There's another dude

2009-04-06T08:48:00.000-07:00

If you somehow still read this blog, you should start reading the sports blog I started:

SethCurrySavesDuke

(I came one letter away from the weekend triple this week)

The Quest for the Weekend Triple

2009-02-11T08:12:00.000-08:00

The Weekend Triple has eluded me up to now.

The Weekend Triple:

Successful completion, without resorting to any source but my own brain, of the Friday, Saturday, and Sunday New York Times crossword puzzles.

Last weekend was a fruitless effort. Friday found me dazed and weary, and I couldn't crack the southeast corner. On Saturday I rushed out to a strong beginning, got overconfident, and neglected to check my work. One letter was incorrect, a silly mistake. Sunday, with nothing to play for, difficult filler resulted in four wrong letters, a terrible result.

However, I've been knocking on the door for some time. I recently finished the Saturday-Sunday double, and the Friday-Sunday double. It's only a matter of time before the glorious triple is mine.

For context, the Times puzzle gets harder as the week goes on. Monday is the easiest puzzle, and Saturday is the hardest. The Sunday puzzle is larger, but the difficulty level is consistent with a Thursday puzzle. Only the increased volume makes it a touch testier than Thursday. Therefore, Friday and Saturday are the biggest hurdles, and, last weekend notwithstanding, Sunday is usually the easiest of the three.

Masculin Feminin

2008-12-12T06:24:00.000-08:00

Dan stepped on the train and saw Lyla, a stranger.

"Didn't we see each other tomorrow?" he asked. "That's two days in a row."

"What do you mean?"

But he couldn't satisfy her with an answer, and she turned away.

The next day, Lyla saw Dan step on again.

"We saw each other yesterday," she said, "do you remember?"

"Is that a joke?"

She couldn't explain herself, and he turned away.

When they saw each other again, many years later, they didn't speak.

What are your 'Government Songs'?

2008-12-04T10:37:00.000-08:00

For those of you who don't follow hypothetical games concocted by the pop culture cognoscenti, this one presents the following query:

If we lived in a totalitarian state, and the government mandated that all its citizens wake up to the same song every day, on state radio or television screens or some other universally-viewed device, and fall asleep to a second song every night, and you were granted the right to choose the two songs, what would you pick?

Here are my choices:

Morning - "Hold Me Now" by the Thompson Twins

Evening - "Amie" by Pure Praire League

What are your 'government songs'?

2008-10-21T13:34:00.000-07:00

Over that tire sit the one called Chickadee
Known round the way to the steel-fist hickory
Dandelion neck and the thumbtack boots
Dirty pearl gloves and the brandywine suits
Married Lady Crow, she an ugly fine mess
Black as the folds in her crinoline dress
They sulk and she hiss and he drag on the smoke
Coiled like a whip from his turn with the yoke
Hunched like the river man water turned tame
Eyes like the holy man lost to the Name
Scratch in his shoe and a badge from the state
Chances out west and a body in the crate
Angel for his momma gone cotton at her death
Angel didn’t speak though he stumbled at her breath
And don’t he pass nights pickin’ zydeco-song
Purrin’ in the dark like the day ain’t long

2008-07-29T07:08:00.001-07:00

There's an older brother on the hill
and the little one buried
given in spirit to red summer

Maybe the words came from a film
A blade needs dulling and there's hope
of melodrama in the downcast eyes

But it's beginning to rain
His leather glove drips clay water
and the family doesn't own a tv

My father adjusted the crooked metal
above ours, and I watched Fred Rogers
sing about the anger humming in my ears

When the static gave ground,
I dug fingernails into the piled rug
olive. drab. corrosive. All hail King Friday

On Sundays we drove past signs-
brown as tree trunks, words burnt orange
dividing the cragged Adirondacks

The older brother is past gratitude
for rain that hides his visions
and how they echo the clouds

In black our man makes heavy
purposed strides to the umber hilltop
You can only stall so long

(When 1990’s thief stole the
Oldsmobile Sedan, he made
some distance and surveyed
the back seat:
Props, puppets, a sweater.
Nobody but nobody
is immune when the pangs explode
like impossible starlight in a cave
Mr. Rogers found his car
returned the next morning)

What else is what remains
I can still see my father's profile
unshaven, and the truck's torn vinyl

My hand won't be balm to his shoulder
and it won't be light. It will be a promise
of time, gathered in the fading color.

2008-07-29T06:43:00.000-07:00

To my dark-haired light-eyed L-train pixie with the sun in your mouth the pert flashing lashes and ingenue legs crossed delicately at the ankles- I’m sorry if I stare. It’s a problem ever since I came out wet and wide-eyed gaping at the helpful nurses with their white cleavage that never gave me the chance to cry and I can’t guarantee that in ten years I’ll be attenuated to the faint secondary lines tracing down your slim limbs or the little wrist I imagine encircling with lumbering convex thumb and index while you cradle The New Yorker and raise the toe of one sandaled heel to graze the outside of the worn khaki office pants in slow audacious circles implying a universe of stars and I whisper something in your small clean ear that gives rise to an impish grin spurring sly corners of your lips telegraphing teasing intentions and rolling me over like a train on the flat prairies where Indians hunting buffalo could only watch in fascination or pretend nonchalance at what was about to change them forever but I don’t pretend anything I’m too old for that twenty-five is past the point of feigned composure and I whisper something more that puckers the beginnings of your grin because it’s a little too risqué here in the underground even by your alarmingly liberal tastes and even in the throes a man should take hold of himself but I choose to believe you’re secretly pleased that I’m occasionally beyond such limits and won’t leave for wide-shouldered square-jawed rich-white heroes and think yes, something with an even keel might be worth trying on, something whose tongue wags less when it’s covetous and who might leave you of all people a little pleasantly uncertain because let’s confess, God put us together but gave you the ball and the court, made me something that must repeat a promise not to fall too deep, not to admit a mystic belief in extremes to anyone but myself in dark hours if you’ll only trust there’s some modicum of moderation latent in my chemicals made to regulate these awful salacious whims when they threaten to swamp the poor beach in tsunamis and jag-toothed sharks and with time recede to regular tides overlapping their bounds only once or twice in a blue moon but on balance free of that unreliable word that awful haunting hunting dog I’ve been escaping over months and years that word unreliable my little elfin charm and one day I’ll watch you sunlit silhouetted by our picture window and the whole house translucent transoms and open oriels and when you turn I’ll melt my face to the world’s most benign smile and consult my newspaper or gently correct a child spooning soggy messes onto the covered table playing the good mate like a method actor so forgive me today pixie love if I take the pink lobe of your sweet sugar ear between my teeth just to see the delicious O of your shocked red mouth and make tiny indents you can touch for a fading moment with the whorled tips of reproachful fine fingers.

Tail

2008-05-30T06:15:00.000-07:00

Snorkle

2008-05-21T12:22:00.000-07:00

Dream #12: Indiana

In all the city’s open rooms
where we’d begged
and fought for scraps
the lights reached
a degree of brightness
unfriendly to older eyes

And so I left my girl
and you left yours
to play it straight for a change

My old car, the proven
rusted-gold jalopy
appeared on the outskirts
amid climbing graffiti and darker smoke
that made us glad to drive
west, beneath the big sky

Billowing magnet clouds drew us
past the midwest. We stopped
only once, to rescue a dog-
a staggering starving collie-
before the wide roads and gravid plains
of open earth absolved our speed

His panting head scouted the land
from the broken rear window
and when the last of the gasoline
sputtered to fumes, we found
the perfect spot- a clear rocky stream
and a path to white-veined mountains

Who knew I could build a home
or that you, in functional
plaid dresses, could smile from the
windswept cedar porch and ring
a bell or wring the heavy soil
from my lone pair of jeans?

On all the full-moon nights
we swam naked in the creek
made love on the dry bed
and forgot the hard mornings
of hard faces with stunned desires.
In that place, nothing fades

Our amber-eyed daughter
addressed the hum of the world
with bubbling white laughter
and we named the dog Indiana
for the state of heat and dust
where he'd lain in a pile of bones

What beauty: no more to claim the day,
startled on gray sidewalks,
when thick smiles erupt too sudden
to pretend a strange notion
surging with calm assurance
to the women we clutch

Or my rusted car, sold for scrap
and nameless Indiana
watching an empty road

Miscell, eh, nee?

2008-05-19T05:53:00.001-07:00

*The hospital auditor from Kansas bought a special travel purse to protect her from New York's pickpockets during the 3-week sojourn. She used to live in Texas, and just bought her first sailboat. There are places to sail in Kansas; good ones, with strong wind current. She uses Clinton Lake, near Lawrence, water made from a dam.

