty of ice.
“Here you go,” Paco says. (Paco rules, incidentally. A good man. After a few hours, he and I were hombres.)
Needless to say, we all dive in. I come away with a Stoli and Red Bull, and other people get other stuff, blah.
By the time I’ve had my fifth such drink, we begin to hear rumors that Jessica Simpson is there. Apparently, she’s performing with the Pussycat Dolls at some point. Awesome, I think, and then immediately forget that fact.
"Seven. Minute. Abs."As I head to the bathroom, I happen upon H-Squared and Red Dragon.
“Dude, we just met Van Pelt, he’s awesome,” H-Squared says.
“Wha…?” I mutter.
“Scott Van Pelt, from SportsCenter. He’s here, we just saw him. We were standing next to him, and I just yelled ‘Hey, Van Pelt!’ and he turned and we said hello and he was cool. Not a dick whatsoever.”
"Cooler than the other side of the pill--damn you,Stuart Scott and your lazy eye. Boo-ya!"
“After you just yelled out ‘Van Pelt’?”
“Yeah! He shook our hands then walked away. What a guy.”
I finish my piss, reflect on how cool Scott Van Pelt was to placate a couple of drunken idiots screaming “VAN PELT!” and head back upstairs. On the roof, it’s kinda lame. We’re all hammered, yes, but no one’s doing anything stupid and ridiculous, you know? That kind of lame. So, like Robin Williams told me, I seize the day.
I jump on one of the couches, in full view of everyone out there, and begin to do my best attempt at a split. Fairly soon, I’m sitting there, spread-eagle, with my shoes rubbing the two armrests on either side of the couch as I lean back and sip my elevendy-fourth Red Bull-Vodka. I remain in that position for the next hour or so. Or ten minutes, who knows?
So after that, a bunch of things happen. (Editor’s note: Writer blacked out and cannot remember.) As everyone is leaving Caesar’s to go back to the Palms, H-Squared and I decide to stay put. And by stay put, I mean we literally sit down on the asphalt outside some exit. Why, you ask? It’s clearly time to reflect. And we let people know as they pass us.
“What are you doing?” asks some old woman (who just lost her grandson’s inheritance playing the slots).
“Reflecting,” H-Squared says.
“On what?”
“On…our lives,” I answer. She is stupefied by the brilliance of my answer and walks off, shaking her head in amazement.
Some other idiot walks out and asks us the same question, and we give him the same answer. Man, we are changing people’s lives, one at a time. Another guy walks out, looks over, and before he even asks, I yell, “REFLECT! (Pause.) On your life.” He goes home and finally calls his father, whom he hadn’t talked to in 25 years.
Eventually, some guy we talk to is so dumbstruck that he elects to sit down next to us. Which is a bit weird. I’ll call this guy Fucky. Fucky’s about 40, half-bald, and looks like Vegas has taken its toll on him. But he’s really digging our “Reflect” message. So much so that with every sentence, I’m getting more and more creeped out. I just want to tell people to reflect, I don’t want to actually hear about the things on which one might subsequently reflect. But there he sits, describing the wife who left him, the kids he hasn’t seen, the battles with the bottle, the blah blah blah… Go away, please.
Suddenly, H-Squared loudly farts. And it’s like we just discovered how to get into level 8 of Zelda (blow the whistle!), because Fucky gets up and leaves. Though the stench is abhorrent, I’m happy sitting there with just my friend, reflecting, sans creepy weird guy. Oddly, that gets boring. So we get up and leave.
A cab ride back to the Palms later, and we’re back, baby! It’s about 7 a.m. now, and we have no idea what to do, so we go to the bar. And—tell me if you saw this coming—Amanda and Elisa are there. At the same table as the night before. (Have I mentioned that Amanda is both married and a cocktease?)
After a bunch of “Hey!”s and whatnot, we’re all sitting down drinking. I’m still a bit annoyed at the shit I had to deal with the night before, but then again, I’m wasted and talking to a hot chick. So who gives a shit that she’s from Nebraska and married, right? We tell them about the awesome pool that opens fairly soon, and this excites them. We all agree to go upstairs and get our pool shit on, then meet downstairs at the entrance when it opens. I ask them what room they’re staying in, just in case there’s a problem, and it turns out they’re on the floor above us. So they go, and, once again, H-Squared and I finish their drinks. No manners on these girls, I swear.
We get back to our room and put on our swimming attire. “Wait,” I say, just as we’re about to leave. “Let’s get ready.”