*Outside Grand Central this morning I found a moleskine notebook splayed on the ground near a rusted trash can. It looked ole and weathered, and, noticing nobody nearby who seemed to be searching, and with time to spare before work, I picked it up and began reading. It was three-quarters full with journal entries by a nameless male someone. I carried it to the Tudor City, found a park bench, and began to read.

The first few pages detailed the minutiae of the man's life- mild complaints about money and women- without delving too far into specifics. The jottings belonged to a sane, somewhat pedantic, typical human, full of self-interest and immersion in his sphere. Uninteresting, for the most part, and I almost returned it to its nook before noticing an entry longer than the others.

It contained a breathless account of how the man encountered a God on 42nd street one morning, near Grand Central, and how it swooped down from a light pole where it had been hunched, waiting. The God was Coyote, of the southwest Indian tribes, a lithe, virile creature who approached with a smile. He wrote in hurried prose that it surprised him to learn the Native Americans were right, among all mythologies and belief systems, if Coyote was being honest moments later when he claimed himself as the one true creator of Earth.

After brief discussion (during which time the passerby floated east and west as if in a dream, unaware of the God and man paused in their midst) Coyote told the man he could be granted one wish. While I read, the maddening question of why the author had been chosen above all others lingered like an itch, but went unanswered, unscratched. He never even seemed to wonder himself.

Without thinking, the man made his wish, for he'd been dreaming it a long time: that for 365 days, ever year, in every corner of the world, each day would ensue with the same exact weather. No changing of seasons; just cool mornings, sunny afternoons reaching eighty degrees, and balmy, breezy evenings, with overnight temperatures never dipping below 55 fahrenheit. Coyote honored the wish and disappeared.

Time went on, and though the climate change was initially viewed as a fun anomaly, in almost no time the awful consequences became apparent. Without seasonal patterns, the agricultural economy collapsed, food shortages spread worldwide, famine ensued, the ice caps began to melt, disease spread with flooding, massive starvation killed millions, warfare erupted in all corners of the globe, and the man with the journal fell into a deep depression. He knew he had to atone, somehow, but could think of no other way than setting off on a journey, searching for Coyote, begging for a reversal.

So he went, and it was days of wandering through ravaged land, always going north, surviving at long odds by sheer, strange luck, before he found himself in a small clearing amid a pine forest, and there Coyote alit from the boughs of a tall tree and met him again. The man begged for a restoration in time to stave off the world's apocalyptic meltdown. Coyote smiled and told him he'd do better, that he'd be willing to reverse time to the day of their first meeting, and have life go on as before, as though there'd been no interruption.

The man thanked him and cried, rejoicing in shouts, carrying on, jubilant, until he noticed Coyote's mocking stillness and understood that the saving grace came with conditions. He waited. Coyote spoke. One must be a martyr for his mistake, a lost saint for the cause. Despairing, the man sunk to his knees. Coyote's grin disappeared, and he stared in the man's eyes and showed him in flickering gray images the extent of the suffering he'd wrought. The man accepted.

"Can I have one more day? To stay in the forest and say goodbye?" he asked.

Coyote laughed. "No."

The last entry of the journal was written in the morning, as he rode the train to work. Time had been restored, and the man knew something would happen to him when he emerged, when his steps fell upon the same spot where the God had first been met. His writing didn't betray as much fear as I expected, but then again it was only writing, and probably couldn't reflect his true state of mind.

I decided not to keep the notebook, but throwing it out seemed uselessly destructive, and so I buried it beneath a pile of mulch in the Tudor Gardens. Whether it's found again, and what the new holder might choose to do with the knowledge...I leave all that to chance.

*Sylvia Plath - all I can think about.

Laugh it up

2008-05-16T10:19:00.000-07:00

Poems from crazy people with bad pasts, Installment 1:

MOTHER WAS A PEPSI PERSON
FATHER LIKED HIS                 COKE
                
                MOTHER LIKED TO HUG HER BABY
FATHER LIKED TO                        CHOKE





MOTHER PRAYED FOR QUIET NIGHTS
WHILE FATHER SPENT HER DOLLARS



              INSECTS SEEK THE PORCH'S
                                 LIGHT

WHILE
    HUMANS
         SEEK
             A
              COLLAR

Brian

2008-05-14T06:09:00.000-07:00

I met Brian one week ago today at the Wisteria Pergola in Central Park, close to dusk. Under the trellis, I inhaled the odor of the drooping racemes and tried to put a name on the memory it roused. The exercise veered between light curiosity and impending panic; was it a chance incident in youth, superfluous and easily forgotten, or something more crucial that fate had stirred from obscurity, needed to complete the shifting puzzle? But the harder I try to unearth an insistent memory, over-saturating in the clues, flailing in the muddy water, the more resistent it becomes, annealing, only to step from the shadows much later in the off moment of revelation.

As the nebulous past stayed on the periphery, shrouded, Brian emerged in a thin, orange jacket, faded blue jeans, and heavy black boots. His shaggy, almost curly gray hair hung to his shoulders, and a light fuzz of the same color covered his face. "That's wisteria?"

"Yeah. I'm trying to figure out what the smell reminds me of."

He let gravity take his legs pitter-patter down the slight slope, and pulled up with his hands on his hips, his eyes on the pendulous flowers. Shorter than me, he had yellowish teeth and a shrewd expression. "Pretty," he said.

"You don't happen to know what that tree is, do you?" I asked, pointing ten yards to the west where a short, spreading, gnarled tree grew wild on a fenced hill, its muscled branches moving oddly downward as they twisted at random, acute angles.

"No idea," he said, squinting his eyes. "Where you from?"

"Upstate New York."

"Where upstate?"

"You ever heard of Lake Placid?"

"I've been to Lake Placid."

"Yeah? I'm from a town ten minutes away."

"Saranac?"

"Saranac Lake, yeah."

"Calm up there."

"Yeah, it's beautiful."

"I wouldn't call it beautiful. Just serene."

"What were you doing up there?"

Brian had been in the north country to paint flag poles. In the 70s, with no money and no prospects, he'd answered a newspaper ad advertising dangerous work. Since then he'd been all over the country, attached by harness to the long, silver projections, freshening them with a new coat, burnishing America's chipped, flaking image. It wasn't great money, he said, but it allowed him to travel. He'd grown up in the city.

"You miss it up there?" he asked.

"Not too much. It's nice to go back, but boring if you stay."

"The city's great," he said. "Didn't used to be safe around here." He pointed to a black bicycle a few feet away, apparently his. "Used to have to carry a snub-nose .32."

"Why?"

He leaned in close, confidential. "Niggers," he said, nodding once. He said that the poor white population, all the ones who would fight back, had left by the mid-70s, leaving only middle-class people who wouldn't stick up for themselves. They were terrorized by homeless or drugged-up blacks, which is why he needed the pistol. I asked if he'd ever had to use it. "Took it out once or twice, never fired." He went on to tell me the country was screwed if Obama got elected president, because blacks had huge egos.

I steered the conversation to his travels. He'd been to every state but Alaska and Hawaii. He asked about my goals in the city, and I told him about writing. He said there was no money in short stories anymore because all but a few of the literary magazines had gone out of business, and that I should take a Wall Street job for the security. "Or even write for all these advertisers," he said, gesturing at the high-rises to the west. "At least you're still in the practice of writing. Neil Simon did that shit for years before he became a playwright." I told him he was probably on the mark, and I'd think about it.

"You married?" he asked next. I said no. "Find a virgin," he advised. "These girls, out there... they've had twenty dicks, you think they're going to be satisfied with just yours?"

"Virgins are hard to find these days," I said.

"No they aren't. Just go steal one from the churches."

Brian had a hacking cough, and when we finally introduced ourselves by name, his hand was clammy with sweat or fever. I told him I had to get going, and my right palm burned with the compulsive need to be washed.

"Before you take off," he said, "let me give you my poem for New York." He cleared his throat and looked away, watching the foot traffic by the marble fountain. I don't remember most of the poem, but it was fast, descriptive, rhyming verse, enumerating New York's various landmarks and extolling its rough-and-tumble qualities. Near the end, he referenced the city's eight million children, of all colors, from all places, who "all answer to the same name..." Before the reveal, he paused dramatically, coughed again, and trotted out his best New Yorker bark: "Eh!"

I didn't believe he wrote the poem himself, but searches since haven't produced anything, so it's possible. At the time, I laughed at the punch line, obligated and somewhat appreciative of the effort, and waited until I'd hit 71st and Central Park West before cleaning up.

What?

2008-05-13T05:55:00.000-07:00

This morning on the subway, a small, tow-headed boy ran on at Montrose Avenue and took the seat next to mine. He leaned his Justice League backpack into my side, oblivious to the adult constraints on human proximity. His mother followed, carrying another, smaller child on her back- a blond little girl, maybe two years old, sticking out her lower lip and waving her tiny right hand in frantic circles.

The mother wore a short skirt and black stockings, and her straight brown hair looked unwashed. She was young, not over thirty-three, let's say, but had a slightly haggard morning face. Understandable, of course. She began telling her son about the longest train in the world, the Trans-Siberian Railroad. "It runs through Russia, all the way to Japan," she said. "No, not Japan....Korea."

The boy looked on, fascinated. "Does it take seventy days?"

"Probably not that many. Maybe ten or so," she said. "But it doesn't even stop at night."

That fact delighted the boy, who reached into his school backpack and took out a catalogue of Star Wars toys. I noticed then that he wore reddish pajama pants decorated with smudged strawberries and raspberries. Although I admired the mother, on first impression, for her liberal bearing and good humor amid the difficult undertaking, I couldn't forgive this transgression on her son's burgeoning social life. The little girl, now on her mother's lap, said "ba ba ba ba."

"How delightful!" said the mother, using a haughty movie voice. Her son, engrossed in the tiny pictures of Darth Vader and other heroes, ignored both. "Now I sound like Katherine Hepburn," the mother said to no one. I turned and gave a sympathetic smile, even though I don't think I've ever seen a Katherine Hepburn movie.

When the boy closed the catalogue, I tried to glance at the name on the address label, wondering if I could google the mother and read all about her life on a personal website. Her name was Judith, and the last name started with a V, but I couldn't get a clear look at the rest. I lost interest anyway. I put on headphones and tuned out. A few minutes later, the boy crooked his foot behind my leg, and I felt the intense discomfort that comes when a social taboo is on the verge of being violated. I ahem'ed with mild vigor, and the attractive girl standing in front of me laughed at the spectacle, but the mother or son didn't notice.

The decision to stop caring was easily made, and the regions of the brain dealing with matters analogous led me to the memory of how I sought physical contact with my father. It usually took the form of violence- the male comfort zone- crawling like a cat or super-spy along the top of the couch while dad watched the news. I'd poise above with a delirious grin, trying to contain my bursting giggles, dad unsuspecting or pretending at it when my springy weight fell straight down, landing on his wide shoulders to hang like a pet monkey, writhing in ecstatic laughter. My younger brothers all did the same.

It occurred to me that a certain willful ignorance about the lives of others isn't necessarily as arrogant as I once thought. I'd put pressure on myself to notice everything, take a piece of life from everyone. But it's not always meant to be. On the 4-train uptown, an older, round-faced woman with permed hair of the 80s variety, wearing a mid-length pleated black skirt with no stockings- a fact that awkwardly highlighted her bright, white skin and bruised kneecaps- leaned forward with an absent-minded expression that could be misinterpreted as dumb smugness.

Whoever she was, I didn't care, and couldn't. But there isn't anything to feel guilty about- she doesn't care about me either. Each spider's web can only catch so many flies. Others are meant to hit the sides, ricochet outward, breathe a sigh of relief at the close call, and be on their way. And still others are meant to soar miles above or below, unaware of your little web, bound for their own.

Another example: the RDS delivery man, a sullen, heavy, pasty-white man with a face like a fat, cynical child. He comes in every morning in his hunter-green uniform, bearing the packages in both arms like a miserable burden, and turns to give me an exasperated sigh. The short hairs on his head move slightly with the hallway's compressed air current, and he sulks off to the main entrance. "Fuck you," I mouth at him after he's turned away. Next door, I can hear him transferring the packages and asking for a signature. "You know the drill," he mumbles in his low, disaffected moan.

This man probably has a story. He may be an expert on model trains, or maybe he's a champion paintball player. But unless he goes crazy one morning and guns me down where I sit, our paths will only make this daily, superficial crossing.

The Wee'uns

2008-05-12T06:18:00.000-07:00

I don't know who Petrova Elementary School was named for. It's one of the most common Russian surnames, and Saranac Lake must have had a doctor or other wealthy person in residence and willing to endow when the school was constructed in 1924. For a school, it's fairly typical; red brick exterior, wide, bright hallways, high windows in the classrooms, and filthy gum-stained carpet everywhere. I attended Petrova until third grade, when my mother thought I needed a stiffer academic challenge and enrolled me in St. Bernard's Catholic School, where I learned how to fist-fight.

At Petrova I learned how to swear. Down a hill past the cafeteria wing, huge athletic greens, including the high school's baseball and football fields, stretched along LaPan Highway. When I played modified football in seventh and eighth grade, a handicapped student named Matt sat in a wheelchair near the highway, with his aide at his back, watching us stretch. Our coach had us yell "Hi, Matt!" in unison at the beginning of every practice.

These fields are where we had recess for an hour every day. They'd make us sit patiently in the cafeteria until our time was up, and then, though it sounds cliche, we'd charge out the doors, screaming, run or fall down the hill, and burst onto the fields. The girls stayed on the tarmac or on the sandy playground, where they talked in groups or jump-roped or drew hopscotch with chalk. On the fields, there were early minutes of frenzy and chaos before the athletes among us organized into sides for that day's game. In the fall and winter, tackle football was the sport of choice, and aside from brief spring forays into kickball and softball, it ruled year-round. A soccer game also went on concurrently, and a mild rivalry sprung up between the two sides. Football players were "jocks," soccer players were "fags."

My best friend at the time was Pat Lacey, a chubby, ruddy boy with a megaphone voice. He marched around with his chest out, maintaining order and barking at digressors. He spent a lot of time at my house, and one day after school when I felt terrible about everyone saying I had a big head, he consoled me. "I know what it's like," he said. "Everyone calls me Fat Pat."

Along with being one of the best athletes in our grade, Pat was world-class at swearing. "Dave, what the fuck?!" he'd yell at someone who'd dropped a pass or thrown an interception, with special red-faced fury booming out on the last syllable. The word was usually accompanied by an incredulous expression, both hands raised in exasperation. "Fuck you," came the timid response, and Pat would only shake his thick head. Most of us on the field would copy the way Pat swore, with varying levels of success. The exception were the kids from Bloomingdale, the rough-around-the-edges outskirt of our town, where swearing was learned from birth and done with a hard stare, slowly, brimming with violence. They cursed for something other than fun. The rest of us just loved the way it sounded, the brief image of toughness we felt, especially after spitting out "fuck," a word so harsh and beautiful it seemed to sum up a thousand emotions and contain as many meanings.

I resisted at first, because my mom taught me not to swear and I felt guilty. But it didn't take long to succumb to the appeal, and I remember the thrill at my first tentative foray. I was playing quarterback and threw an out-pattern to Pat, who looked upfield too early and dropped the ball. He stopped on the spot, grimaced and looked at his hands. As he ran back to the offensive side, I summoned all my courage, stared him down, and said "what was that shit?" It came out awkwardly, with the beginning swearer's over-emphasis and timidity.

"Fuck you," he said, and shoved me. "I'm quarterback." Pat moved after fifth grade. His mother had family in Maine, and finally got enough money to get a place near them. They lived on an island with no electricity, and I didn't stay in touch with Pat for very long. The next and last time I saw him was at a varsity football game my freshman year. A group of us in the bleachers noticed him leaning against the rope at the sideline. He looked mostly the same, a little thinner, but with the same ruddy complexion and trademark scowl. "That's Pat Lacey," someone said. I didn't know what I could say to him, forgetting that it could be anything, so I stayed glued to the seat. Pat stood hunched on the sideline, hat pulled low, enduring his lonely homecoming. All of us knew him, but nobody said hello.

But under his tutelage, swearing became second nature, something I could do efficiently and selectively, never slipping in front of a parent or authority figure. By fourth grade, I was a prodigy. When my mother put me in St. Bernard's, my friend Johnny and I fancied ourselves the toughest guys in school. I had a swagger in my step that beat anything I could have gotten away with at Petrova, where the Bloomingdale kids would have wasted little time burying me for that kind of attitude. But St. Bernard's was home to a lighter breed of person, and we ruled the roost for more than a year, starting and winning fistfights at will.

That all ended in fifth grade. On a warm day in March, we were playing Pickle on the tarmac, and I accidentally knocked Joe Nickastrini's glasses off his face when I swipe tagged him. A massive, strong, quiet Italian kid, Joe was know more for his humor than anything else, and as his glasses hit the ground, I said "you're out." Joe exploded. "Don't touch my glasses!" he shouted in his deep bass, face quivering with rage. He punched me unexpectedly on the mouth, and I fell to the ground as he charged, trying to cover myself up while he kicked with his tree-trunk legs. I saw blood on my hand and panicked, rolled away, and yelled "help!" Johnny came and tried to stop Joe's progress, but he got tossed aside for his trouble, and it took two aides to restrain the fuming Italian. After that, my reputation as a tough-guy was tarnished, and I decided fighting wasn't my style.