“What?” he asks.
“Let’s do some push-ups. That way, our muscles an’ shit’ll be all swelled up, and we’ll look fucking hot.”
H-Squared needs no further convincing. We both hit the floor and start. And as someone once said about Chuck Norris, we weren’t pushing ourselves up, we were pushing the Earth down. Yeah.
Now properly swelled up (and totally fucking hot), we head downstairs. It’s about 9 a.m., just when the pool is opening. We wait for a few minutes, and the girls aren’t there. So we decide to go get them. We hop on the elevator, find their room, and knock on the door. And by “knock,” I mean "bang very loudly." And continue to bang loudly. Eventually, Elisa opens the door and tells us they’re sleeping and will continue to do so, despite the genius plan we had concocted not much earlier (and our push-ups). Bitches.
So, it’s about 9:30. We have no girls to enjoy the pool with (or “fuck”), and it dawns on us that it is now, in fact, Saturday. The Kentucky Derby will be starting shortly. It’s time to get out of these pool clothes, and into our Derby gear. Though I did not acquire the fedora I sought, we both still have some proper Churchill Downs-style apparel to wear.
Oh, and "sleep"? Fuck it. We arrived last night (two nights ago), slept for 90 minutes, partied all day, and now all night. Here we are, the morning of May 5th, going on no sleep at all, but that won’t stop us. There’s an amazing fight to behold, a horse race to bet on, and a town that invites such debauchery.
In fact, the only thing I care about at all is that I still don’t have a nice pair of sunglasses. Let’s go hit the breakfast buffet, figure it all out, then we’ll go and figure it all out.
(To be continued…)
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Boner Nomenclature
Show me that smile again . . . oooohhh . . . show me that smile . . . don't waste another minute on your cryin'. Etc. 5 points if you get the reference. Remedial pop culture lessons if you don't.The Boner (not the one pictured above; the other one) is one of nature's true miracles. The Stiffy. The Hard-On. The Rod. Literary archetype, biological phenomenon, the star of thousands of films, and the bane of 17 and 71 year-olds everywhere (for decidedly different reasons, of course). The boner is a lot like a taxi: they are everywhere in the morning, but when you've been out drinking all night and you really need one, it can be tough to find.
The term "boner," though, even with all of its first cousins, is imprecise and insufficient. Indeed, the "I'm-drunk-at-3 a.m.-starting-at-the-female-anchor-on-CNN-because-my-roommate-was-too-cheap-to-pay-for-Cinemax boner," is hardly (get it?) the same thing as the "I'm-16-years-old-and-the-hot-sophomore's-parents-are-away-for-the-weekend-so-we-are-"watching movies"-at-her-place boner."
No indeed. "Boner" is a clumsy word that describes a whole range of distinct biological events. Accordingly, a naming convention is in order. During a probing, thoughtful conversations about boners a few weeks ago, it occurred to several of us that the different types of boners can each be described by reference to one of the Seven Dwarfs.
(side note: now look, I understand that anyone with even a halfway decent sense of humor can stumble upon the personal assessment that one must be making when one is comparing boners to dwarfs. They're both short, Irish curse, I'm all thumbs, yes, yes. What a riot. Not the point of this post, so move on (side note (II): I'm luking at you, notorious LJT (side note (III): the typo was inadvertent, but so fitting that I chose to leave it))). But I digress.
Without further adieu, the seven boners:
The "Happy" 
This one is easy. Undoubtedly the most rewarding of boners, the "Happy" springs to life right when it should. You see a hot girl walk in to the bar and she brushes past you with a wink? Happy. Some gal gives you eyes on the subway? Happy. Two smokin' hot foxes eating lunch outside in midtown in July? Happy. The Happy is sort of like a line-drive single. It's nothing too out of the ordinary, you have a decent change of getting one on any given night, and you have much better chance of scoring once you do. What a dwarf.
The "Sleepy"
Right behind the Happy in frequency, the Sleepy is a freak, and only comes out at night. Even though you are fast asleep and not wookin pa nub (remember that one?), Sleepy is like the night watchman, a sentinel standing at attention. Now there is a biological explanation for the Sleepy (it prevents you from pissing yourself in bed, or something like that (insert mmg joke here)), but that is not the point of this post. The Sleepy is also known as a Morningwood Tree in some circles, but there was no "Breakfast Dwarf" in the movie, so Sleepy it is.
This one is easy. Undoubtedly the most rewarding of boners, the "Happy" springs to life right when it should. You see a hot girl walk in to the bar and she brushes past you with a wink? Happy. Some gal gives you eyes on the subway? Happy. Two smokin' hot foxes eating lunch outside in midtown in July? Happy. The Happy is sort of like a line-drive single. It's nothing too out of the ordinary, you have a decent change of getting one on any given night, and you have much better chance of scoring once you do. What a dwarf.
The "Sleepy"
Right behind the Happy in frequency, the Sleepy is a freak, and only comes out at night. Even though you are fast asleep and not wookin pa nub (remember that one?), Sleepy is like the night watchman, a sentinel standing at attention. Now there is a biological explanation for the Sleepy (it prevents you from pissing yourself in bed, or something like that (insert mmg joke here)), but that is not the point of this post. The Sleepy is also known as a Morningwood Tree in some circles, but there was no "Breakfast Dwarf" in the movie, so Sleepy it is.
The "Grumpy" 
The Grumpy is a sonofabitch, and can be a mean drunk. You've had 13 beers, 8 shots, and a Diet Sunkist, and yet some girl is still willing to entertain the idea of coitus with your drunk ass. You're making out, ready to do the deed, and she reaches down to find - Grumpy. A tired, drunk angry boner. You're mind told you to pass out three hours ago, but you're libido ordered a red bull. The Grumpy will reluctantly go along for the ride, but he isn't happy about it, and refuses to give it his all.
The Grumpy is a sonofabitch, and can be a mean drunk. You've had 13 beers, 8 shots, and a Diet Sunkist, and yet some girl is still willing to entertain the idea of coitus with your drunk ass. You're making out, ready to do the deed, and she reaches down to find - Grumpy. A tired, drunk angry boner. You're mind told you to pass out three hours ago, but you're libido ordered a red bull. The Grumpy will reluctantly go along for the ride, but he isn't happy about it, and refuses to give it his all.
The "Dopey" The Dopey is an idiot. It doesn't have the brains to show up when a hot girl walks in the room. Instead, it waits until you are watching Sports Center at the gym, or reading the paper on the train to work. The Dopey is the reason that guys say their rod has a mind of its own, even when it is proving it has no mind at all.
The "Bashful"
The Bashful - as the name implies - is the boner that you are a little embarrassed about. Stand up in a meeting about the company's P/E ratio and you're at full mast? You've got a Bashful (I guess that's also sort of a Dopey). On your first date, helping your new lady friend out of the car, and she spies an unnatural wrinkle in your jeans? Bashful. There's nothing to be bashful about, of course (christ, Open Bar willingly farts on the job . . . what's a woody every now and then), but we can't help shying away from the Bashful.
The "Sneezy"
The "Bashful"
The Bashful - as the name implies - is the boner that you are a little embarrassed about. Stand up in a meeting about the company's P/E ratio and you're at full mast? You've got a Bashful (I guess that's also sort of a Dopey). On your first date, helping your new lady friend out of the car, and she spies an unnatural wrinkle in your jeans? Bashful. There's nothing to be bashful about, of course (christ, Open Bar willingly farts on the job . . . what's a woody every now and then), but we can't help shying away from the Bashful.
The "Sneezy"The Sneezy is undoubtedly the rarest of boners, but don't get a Bashful if it happens to you . . . . you are apparently not alone.
The "Doc"
Doc is a symbol for the old man, and the trouble that the more geruntologically advanced may experience with the raising of the flag. The "Doc" therefore, refers to the old man boner, whenever, and however he is able to make it happen. Now I know the folks at Disney probably would be less than thrilled at the whole concept of this post, and certainly not least the linking of the lovable Doc with the awkward truth about impotence and getting older, but, in fairness, it was the Disney folks themselves who provided what is perhaps the best example of the "Doc" that one can find in modern film art:
Don't judge this old man. I bet she gives you a "Bashful" too.
Next week I'll continue defiling dear Disney by explaining how each kind of orgasm can be categorized by one of the syllables in supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Hi-HO!!!
The Greatest Fart Ever Laid
Open Bar's recent post reminded me of a story.My first job out of college was in the claims department at a big insurance company.
It was a terribly boring job that basically consisted of walking around and having VPs sign off on things. There was also this one guy who was a real dick to me on the staff.
Anyway, the job sucked and I lasted about three months before I quit but when I quit, I gave two weeks notice - which, by the way, were not the most productive two weeks of my life.