In sixth grade, I was back at Petrova for Middle School, and back to playing football. One lunch hour, a scrawny, quiet, spectacled kid named Ronald Rykker said he wanted to play. Everyone's instinct was to say no, and the word "nerd" was thrown around, but I was feeling like a samaritan and vouched for him. On our first drive, he stood open in the endzone and I threw him the ball. By a miracle, he caught it and held on, and our whole team erupted at the surprising success. I remember the glow on his face, and his strange words: "I'm gonna do it again!" And he did, near the end of recess, setting off a flurry of celebration and infuriating the other team. I felt high on myself after that, but Ronald didn't play with us again.

Later that year, Ronald somehow burnt his face on a waffle iron. I gave him the nickname "paper," because he was thin, white, and had lines. It stuck.

I'm back

2008-05-02T06:01:00.000-07:00

Tonight. Chance of rain. Mariners in town. Wang dealing, Yankees needing a win.

I'm going to the Stadium hip hip hooray.

Tomorrow. Chance of rain. Berko in town. Me straight banging from 3, people ready for hoops.

I'm going to the Prospect Courts hip hip hooray.

Sunday. Chance of rain. Cherry trees in bloom. Two kids jonesin' for some tree-spottin'.

I'm going to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens for a Tree-Walk hip hip hoorah.

What a few days.

Whiteface

2008-04-23T11:14:00.000-07:00

In 1932 and 1980, Lake Placid, New York played host to the Winter Olympics. The "Miracle on Ice," America's hockey victory against the Russians, remains the most memorable triumph of those two fortnights, but Whiteface Mountain, home of 1980's Alpine Skiing events, shouldn't be forgotten.

Nor should the resort bearing its name, The Whiteface Club, on whose golf course I worked as part of the maintenance crew for three summers in high school. My stepfather belonged to the club and golfed every summer morning, struggling to break 80. Through some pathway of tenuous connections, he managed to secure me a job under Ron, the crew supervisor.

As the youngest member of the maintenance staff, at 16, I was legally (and intrinsically) unfit to drive the various mowing machines. This left me the responsibility of tending to all the grass they couldn't reach. With a push-mower, I would struggle up the small hillocks on the sides of greens, tees, and bunkers, averting my face to avoid the spray of rocks shooting from the blades, and keeping an eye out for golfers, a species notoriously intolerant of noise distraction. My partner, Corey, the boss' son and one of the town's star athletes, was an easygoing 18-year old who had a habit of chasing squirrels in our Workman (a miniature pick-up truck with only 4 gears and no cover on the cab) and showing up to work hung over.

Corey had the bearing and accent of a local, but he was intelligent in the cynical, almost cruel way of someone who exceeds their surroundings but will never leave. We sped along the course, my hands braced against the metal dash, Corey hunched over the wheel, seemingly asleep, from hole to hole. The course stretched out in long, difficult sprawls of green hilly terrain, tainted by brown splotches of dying grass, carved amid a forest of pine, oak, and maple. When we needed a break, Corey drove through the woods on unmarked paths, searching for small glades where we'd rest. He already had a hacking cough from smoking, and he'd often seek these sanctuaries in order to vomit what remained of last night's alcohol. His retches mixed with birdsong and the crackle of dead leaves, a strange cacophony in the shafts of sunlight penetrating the tree cover.

Corey, a pitcher, could throw a stone with uncanny accuracy. The majority of his targets were birds. He never threw hard- just enough to scare it from its branch. Once, spotting a blue jay high up in the branches, he bet me I couldn't make it fly away with one throw. Normally I didn't like to bother the birds. I remembered once, as a child at my grandmother's yard, shooting at a red plastic cup with a cheap slingshot I'd bought at a county fair. At a distance of fifteen feet, I hit the cup one out of ten times if I was lucky. Later, on her porch, I spotted a bird sitting on an electric wire forty yards away. I loaded the slingshot with my last stone, and sent it arcing without taking close aim. It described a perfect parabola and hit the target in a flutter of wings. The bird flapped and propelled itself in obscene, crippled motions, and gravity took it downward in a spiral. It hit the ground and died. For a week, guilt lingered.

But this time, I couldn't resist the challenge and a flash of ingenuity. I took the bet and filled my hand with as many stones as I could hold. Proud of my clever strategy, I pegged them to the heights. One of the scattering rocks hit the jay, and it crashed to a lower branch and then to our feet, close enough for us to spot the crimson spot on its breast. The bird limped away and crawled up a tree. Corey shook his head. "Better finish what you started." Watching the bird, I looked for signs that the wound was temporary. But it couldn't fly, and only struggled to hop from branch to branch. Though it was pure mockery on his part, I realized Corey was right. I chased the bird through the woods, attempting to put it out of its misery and spare a slow death.

Unfortunately, the bird climbed higher and made itself a difficult target. Only by the pure, glaring blue could I track its progress. It took a half hour and several ineffectual hits, along with severe terror on the bird's part, before I gave up the pursuit. In the Workman, Corey waxed philosophical. "It'll die eventually," he said. I braced myself against the dash and didn't say anything.

The second summer at Whiteface there was a severe drought in upstate New York. I spent three months wearing a rubber rain coat, standing on greens, spraying them down with a hose. When golfers came by, I'd stand politely to the side, a yellow oddity in the oppressive heat. At the end of the day, my wrist and thumb ached from holding the nozzle, and my hands were swollen and pruny from the water. After a few weeks, I began securing the nozzle with wire, which spared some pain. But despite the constant attentions of the maintenance staff, the greens died slowly over July and August.

Austin, the oldest member of the crew, was deaf. He drank all day from a filthy coke bottle, and responded to every query with a loud "EH?" He wore a faded blue painter's cap and odd, pink slacks- some combination of pajamas and windpants. The other crew members accused him of selective hearing, as his deafness would worsen when he was asked for a favor. At lunch breaks, sitting in the large, oil-stained shed, he bore the brunt of the aggressive humor circulating through the room. At every insult, I'd watch his face as he sat next to the boss in cheap blue folding chair, and it was impossible to tell among his twitches and silence if he could hear at all.

Mark had a red drinker's face and a burly, thick body. The constant snarl on his face reflected the unabating meanness of his character. He picked me as his target early, accusing me of slacking, arrogance, and a variety of other offenses. Twenty years his junior, I ignored him in a manner which was no doubt interpreted as further arrogance. It came to a head one day as we shoveled stones into the Workman, preparing to fill in parts of the cart paths that had been washed away in the previous night's rain. "Hey," he said, turning to me with sweat pouring down his forehead. "Can you pick up the fucking pace?" I told him to go fuck himself. He raised the shovel and threatened me. Corey, nearby, ran over. He got in Mark's face. "He's just a kid!" he yelled. "He's just a fucking kid." Although Corey was only two years older, I realized, watching the respect he commanded and the weary drop of his shoulders after the confrontation, that he was right.

Later, parked in the woods, feeling young and weak, I told him he didn't have to step in for me, that I could have handled it myself. Instead of responding, he talked about Mark. "A few years ago, he went to his dad's place after work. The old man was dead in his recliner, blood on his shirt, shotgun on the floor." He lit up a cigarette. "Mark's been different since." Then he turned the key, the engine sputtered to life, and we drove off.

My last summer at Whiteface, I worked with Jason. I'd turned eighteen over the winter, and he was fifteen. Jason hated his stepfather and wanted to race cars. He had dark hair and an impish smile, and wore a large Yankees hat pulled low. His arms were scrawny and long. As a partner he didn't compare to Corey, because he was scared of being fired and forced me to work harder, but I liked him anyway. One afternoon, we devised a brilliant plan to get back at a lone golfer who'd screamed at us for starting the Workman when he teed off on the third hole.

The sixth hole at Whiteface is a long, dogleg left par 5. After the first shot- downhill, around the trees, into a gulley- you're faced with an uphill second and third. The green rests on a slight downslope past the top of the hill, and is therefore invisible from below. In order to access the putting surface, carts have to travel a curved path through the woods, during which journey the course is obscured from view by thick pines.

When the angry golfer hit his third shot, I watched the ball land on the green, thirty feet from the hole. I couldn't see him below, but Jason signalled with a loud burst of the Workman's horn when he was safely on the cart path. I raced onto the green, pocketed the ball, and sprinted back into the forest with plenty of time to spare. Slipping through the trees, I ran until I came to the road. Jason drove back to the sixth tee, to avoid overtaking the golfer and arousing suspicion, and from there to the road, where he picked me up. We sped to the seventh tee and waited, pretending to fill our mowers from the pink gas containers. When the golfer emerged from the woods above the sixth green, still puzzled, he paused and scrawled an illegitimate number in his scorecard.