Toward the end of those two weeks, I was coming into work on a Friday after much beer drinking and winging out so I truly had a full tank of gas in me. I walked into the building and soon made my way to the elevator and was the last one to get in before the doors closed.
Now, I worked on something like the nineteenth floor and at about the tenth floor I could feel some percolation, by fifteen, I knew a fart was there and by seventeen I knew it was going to be silent but violent.
I held it just long enough.
Upon the hearing of the 'ding' of my arrival and the doors cracking open - I let it fly - a stealth, putrid stinging mix of beer, chicken wings and hot sauce. I stepped out of the elevator, took about two steps and turned around just in time to see that this elevator full of people had just been hit my noxious scent.
I smiled as I watched the pain and revulsion on their faces coupled with pure disdain in my direction.
The doors closed.
Happiness.
A quickie
This isn't really important, so don't feel the need to continue reading.
I'm at work, and I just ripped a tremendously loud, long fart at my desk. There's no way any of the seven women who sit nearby me could mistake that sound for anything but the non-SBD that it was.
Wow. Smelly, too.
I'm at work, and I just ripped a tremendously loud, long fart at my desk. There's no way any of the seven women who sit nearby me could mistake that sound for anything but the non-SBD that it was.
Wow. Smelly, too.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
The Six Best Albums You've Never Heard
I'm assuming you haven't heard these albums, but I may be wrong. Well, one of them i know Open Bar has heard and liked at one point, but the rest I'm assuming none of you have really ever listened to.
Digable Planets - Reachin' (A New Refutation Of Time And Space)
This is the one I know Open Bar at least has heard before. This is a groundbreaking rap album, in my opinion. It's an album I can listen to to this day over and over again. All the songs are good. It's rap music on top of jazz riffs, for the most part. It's the album that gave us this band's one hit that you know, "I'm cool like that, I'm cool like that, I'm cool like that, I'm cool like that." But that's not even the best song on the album. Fantasticosity abounding.
Digable Planets - Reachin' (A New Refutation Of Time And Space)This is the one I know Open Bar at least has heard before. This is a groundbreaking rap album, in my opinion. It's an album I can listen to to this day over and over again. All the songs are good. It's rap music on top of jazz riffs, for the most part. It's the album that gave us this band's one hit that you know, "I'm cool like that, I'm cool like that, I'm cool like that, I'm cool like that." But that's not even the best song on the album. Fantasticosity abounding.
John Mayer - Room For Squares
Every single song on this album is great. Introspective singer/songwriter-ing at its best. The songs are about everything that's relevant to people around my age, including having a girlfriend in the city, discovering that "there's no such thing as a real world", having a "quarter life crisis", how life was better in 1983. The lyrics are great. And most of the songs are on the acoustic guitar, rather than the electric featured in his later albums. I listened once as Side Bar told me that John Mayer was wack, but he was wrong, and based on his argument he had clearly never listened to the album. This album is great. And when you listen to it, make sure you listen to the lyrics.
M.I.A. - Arular
I have talked about this album in the past. It is unlike anything you've ever heard before. I bought the album on the strength of one song, "Galang". While I was thinking about getting it I was reading the reviews and they said things like, "it will change the way you listen to music" and also like "it is definitely weird, but on the 5th time you listen to it, you will see the light." I thought, what the hell?, that one song is pretty good, I might as well try the album.
The first time I listened to it I just thought, "gee this is kinda weird". And then the second time you start to notice patterns and interesting phrasings in the basslines. On the third listen, my brain just about oozed out of my ears. Mind = blown. Please, do yourself a favor and get this album. And you have to listen to it at least 5 times before you give up on it.
Tracy Chapman - Tracy Chapman
Again, you gotta listen to the lyrics on this one. "Fast Car" is obviously great, but the whole album is really beautiful. Another great example of singer/songwriter-ing. Including one of the best love songs ever, "Baby Can I Hold You". It's slightly militant, but not overly so.
Amazingly, Tracy Chapman never really rocked the music world the way everyone thought she would when this album dropped (can an album of acoustic guitar songs by a lesbian singer/songwriter really "drop"?). Her and Fiona Apple should start a group called Potential Unrealized and go on tour. Alanis Morissette can open for them, but I don't know if she would meet the criteria for membership.
The Beach Boys - Pet Sounds
Around 1999, this was voted by some magazine who's name I forget but that was very well respected as the greatest rock album of all time. I don't think it is, but mainly because it's not really rock music. This album is fucking great. Brian Wilson is one of those tortured geniuses, and this album was completed essentially right before he snapped, which was clearly at the height of his genius. And for those Beatle fans out there, this album was one of the major influences on both Sgt. Peppers and The White Album.
Brian Wilson was essentially trying to get the sounds out of his head on onto tape, and he used anything that made noise in order to do it. Listen to the album and you'll hear harpsichords, that thing that makes those spooly ghost noises that I think is called a feremin, and even bike horns and things like that. And it goes without saying that "God Only Knows" is one of the greatest songs in the history of music, if not the best.
Claude Debussy - Debussy For Daydreaming
Claude Debussy was the first, and possibly only depending on who you talk to, impressionist composer (even though there's guys like Ravel who were disciples of his and use the odd chord combinations and things that he did, but weren't necessarily in the impressionist group). Think Monet writing a symphony. What he was trying to do was match his impressions of stuff in the world with his music. He's got a whole series of pieces like "Clouds" and "The Sea" and "Light of the Moon" that try to evoke the feeling of those particular things.
This particular album is of his more thoughtful, introspective, quiet type of works. If you need to get some work done, or if you just want to relax, throw this joint on and cool out. And "Claire de Lune", which you'll recognize from the end of Ocean's Eleven is one of the best pieces on there, but the others are great, too. I must admit I'm really a fan of Debussy and have a few albums of his music.
Shut Up, Shula
Is Don Shula kidding?
From espn.com, on the potential for the Patriots to 16-0, the first perfect season for an NFL team since the 1972 Dolphins, whom Shula coached:
"The Spygate thing has diminished what they've accomplished," Shula said in an interview with the New York Daily News. "You would hate to have that attached to your accomplishments. They've got it."
On the cash and draft pick penalty assessed against the Patriots as a result of the videotaping scandal:
"That tells you the seriousness or significance of what they found," Shula said, according to the Daily News. "I guess you got the same thing as putting an asterisk by Barry Bonds' home run record.
"I guess it will be noted that the Patriots were fined and a No. 1 draft choice was taken away during that year of accomplishment. The sad thing is Tom Brady looks so good, it doesn't look like he needs any help.
Barry Bonds? Come on. What a dick. First of all, let's all settle down about the undefeated thing. The Pats are 9-0 and look unstoppable, but other teams have looked good and not gone all the way. The Pats have the Steelers and (ahem) the G-Men ahead of them, both good teams that could pull off an upset (side note: if the Pats are 15-0 going into the last game of the season at the Medowlands, and the Giants need a win to get in the playoffs or to get a home game, Strahan and Umenyiora will be at 110%. What do you do if you are the Patriots? Start Brady and risk injury, or sit Brady and risk losing the shot at the perfect season? Using the "do whatever your opponent would be least happy with" theory, I think they would start Brady. But still).
TB: "How bad is it doc?" Dr.:"You'll be on crutches for 6-8 weeks, Mr. Brady, and rehab will be 3-4 months, but as long as Giselle is on top, you're fine in, er, that other department."
Beyond that, though, anyone who thinks the Patriots wouldn't have beaten the Jets without the videotaping isn't watching the NFL this year. Marko Jokic, Nikki Lamparelli and Ethan Pavone could beat the Jets even if they were playing Andy rules and you weren't allowed to tackle any of the Jets. But stealing signs in week 1 has tainted the Patriots' season. Come on.
Finally, the last time I checked, the 1972 Dolphins went 14-0, because the schedule had to expand to its present 16 games. If we really want 
to talk about asterisks, let's throw that in to the mix. Would the Dolphins have been able to keep it together for two more weeks? Beats me, but which is more unrealistic: the 2007 Patriots lose to the god-awful 2007 Jets in week 1 when everyone is fresh and no one is dealing with injuries, or the fish lose one of two games at the end of a season when everyone is tired and banged up (side note: I wasn't sure where to put this, but I just wanted to point out that the 2007 Patriots, through nine wins, have scored 355 points, only 30 points shy of the 385 points scored by the 1972 Dolphins in all 14 of their games combined. Also their team logo is super gay).
For my part, I like the way Patriots' OLB Mike Vrabel responded:
I think that we try to go out there and play hard every week. And I don't think that guys are going to draw on an old retired coach and old washed up players to pump us up. We play hard. We try to go out there and play hard. That's our job every week is to go out there and play hard. To play for our team, my teammates, my coaches, the respect factor, that's what I try to go out and play for, and I think everybody else on our team does the same thing.