The next day, we repeated the act with a slight variation. Watching a foursome's iron shots land in various positions around the green, I hunched in the woods and awaited the Workman's horn. This time, instead of stealing the ball, I placed one of the Titleists directly in the hole. Again, we waited for the golfers to emerge, and when they did, one wore a dazed smile. His friends shook their heads. A couple days later, we put two balls from a single foursome in the hole, and the following day, brimming with confidence, we put three in the hole and stole the fourth. This last maneuver aroused suspicion, and a general warning came down from the Club Pro that anyone caught tampering with golf balls would be immediately fired.

Some time in June, word got around that I would be attending Duke in the fall, a secret I'd vigorously tried to guard. Small-town resentment flared, as I knew it would, and my isolation was complete. I spent lunchtimes reading by myself, and attempting to catch a frequent chipmunk (named Chippy by the staff) beneath a trash can. I devised a trap consisting of peanut butter, crackers, a rake, and thin rope, and secured his trust over three weeks. When I finally nabbed him, I earned the very brief admiration of my fellow workers for the first and only time. I let Chippy go, and watched with envy as he dashed over the shed's concrete floor.

In late July, I discovered that Jason, in his first year, out-earned me by three dollars per hour. I attempted to rectify the situation, and was told by the big boss that Jason worked harder and deserved the pay. In fact, because he lacked the strength to push the heavy mowers up the steep hills, I had to do all the difficult jobs and exert twice the effort. But instead of arguing, I quit and became a dishwasher and prep cook at a restaurant called Tail O' The Pup.

Bushwick Basketball, Installment 2

2008-04-22T06:52:00.000-07:00

Went to courts at 5:30, weather satisfactory, nobody around. Only handball courts full.

Small Hispanic kid and his sister/girlfriend followed me to court. Shot with me for twenty minutes. I asked their names but now forget. We played one on one. He won 5-4 on my generosity.

They left and for an hour nobody came. Shot hoops in waning sun.

Came home, could not watch game 7 of Bruins-Canadiens. Do not get the Versus channel. Very upsetting.

Improv show tonight. Expect it to reflect class.

Stuck in L train for 40 minutes this morning. Saw person with tattoo of person on neck. Asked who it was. Name forgotten. Buckminster Phillet? Something like that. Person had other tattoos, wore rasta hat, red marijuana eyes.

Four rednecks are fishing. One of them, called Jones, dies of a heart attack. The other three rednecks consider.

"Well Elijah," says one redneck to another, "you oughter be the one to tell the widow Jones. You're the one's good with words."

"I ain't even know the widow Jones," says Elijah.

"Even so," says the other, "he's right. You're keen of speech."

"Alright," says Elijah with a sigh.

Elijah goes alone to Jones' house. He rings the doorbell. A woman answers.

Elijah clears his throat. "You the widow Jones?"

"My name's Jones," says the woman, "but I'm no widow."

"The fuck you ain't."

Teadora

2008-04-21T07:17:00.000-07:00

When college ended, I left my girlfriend and North Carolina and drove back to Saratoga. I had vague goals, no plans, and no money, so my aunt got me a job as a janitor at Skidmore College.

Living at home was tolerable as long as I had work. The job could have been worse. I wore dirty khakis and a forest-green t-shirt with a breast pocket and "Skidmore University" written in white. Richard the boss was a bear, gray and bearded, who told me he didn't take any shit. Really, he just wanted to be left alone.

I worked with a group of Bulgarians who were in the US on a 6-month work visa. They were all my age, easygoing and happy, and made the job bearable. Nikki was shy and quick to blush. He often asked if he and his buddies were too different from Americans to be accepted, and I had to reassure him that I liked him. He talked about his girlfirend, who worked in Indiana. During breaks, he'd argue with her on his cell, exasperated in plaintive Bulgarian at whatever she was saying. Later in the summer he saved enough and took a bus to go live with her.

Mitko was dark-haired and built like a bull. He was probably my favorite. When we worked together, we talked politics. At first he was hesitant, afraid that I'd report his ideas to the government and jeopardize his work visa. He hated George Bush and could name every world capital. He knew more history than me, which is rare enough. He also had the best English of the group.

Stefan was tall and good-looking, and had little trouble seducing American girls. Mitko told me he came from wealth and only came to America for the experience, not the money. He had the quiet confidence, verging on arrogance, that comes with the territory. Midway through the summer, he broke his ankle and spent the rest of his time half-depressed in their dark apartment. Last was Roni, a very effeminate aspiring stylist with a large, coy smile who dyed his hair whitish-purple and dreamed of opening a salon in Miami. He was caught sleeping on the job three times, but never fired.

There were also two Macedonians. Dejan was in love with electronics and techno music. He somehow managed to buy a $500 cell phone and a Powerbook laptop while working at Skimdore, despite being as poor as the others, and by the time I left he was looking at used cars. He told me he would stay in America when his visa expired, and if I had to bet, I'd guess he's still here. Oritze was a small, thick, toadish character who spoke virtually no English. He understood enough to laugh with everyone else, and drank a lot of vodka at night.

All of them lived together, two to a room, in a small apartment in the poor section of Saratoga. Their Japanese landlady charged them too much, but got away with it because they depended on her to stay in the country. After working eight hours in the heat at Skidmore, all except Stefan went to a second job, either at Wendy's or a variety of local hotels, where they worked a second eight-hour shift. Six days a week, they worked for sixteen-hours. They smoked like chimneys. When they decided that cigarettes in America were too expensive, they bought rolling papers and tobacco and made their own. They taught me to roll one from scratch. Eventually, Dejan bought a small mechanical rolling device.

Two other Americans were on our gang. Dan was a sometimes-prissy, squat person who had just graduated high school. He liked slam poetry, and spent breaks reading Star Wars novels. He opened up toward the end, but nobody liked him when we started. Chris was my cousin's friend, two years younger, a college lacrosse player. He was the best to work with. When we felt energetic, we'd try to beat old bed-making records in a multi-room sprint. When we didn't, we took turns standing guard in one of the vacant cottages while the other slept. Later, at a party in the Bulgarian apartment, he and my cousin taught me how to smoke marijuana from an apple.

Last in the youth department was Freddy, a student from Nepal. He was small, thin, and wiry. He wore tiny glasses and giggled a lot. Much later in the summer, I spent a night in Freddy's empty apartment, without a blanket, after my mom kicked me out of the house. He didn't seem happy at the intrusion.

Shirley rounded out our squad. Obese, in her sixties, and once retired, she was a lifelong upstate New Yorker. She considered herself second in command to Richard, although she wasn't above us by title. She never did actual work, instead traveling by golf cart to try to catch the rest of us sleeping or slacking. If she succeeded, she'd go tell Richard and try to get us fired, and he'd shoo her away, wanting to be left alone. She often used the word "Youse," the upsate redneck version of "Y'all." As in, "Youse two better get going!" She only worked at Skidmore to save money for occasional trips to Atlantic City, where she and her husband played the slot machines. Each morning, she greeted us with instructions about which equipment to take from the storage room. "Getcher mop, getcher spray, getcher bucket..." The use of the possessive was particularly insulting, as none of the equipment was assigned to us. It made the job seem more integral to our beings than we would have liked to imagine. All ten of us despised Shirley, and mocked her whenever possible.

The work at Skidmore wasn't the best. Our official title was "Environmental Technician," "E-tech" for short. We made fun of that name a good amount. The days consisted of going around to vacated houses and dorms and cleaning up after the students. As someone who had left my college apartment in a disaster state, it seemed a fitting punishment to wipe up old vomit and chip away at soap scum for most of the day.

Nevertheless, the surroundings were beautiful. Skidmore is a private school with a healthy endowment, and the campus has the meticulous landscaped greenery you'd expect. Walking through the quads and among the brick buildings, and imagining grad school and a future beyond E-Teching, I wasn't unhappy. I spent nights writing and planning weekend trips to see friends and go to concerts. But the future, and what I might do with my life, loomed in the near distance.

Halfway through the summer, a new Bulgarian joined the team. Her name was Teadora, and she was 23. She was rail-thin with curly, dirty-blond hair. She had a quick, cute smile and a pretty face, but she also had the Eastern European trait of appearing thirty years older in the wrong light. Adding to this sense of seniority was her no-nonsense, competent manner. She moved into the Bulgarian apartment and immediately set things in order without being oppressive. Everyone liked Teadora. I spoke with her sometimes, but her English wasn't great and the language barrier came between us. She did, however, strike up a close, intimiate friendship with Freddy the Nepalese.

The summer limped on. I spoke with my girlfriend on the phone most nights, and because we ran out of things to say and got bored with each other, we invented things to fight about. I spent half my time considering a break-up, and the other half planning to move back and live with her in North Carolina. Relationships with my mom and stepfather were strained. I wanted to be completely by myself after work, and inevitably our paths crossed in ways that aggravated the tension. All the while, a nagging sense that I should be doing more curbed the pleasures I could find in that life.

One weekend night, we went to a party at the Bulgarian apartment. I drank too much vodka, and eventually everyone left but me and the flatmates. I went out to their balcony and looked down at the souped-up rusted cars glinting under the street lamps, and vomited onto the deck. Mitko came out to see if I was okay, and I said I was fine, and then vomited some more. He left me alone, and I rolled away from the puke and lay on the balcony, staring at the stars. Finally a group of them came out and to make sure I was alive, and as they looked down I shouted "oh no, Bulgarians! Bulgarians!!" They brought me to the couch to sleep. In the morning I cleaned their balcony with buckets of water.

**

Six weeks into my stint as an E-Tech, I applied for and received an unpaid job making a documentary film for a environmental group in Asheville, North Carolina. I told Richard, who was happy for me, and gave my week's notice.

The final five days were beautiful. I was thrilled at the prospect of seeing my girlfriend again, leaving home, making a film, and ending my janitor career. That excitement mixed with the nostalgia of having to leave the Bulgarians and Chris. Everything felt buoyed with new energy and simultaneously tinged with sadness.

A couple days before I left, Richard paired me with Teadora. It was a brilliant sunny afternoon and the campus looked better than ever. The maintenance staff had recently planted flowers everywhere in preparation for the beginning of the second summer session, when parents would be around to see the state of things. Teadora and I were assigned to wash windows.

In the Skidmore dorms, each room has a giant, cushioned window seat. I'd slept in these surprisingly comfortable nooks during college, when I came home on break and visited Skidmore acquaintances. Once, when one of my high school friends was staying for a few days after summer sessions, she and her friend were the last hold-outs, remaining in their room in an otherwise empty dorm. The friend and I hooked up the first night we met, and I spent the night in their window seat. A week later, seeing her again, we didn't get drunk and I was too timid to make a move. I drove home, knowing she was leaving for Boston the next day. After berating myself for two hours and failing to fall asleep, I got dressed and drove back. I managed to get into the dorm, and found their room unlocked. The trick, though, was getting to my girl without waking up my old friend. After making sure their door wasn't locked, I stayed petrified in the bright hall for a good twenty minutes.

Finally I went in. I expected either of them to wake up and start screaming at any minute, but my stealth served me. I crept past my friend, who snored lightly, and found my girl on her side. Then I considered exactly what I was doing, and became petrified again. I paused in the dark and watched them sleep for another five minutes. I considered leaving. Finally, I steeled my nerve and shook her gently. Somehow, she didn't die of terror, and we walked to the hall. My friend never woke. We talked for a while, and she told me she was glad I came. The dorm was full of empty rooms and we found one.

I remembered her while we cleaned. The girl's dad died of cancer later that summer, and though we stayed in touch for a while, I didn't see her again until very recently. By then everything had changed and we had little to say. But her memory returned while Teadora and I washed the windows together, kneeling on the cushions, looking out at the buzzing campus.

We washed with small rags, water buckets, and blue windex spray. She was much more conscientious, wiping each streak and stain before we moved on, and chiding me lightly for my apathy. At each successive window, we knelt closer together. It was hard to understand if she was flirting, but when I glanced at her sideways, she'd flash that quick smile. Our hands touched on the windows, wet and fast, before moving on in their circular scrubbing. In the harsh light, she looked good, and the world-weary part of her was undetectable. I felt very happy.

In our next room, I closed the door to see how she'd react. Again, she smiled. We knelt again and began washing, and pine trees rose outside. We opened the window slightly, and you could smell the needles with the incoming air. A drop of water ran down her hand and traced a wet path on her arm. I stopped it at her elbow. When she smiled again, I felt the warm breeze and smelled pine and touched her hair and wasn't thinking of anything but my complete elation when I asked if I could kiss her.

Her shocked expression soon recovered into an impassive mask. Her features hardened and her youth disappeared. "Why?" she asked, and turned away. I didn't bother to answer. Adding to the embarrassment of the rejection, I remembered my girlfriend and felt pathetic and disloyal. I stepped down from the cushion and wrung the towel into the bucket. My hands were wrinkled from the water.

We washed in separate rooms the rest of the day, an unspoken agreement, and aside from a quick goodbye and an awkward hug at the end of the week, I never spoke with her again.

On my last day, I worked with Dan the American. Chris and I had finally got him to lighten up in the final two weeks, and the two of us had a good time patrolling the dorms and not doing any real work. My girlfriend was very excited to see me, and I felt the same, so we spent a large part of the day talking on the phone.

At one point, Dan was standing guard while I talked in one of the rooms. I was lying on the bed, watching the ceiling, daydreaming to my girlfriend's voice, when the door flew open and Shirley charged in. She put both hands on her hips triumphantly. Behind, Dan had a worried look on his face and put both palms in the air, indicating he'd done all that he could, but had been taken by surprise.

Shirley wagged a fat finger at me. Her jowels shook. "I got you!" she hissed, the words pregnant with victory.

"Shirley," I said, "please go away. I'm on the phone."

She fumed, then left to go tell Richard, who only wanted to be left alone.

Bushwick Basketball: The Blog

2008-03-26T10:22:00.001-07:00

This blog is now about basketball in Bushwick. Specifically, the brand of Bushwick basketball played at Gilbert Ramirez Park on McKibben Street.

The court sits between a children's playground and a chain-link fence, shadowed by old warehouses in a neighborhood at the edge of gentrification. The playground features a mock-subway system complete with signs for the P Train, and on the other side of the fence Hispanic kids play handball against a massive cement wall. A sprawling junkyard stretches across the one-way street, and young plane trees are scattered inside the park. Project housing is about six blocks away, and Bed-Stuy isn't much further, but an organic grocery store is closer still, and signs in the large windows of converted lofts nearby advertise cheap studio space for artists. The west side of the park has a narrow community garden filled with weeds, wheelbarrows, planter's soil, and clay pots. A ten-foot wrought iron fence, black and spiked, encloses the whole space.

Today's feature: Player Profile.

NICK

Nick is a white male in his mid-to-late thirties. He lives in my building a block from the park, and I've played with him about five times to date. When I first met Nick, I was shooting for teams with a group of black and hispanic kids who played high school ball together and are now in their first year of college. Before Nick came through the gate, they spotted him jogging down from Bogart Street, dribbling his ball. Nick was wearing the same outfit he's worn every time I've seen him play since- a gray sweat suit and a white do-rag. "Ohhhh shit," said Nelson, one of the college kids. He pointed. "Here's our boy."

Nick is short and thin, and moves with a sort of spastic quickness. He has a perpetual five-o'clock shadow, and sullen eyes. His posture is somewhat hunched. When he jogged through the gate and onto the court, he looked up quickly and shouted, "yo, what's game?" Without stopping to listen, he took two hard dribbles toward the basket and pulled up abruptly. His jumpshot sailed well past the rim.

Nick plays point guard, and he's more or less competent while handling the ball. When he finds himself with an open lay-up, he usually propels the ball with far too much gusto, and rarely converts. His jumpshot is erratic, at best, and his technique is odd to behold. Jumping in the air and kicking his legs forward, he holds the ball at the top of his head for an illogically long time, releasing the shot only milliseconds before landing. This results in a shot that is completely without arc, and follows a flat path that typically ends with a hard collision against the front rim.

He often finds himself in arguments in the middle of a game, and is a favorite target of locals. That first day we played, he often referred to the ball as a "rock," and Lewis, a black kid who spends his time between points doing a wobbly-knee dance, kept saying he'd prefer to play with a ball. "Yeah bro," said Nick, "I'm really droppin' mad slang with 'rock.'"

On our way back to the building, after our team lost by a considerable margin, Nick told me he was a keyboard player. Kanye West had asked him to play on his latest album, and offered him millions, but Nick had to decline. He explained to me that he was in the process of trying to build his own empire, and playing with Kanye would put that dream in jeopardy. "It was a heart decision, you know, brother?"

When I played with Nick Monday, and he'd missed most of the shots he'd taken in the course of a game, he told me this was just the beginning. "It's only March," he said, "by the time August comes around you'll think Ray Allen's out here. Every shot drops."

Last weekend, I played four-on-four with a group of white guys who mostly live in the artist lofts on McKibben Street or in my building. When the guys playing are mostly white, the rules tend to change slightly. The biggest shift is that every ball has to be taken out past the three-point line after a change of possession, regardless of whether it hits the rim. When a newcomer joined the game and mistakenly shot a lay-up after a stolen pass without bringing it out, Nick said, "nah man, we're playing white boy rules."

"You're white, too, dude," said Laurence (or L.B.), a white, 6'6", late-twenties player with a decent post game and a great shot. "I hate to say it, but you're white."