In sum, Don Shula is whiny little bitch with a small penis whose sole remaining claim to fame is in jeopardy, and he can't handle it.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Side Bar: Pay Attention
Here's something you could've used a few months ago. Remember? After you falsely claimed that I put my "testicles" on your "shoulder," (which is codswallop [that's British for "horseshit!"], I would never!), you retaliated with your classic move -- attacking another man's balls. Which is SO against The Rules of Men. It's ridiculous no one has murdered you yet. But anyway, after you did that, remember what I did to you? LJT does -- he was there at the planning.
Okay, so if the other kids in these two pussies' school can't figure out what to do in the case of a foiled wedgie, then I must conclude it's one of those "special" schools. What about punching some tie-wearing 8-year-old in the face? What about shoving him into a locker, then closing it? What about pantsing the kid?
And you've gotta love the anchors' clear love of being able to discuss the underwear of 8-year-olds on live TV without that guy from NBC Dateline showing up at his house.
Okay, so if the other kids in these two pussies' school can't figure out what to do in the case of a foiled wedgie, then I must conclude it's one of those "special" schools. What about punching some tie-wearing 8-year-old in the face? What about shoving him into a locker, then closing it? What about pantsing the kid?
And you've gotta love the anchors' clear love of being able to discuss the underwear of 8-year-olds on live TV without that guy from NBC Dateline showing up at his house.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
I'm already tired of this, and it's only gonna get worse
Have you heard? Joe Girardi chose the number 27 for his new job as manager of the yanks. He did this as a reminder that it's his job to win the franchise's 27th championship.Ugh.
I'm absolutely positive this will be the most annoying thing I have to listen to over and over and over again for the next three years at least. Anytime I check the game on YES, I'm sure Michael Kay will mention it, no matter how infrequently I happen to click over during between-innings breaks on Mets games. If I happen to listen to 880 AM, John Sterling and Suzyn Waldman will argue over who mentions it more each game. And during any of the 37 times the yanks have the game of the week on Fox, Tim McCarver and Joe Buck will shove it down my throat as though someone just spotted a real, live unicorn each time they bring it up.
God, I already hate this. Can you think of anything else that will be repeated more than this piece of meaningless drivel? Should Willie Randolph change his number to 3? Better yet, I'd love if Terry Francona changed his number to 2, as in "The number of championships won by the Red Sox since the yanks last won one." Now that would be something bearable.
In conclusion, Let's Go Mets!
Friday, November 2, 2007
Things That Are Overrated: Saturday Night Live
I know, you're thinking, "Wait, Saturday Night Live has sucked since 1994. It's definitely not overrated. It just sucks." And that's true, but what I mean is that SNL is overrated by the people who work on it, especially Lorne Michaels, but also everyone else.
There was a time when SNL was the arbiter of comedy in America. There was a time when SNL was avant garde and walked the edge of right and wrong, truth and falsehood, and hysterical and vulgar. That time was 1979. Since about 1995 the show has sucked (with the Ferrell exception, of course), and I'll tell you why. First of all, the staff takes themselves way too seriously. If you've seen the like 60 minutes "a week in the life of SNL" piece, or the Iconoclasts show with Lorne Michaels and Paul Simon, or even if you've ever seen an episode of Studio 60, then you know what I mean. They still think that the shit they do is cutting edge. The last cutting edge skit they did was in 1970 something when Richard Pryor and Chevy Chase called each other racial slurs.
They think that the political skit they do at the front of the show is somehow changing the way Americans see the country. It's not. In fact most of the time there's about one laugh per 3 minutes in that opening sketch. If we're lucky, the first sketch of every show will be funny. If we're not, then the whole show sucks. I gotta give it up to my boy, Andy Samberg, who has been the funniest guy on the show for the last couple years. Those Digital Shorts are where their best material has come from over the past couple seasons. But if that doesn't hit, then you know the whole show is going down quickly.
Here's what I don't get. They take all week writing this show. They have a full staff or writers, a whole cast of performers, prodcuers and what not, and by and large the show sucks every week. I mean, these guys' job is to sit around and think of funny shit. Your whole job is to write a funny skit and, by and large, the majority of skits absolutely suck. How is this possible? You seriously can't just sit down and write a funny skit? If every writer wrote one actually funny skit per week, then the show would be hysterical. Instead, they churn out garbage. The show is nearly unwatchable after Weekend Update.