"Yo, I ain't white, bro," Nick shot back. "I'm Arabic."

He caught up with me again for the walk home. "I hope y'all didn't take me wrong when I said 'white boy rules,'" he told me. "I ain't racist, bro. Your white's side your right side, right? Nah, I don't mean it like that, but you know what I'm saying."

"I get you," I said.

Nick and I found ourselves on the same team in a full-court, 5-on-5 game yesterday. We won 22-16.

Personal results, 3/26: Team won 22-16. Miserable shooting performance. Shoelace broke mid-game. Hit winning three-pointer- only made jump shot of the game. On the plus side, several beautiful passes.

2008-03-12T10:45:00.000-07:00

I put this up as a favor to a friend, so he could link the picture onto a messageboard. It is not because I'm creepy.

I'm an asshole who is trying to redeem himself

2008-03-06T08:48:00.001-08:00

Okay, so a few posts back I wrote that lengthy and sadly misguided piece about why I was supporting Hillary Clinton.

A couple days after, my viewpoint began to change, and today I sit at my desk completely in support of Obama, and terrified that he might not win the nomination, much less the general election. Luckily, the shift has come about in time to influence my hordes of Pennsylvania readers.

But how did it happen?

First, I have to admit that I didn't know all the facts when I pulled the blog-trigger for Hillary. I wasn't aware, for one, that Obama took absolutely no money from lobbies, while she took lots. This leads to a very simple and very obvious conclusion, which is that Obama is more deeply committed to labor and, if elected, will be less indebted to big business and their lobbies.

I call that an obvious conclusion because it's well-known that Bill Clinton has one of the worst labor track records of any democratic president in history, and of course his wife will have the same money connections and the same vested interests.

Jobs, wages, and the prevention of corporate abuse is, to me, the biggest issue on the table. If we're able to resuscitate a dying economy, it will come through forcing big businesses to keep jobs in the country, and to show some financial accountability. It will come from imposing fair taxes on business, too. Hillary won't do that, Obama might.

The other big factor is that I was intensely cynical of his idealism, and his supporters. I wanted someone tried and true, I said. The first and most glaring hole in that argument is that Hillary isn't tried and true. In her time as First Lady, she only proved that she can make enemies. The way she's conducted herself in this campaign, with the litany of cheap shots thrown at Obama, shows that not much has changed. I like her ideas, but not her record. I wildly overestimated her past accomplishments, while wildly underestimating Barack's.

But more importantly, I underestimated the idea of hope. Sure, his campaign is based somewhat on rhetoric and the idea of sweeping change. But why not support that? Why not believe in a guy who, so far, has done everything right? Is it a fear of being hurt, of Obama proving himself insincere and the rest of us feeling tricked? Maybe that's it. But honestly, America is in such dire straits, on the verge of such an ugly future and in the midst of such a decaying present, that it's almost criminal not to throw your support behind the one guy who might have a shot at changing things. I committed that crime with Hillary, who is, at best, a status-quo candidate.

On the subject of fear, here's a great article by Michael Chabon, one of my favorite authors, called "Obama vs. the Phobocracy." Short, editorial, and well worth reading:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/02/03/AR2008020302526.html

Long story short, Barack is a politcian who finally seems to believe in something other than himself, and who gives America a chance at recovering from eight awful years. I believe in him, I made a mistake with the Hillary nonsense, and I'm fully on board the Obama train.

I think it would be almost tragic if he didn't win, another stalk of hope cut in its infancy by the scythe of skepticism and fear brandished by media, big business, and the power structure in Washington. We need an idealistic outsider with legitimate belief to right the ship. That's Obama, and nobody else. I'm fired up and ready to go.

I Had A Big Day Off

2008-02-26T07:10:00.000-08:00

I tell you: every sentence starts with I.

I woke up at 9 and went on my computer. I felt bad from the night before. I listened to "Killing the Blues" 20-30 times in a row. I ate a bowl of honey nut cheerios. I made a dvd. I thought about reading. I made myself a sandwich. I went outside to play basketball, but the courts were still covered in snow. I stared at them for a while and tried to hatch a plan. I walked around industrial Bushwick, looking inside mechanic shops. I stepped into the garage at Little Man Auto Body and Truck Repair four blocks from home. I spoke with the Hispanic man about a metal shovel that looked unused. I also spotted a push broom. I convinced him to let me borrow them. I left my basketball and water bottle as collateral, though the water bottle wasn't necessary. I walked back to the courts. I spent the next hour shoveling one half of the court. I used the push broom to get rid of the excess water. I considered that this is what people do when they have ennui. I wished for my water bottle. I finished and returned the equipment and got my ball and water back. I tried to play but it was still a little wet. Nothing is absolute. I just shot free throws. I went back in after a half hour or so. I listened to "Killing the Blues" a couple more times. I read a book that documents book-banning incidents in America. I opened the windows because I thought the apartment smelled smoky. I imagined a short story where boys at a school force the innocent child of book-banning parents to sit in a classroom at lunch and listen to them read the book in question. I went back outside to play basketball before it got dark. I told a black kid how to hop the fence because it was after five o'clock. I shot with him until it was dark. I asked about his life, and he claimed to be the MVP of the NYC Private School Athletic Association as a sophomore. I didn't necessarily believe him, but he was very good. I googled him this morning, and it turns out he is a good player for the JV team, but not Varsity. I went in and had missed calls to meet a friend for dinner. I took a shower. I read more of the book-banning book. I went and bought lunch meat and wheat bread at the organic grocery store. I thought about watching The Wire or a netflix movie. I chose to read a different book, 1919. I messed around on the computer until midnight. I went to bed and slept well.

I had a big day off.

OSCAR THOUGHTS FROM A DUDE WHO MATTERS

2008-02-25T06:19:00.000-08:00

A lot of people will be chiming in with their thoughts on the 80th Academy Awards, so I thought I'd better join their ranks in case there's a party or a club.

Normally I don't enjoy the Oscars, but this time around I was a little psyched because it was a great year for "mainstream" Hollywood movies, and I felt that, by and large, the best were nominated. It's easier to write a bunch of bullet points than to pen a cohesive piece, so here we go...

*Armed with a tube of cookie dough and a six-pack of Dogfish Head "Raison D'Etre" beer, ("Reason For Being" - a great name for alcohol), I settled in at 7:30 to catch some of the pre-show hoopla. Fifteen minutes later, my step-dad called, and we yelled and cursed about Duke basketball right up to the broadcast. Summary: Nolan Smith should replace Slow Whitey, aka Greg Paulus, at the point.

*Jon Stewart is a great host. I thought the opening monologue was pretty strong, and the Gaydolf Tittler joke made me laugh more than it should have. My favorite one-liner came when he noted that even Norbit had earned a nomination. "I think it's great. Too often, the Academy ignores movies that aren't good."

*I caught snippets of Barbara Walters' pre-show interviews. She is a smug, preaching, self-satisfied woman. I hope I spelled her first name wrong.

*Going in to the show, I thought the Most Obvious award was Daniel Day-Lewis for best actor. But as the musical nominees were performed over the course of three hours, that honor was transferred to Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova for "Falling Slowly" from Once. It was so clearly superior to the other four songs that I would have been irrationally angry if they'd lost. At that point, I was on Raison D'Etre number four.

Also, they couldn't find anything better than the three, count 'em three, songs from Enchanted? Each one was a lame-o 1950s cookie cutter show tune. And I like Amy Adams- she's beautiful and apparently talented- but it's got to be embarrassing to sing that "Happy Working Song" in front of anything but a room full of five year-olds. That performance narrowly beat out the adoring gaze of Cormac McCarthy's son for "Most Uncomfortable Moment."

When the folks from Once won the Oscar, though, it was one of the night's best moments. Gotta love seeing the Irish take a prize, and they seemed genuinely thrilled to be there. My Gaelic heart thumped with pride to hear the brogue-ish "Tanks" on film's biggest stage. It also led to one of Stewart's funniest quips of the night- "Man, that guy was so arrogant"- and a classy gesture when he brought Marketa back out after the break to say her thank-yous.

*Nice to see Javier Bardem take the inevitable Supporting Actor prize. I'm not quite sure how the role of Anton Chigurh is considered a supporting actor and not one of the two male leads, but so be it. I got a few goosebumps when he spoke to his mother in Spanish. Then I wiped some cookie dough off my shirt.