By the way, there is a separate writing staff for Update. As if Update is what's making people tune in to the show. As if Update is somehow the most important pice of the program. Guess what, Update sucks. Again in about 20 Update jokes, perhaps 3 are funny. That's a poor percentage. You're batting .150. And why do we have to watch those endless "opinion pieces" by the non-anchors. Only 1 in 10 of those is funny.
And you have to see the behind the scenes shit. They're standing there in front of the board with all the possible skits and what not deciding what should go where as if the fate of the world was resting on their shoulders and they're really just standing there trading garbage for garbage.
Those motherfuckers need far more structure. They need to work during the fucking daytime during the week. They need to submit a funny sketch per week, and they need to put on a show that will be entertaining for its entire run tme. If they can't write 90 minutes of funny shit, why don't they just cut the show down to an hour? At this point there's about 5 minutes of funny and 85 minutes of filler. They need to get rid of the guys who aren't funny right away. Perfect example, Horatio Sanz. That motherfucker was on the show for like 7 years. In those seven years he was never ever once funny. Not a single time. How is that possible?
The best episode of the last 10 seasons was last year's Christmas episode, with Justin Timberlake as host. They had funny skits all throughout that show. The Target lady was funny, the Cup O' Soup guy, the Barry Gibb Talk Show, the kids who danced in the cave ("You just got served, cave creature" and "Keep on dancin', Jo Jessica"), and who can forget Dick In A Box. It is beyond me why every episode can't be that funny.
And the bitch of it is that their cast right now is actually really good. Maya Rudolph, Amy Poehler, Andy Samberg, Fred Armisen, Kenan Thompson, Bill Hader, Jason Sudeikis, Kristen Wiig, all those guys are really funny. But they just don't make it work moset of the time. Watching SNL is like watching the Mets during September most of the time. You know that it should be funny, and you watch every time hoping that this time they'll realize their potential, but alas, they are mired in the muck, and there's just no hope.
I am confident that the reason this show sucks is because of Lorne Michaels. The way he runs the show is not conducive for bringing out the funny shit in people. The list of people who were on that show and did nothing and then left and blew the fuck up is astounding. Julia Louis Dreyfus sucked in her time there. Larry David, Larry fucking David, was a staff writer and never got a single skit on the air. Jay Mohr was in the cast for a season or two and sucked (yes Jay Mohr is goddamned hysterical otherwise, lest you were wondering). Chris Rock was never, ever funny on that show. Damon Wayans was in the cast for a season or two (did you even know that? Probably not.), and then he went on to do shit that was way funnier than SNL at the time on In Living Color. Sara Silverman was on the cast for a while (maybe she's an acquired taste, but I find her hilarious), did nothing. These people are funny. It's not a coincidence that the show kept them from being funny.
Their problem is that they're lazy. They put on one funny skit, and then they kill it with repeated skits in later shows. Or they'll put on a skit with a good premise that isn't completely written yet. Then what you get is about 20 seconds of funny and 3 minutes of "when is this going to end?". Let's take the two A-Holes as an example. The first time that skit was on, Christmas 2005, Jack Black hosting, it was hi-sterical. Since then it's been on like 4 or 5 more times. It's one premise that made one good skit, and then they brought them back again and again. The whole thing is really one joke. Once they did it once they had to bastardize it in order to get anything out of it. The whole, "you look like a rabbit" thing is funny, but then in order to make it work on the 4th time you actually have to have a picture of a rabbit hanging on the wall and Kristen Wiig saying that the picture of a rabbit looked like a rabbit. Not funny. Write a new sketch.
And stop taking yourselves so goddamned seriously. And be more funny.
There was a time when SNL was the arbiter of comedy in America. There was a time when SNL was avant garde and walked the edge of right and wrong, truth and falsehood, and hysterical and vulgar. That time was 1979. Since about 1995 the show has sucked (with the Ferrell exception, of course), and I'll tell you why. First of all, the staff takes themselves way too seriously. If you've seen the like 60 minutes "a week in the life of SNL" piece, or the Iconoclasts show with Lorne Michaels and Paul Simon, or even if you've ever seen an episode of Studio 60, then you know what I mean. They still think that the shit they do is cutting edge. The last cutting edge skit they did was in 1970 something when Richard Pryor and Chevy Chase called each other racial slurs.
They think that the political skit they do at the front of the show is somehow changing the way Americans see the country. It's not. In fact most of the time there's about one laugh per 3 minutes in that opening sketch. If we're lucky, the first sketch of every show will be funny. If we're not, then the whole show sucks. I gotta give it up to my boy, Andy Samberg, who has been the funniest guy on the show for the last couple years. Those Digital Shorts are where their best material has come from over the past couple seasons. But if that doesn't hit, then you know the whole show is going down quickly.
Here's what I don't get. They take all week writing this show. They have a full staff or writers, a whole cast of performers, prodcuers and what not, and by and large the show sucks every week. I mean, these guys' job is to sit around and think of funny shit. Your whole job is to write a funny skit and, by and large, the majority of skits absolutely suck. How is this possible? You seriously can't just sit down and write a funny skit? If every writer wrote one actually funny skit per week, then the show would be hysterical. Instead, they churn out garbage. The show is nearly unwatchable after Weekend Update.
By the way, there is a separate writing staff for Update. As if Update is what's making people tune in to the show. As if Update is somehow the most important pice of the program. Guess what, Update sucks. Again in about 20 Update jokes, perhaps 3 are funny. That's a poor percentage. You're batting .150. And why do we have to watch those endless "opinion pieces" by the non-anchors. Only 1 in 10 of those is funny.
And you have to see the behind the scenes shit. They're standing there in front of the board with all the possible skits and what not deciding what should go where as if the fate of the world was resting on their shoulders and they're really just standing there trading garbage for garbage.
Those motherfuckers need far more structure. They need to work during the fucking daytime during the week. They need to submit a funny sketch per week, and they need to put on a show that will be entertaining for its entire run tme. If they can't write 90 minutes of funny shit, why don't they just cut the show down to an hour? At this point there's about 5 minutes of funny and 85 minutes of filler. They need to get rid of the guys who aren't funny right away. Perfect example, Horatio Sanz. That motherfucker was on the show for like 7 years. In those seven years he was never ever once funny. Not a single time. How is that possible?
The best episode of the last 10 seasons was last year's Christmas episode, with Justin Timberlake as host. They had funny skits all throughout that show. The Target lady was funny, the Cup O' Soup guy, the Barry Gibb Talk Show, the kids who danced in the cave ("You just got served, cave creature" and "Keep on dancin', Jo Jessica"), and who can forget Dick In A Box. It is beyond me why every episode can't be that funny.
And the bitch of it is that their cast right now is actually really good. Maya Rudolph, Amy Poehler, Andy Samberg, Fred Armisen, Kenan Thompson, Bill Hader, Jason Sudeikis, Kristen Wiig, all those guys are really funny. But they just don't make it work moset of the time. Watching SNL is like watching the Mets during September most of the time. You know that it should be funny, and you watch every time hoping that this time they'll realize their potential, but alas, they are mired in the muck, and there's just no hope.
I am confident that the reason this show sucks is because of Lorne Michaels. The way he runs the show is not conducive for bringing out the funny shit in people. The list of people who were on that show and did nothing and then left and blew the fuck up is astounding. Julia Louis Dreyfus sucked in her time there. Larry David, Larry fucking David, was a staff writer and never got a single skit on the air. Jay Mohr was in the cast for a season or two and sucked (yes Jay Mohr is goddamned hysterical otherwise, lest you were wondering). Chris Rock was never, ever funny on that show. Damon Wayans was in the cast for a season or two (did you even know that? Probably not.), and then he went on to do shit that was way funnier than SNL at the time on In Living Color. Sara Silverman was on the cast for a while (maybe she's an acquired taste, but I find her hilarious), did nothing. These people are funny. It's not a coincidence that the show kept them from being funny.
Their problem is that they're lazy. They put on one funny skit, and then they kill it with repeated skits in later shows. Or they'll put on a skit with a good premise that isn't completely written yet. Then what you get is about 20 seconds of funny and 3 minutes of "when is this going to end?". Let's take the two A-Holes as an example. The first time that skit was on, Christmas 2005, Jack Black hosting, it was hi-sterical. Since then it's been on like 4 or 5 more times. It's one premise that made one good skit, and then they brought them back again and again. The whole thing is really one joke. Once they did it once they had to bastardize it in order to get anything out of it. The whole, "you look like a rabbit" thing is funny, but then in order to make it work on the 4th time you actually have to have a picture of a rabbit hanging on the wall and Kristen Wiig saying that the picture of a rabbit looked like a rabbit. Not funny. Write a new sketch.
And stop taking yourselves so goddamned seriously. And be more funny.
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