*The best non-Oscar moment of the night came from an unlikely source- a JCPenney's commercial. The ad was introducing a new line of clothing for dudes who forget to take the tag off their jeans, but the song caught my attention immediately. It was a beautiful folk-ish tune with great harmony between male and female voices. I looked it up online, and it turned out to be a cover of a song called "Killing the Blues" by country-music legend John Prine. The collaborating artists are Allison Krauss of Union Station fame, whose voice I've loved since O Brother Where Art Thou, and former Led Zeppelin (edit for KQE: LEGENDARY) front man Robert Plant. Apparently these two released an album together in October. Who knew? Anyway, I downloaded the song and it lives up to its billing and then some. I hate to describe music, since you can't experience it any way but the right way, so I'll just say that if you want the song, leave a comment with your e-mail and I can send it to you. On first listen, the rest of the album sounds pretty good too.

*Anybody else sick of movies about rich people, past or present, in England? How much mileage can we get from the make-emotions-seem-more-profound-since-they're-coming -from-an-obnoxiously-repressed-culture formula? And on that note, what the hell is Woody Allen's problem? His bread and butter is making movies about neurotic Jewish people in New York. I'm not saying an artist shouldn't branch out, but it's hard to watch the ongoing train wreck of his murder-obsessed British period. The ghost scene in Match Point, to take one example, is one of the worst ham-fisted moments in cinema, and it's hard to imagine the guy who made Annie Hall and Manhattan stooping to that level.

*Tilda Swinton is weird. I want to have tea at her home. I want her to silently judge me from across a table littered with controversial objects she dares me to comment on. I want to kiss her and have her bite me hard on the lower lip, and when I step back and say "wha-", she is already walking away. I want to try in vain to decipher her poetic non-sequiturs at a fountain in the middle of America. She will only smile and twirl in the wind, and when I least expect it, she will push me into the fountain and leap in after me. Her striking red hair will splay out in the water, and she will whisper "I am a Naiad." She will leave me at a Greyhound bus station in Cleveland, wearing a white dress she bought from a runaway bride in Toledo. Tilda Swinton is weird.

*I think Marion Cotillard won by default this year. I'm not saying she wasn't great. I didn't see La Vie en Rose, but I heard excellent things. It's just that I can't imagine a French actress winning the award for a French movie in a year where there was a legitimate American contender. Who was her competition this year? Nobody was going to pick Ellen Page, good as she was. Too young. Laura Linney played herself, as usual, in The Savages. Effective, but not Best Actress material. Elizabeth: The Golden Age was a bad movie, so forget Cate Blanchett. I was hoping Julie Christie, one of my favorite actresses from the golden decade (70s) of American film, would win, but her movie was a low-profile Canadian affair that didn't stand much of a chance. Good for Marion and all, but I'd say she's the beneficiary of a bad year for leading ladies.

*Diablo Cody. Jesus. How could this award happen? I'm not even someone who hates Juno. I thought Jason Reitman, the director, had an amazingly deft touch. I liked the music. I liked the acting. I'll even admit that after a while, parts affected me. But the movie's weakness, which everybody knew, was the too-hip-for-its-own-good writing. It makes you cringe at times with its smarmy, pop-intellectual tone. Like I said, the story is good, the film ended up being okay, and its possible to get over the dialogue if you come in with an open mind and stick it out. But an Oscar for Best Screenplay? Come on. Tony Gilroy wrote one of the best suspense thrillers I've ever seen in Michael Clayton. It was smart, topical, compelling, etc. It had terrific characters. It was a showcase in superb film writing. He was in a different class, and this was the worst screw-job of the night. I like Diablo, and it was cool to see someone so unconventional win an award, but I can't say it was deserved.

*Daniel Day-Lewis. What more can you say? To think that the guy who accepted that award, the soft-spoken Englishman with two earrings and a gentle bearing, was the guy who played Daniel Plainview...unbelievable. It's one of the best performances we'll ever see in a film.

*And to cap off the night, in the long-standing Oscar tradition, a filmmaker (or in this case two) gets rewarded for work they've done in the past. No Country For Old Men was a strong movie. There's no denying it. Chigurh is one of the best eerie characters ever, and the Coens stuck to their guns with Cormac's death-morality metaphor. I saw it twice in theaters, and liked it even better the second time. But There Will Be Blood is a classic, a once-in-a-lifetime effort that combines an excellent script, excellent directing, and excellent performances. Watching it on the big screen was like a revelation. Hollywood films are inundated with hype, and sometimes, as a moviegoer, it's impossible not to feel numb to the whole process. Then you see a phenomenal work of art like this, and, corny as it sounds, the idea of film's potential hits you like a hammer. P.T. Anderson made a movie that defied the various diseases plaguing American cinema, and rose to a level that can't be called anything but stunning. It's something that Joel and Ethan Coen have done before, but it's not something they did this year.

When they announced Best Director, I watched P.T. Anderson in the split screen. To his credit, he kept his smile, but there was a slight grimace, and you could see the hurt, subtle as it was, pervading his expression. Here's a guy, a true talent, who went out and made the movie of his life. Anyone who's ever tried to put together something as small as a five-minute short knows how challenging filmmaking can be, how many problems you have to overcome, and how improbable it is to have any kind of result at all. But P.T. Anderson did it. From nothing but an old book by Upton Sinclair, he wrote, directed, and produced the best picture of the year. For his troubles, he went home empty-handed. In three or five or eight or ten years, he'll probably win Best Director or Best Picture for a film that doesn't reach the same plateau. That's just how it works. But he wasn't recognized this year, and it's a shame.

So them's the Oscars. I had a good time, I must say. I hope you did too. Have a nice week. Be safe.

Ideas

2008-02-21T07:51:00.000-08:00

In gym class in elementary school, they taught us how to keep score in bowling.

Why is there no standing long jump event in the Olympics?

It's impossible to succeed in life with the first name Brad (this can be empirically proven).

If you take an extra blanket, roll it up until it is roughly in the form of a human, and spoon with it while pretending that it is a woman, you are pathetic.

Crowds love me.

A monk is a person you have to admire. There isn't a way around it.

David Denby in his article on the Coen Brothers insinuated that it was far-fetched for Llewelyn Moss to return to the scene of his crime just to offer a dying man a drink of water in No Country For Old Men. In fact, he was returning at night with the jug of water to wipe his fingerprints from the door handles he had touched in order to cover his tracks. David Denby is a film critic for The New Yorker, and should not make this kind of stupid mistake.

I'm starting a softball team, and I'd like to guarantee that we'll go undefeated.

Nobody can stop thinking about Barack Obama.

They say 3/4 of the Earth is ocean. But, what percentage of the ocean is salt? And isn't salt considered "land," since it's a solid? A salt mine, for example, you would consider land. We need to check on this.

If you pick ten people to ask on dates, how many will say yes, and, of those, how many will it be possible to marry? Answer: it all depends.

"Grab the brass ring" is a phrase that comes from carousels. It may be the only one. Unless you count "merry-go-round" as a phrase, which I guess it is.

Time is an idea, but it's also a thing. In that sense, it's like karma. But if I told you that karma was the Buddhist word for time, I'd be lying. Then I'd have wasted time and invited bad karma on myself. See how the world works? It's confusing, and that's why only people who hate themselves care about things like philosophy.

Owning Part 12

2008-02-20T07:52:00.000-08:00

Brian makes his second appearance in the "Jes mindin' mah bisness, bein' a citizen, gettin' owned on g-chat" section of the blog, and goes down in history as the first person to get owned in two lines:

Brian: You like The Concretes?

Me: No, I prefer Pavement.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

(people running around yelling, waving hands above their heads, pumping fists and grinning)

Someone get that sumbitch a fat piece of corn on the sob.

Another G-Chat Owning

2008-02-19T10:49:00.001-08:00

I was in my sixth hour of g-chat browsing today when I came across the following status message from a fellow on my list:

"I've got more game than a wildlife preserve."

If you're a big fan of wildlife preserves, like me, the absurdity of this statement is immediately evident. These areas are designated to protect animals. The term "game" refers to animals that can legally be hunted, of which there are none on a preserve.

In effect, this person was saying that they had no game. What folly! I informed him in no uncertain terms:

Me: a wildlife preserve is for the conservation of animal and plant species
Me: therefore the animals aren't "game"
Me: because they can't be hunted
Me: you just dissed yourself

Him: to you maybe

Me: this is my greatest g-chat triumph yet

Him: cool man
Him: live the life

Someone get that bastard a bawling card.

(so he can phone long distance to his mommmmmmmyyyy)

I've always gotten along better with guys than girls

2008-02-18T10:37:00.001-08:00

I don't watch a lot of television, but last week I watched the semi-finals of American Gladiators. My mother and I had a little tradition of watching the old reruns on the USA Network during summers when I was young. She'd go to work after and I'd try to go running or get a baseball game together or agonize over having to mow the lawn. But the morning hour from 10-11 was probably the best part of the day.

If you'd told me a year ago that they'd bring it back, I could have told you just how they'd fuck it up. The flashing lights, pounding music, drastic camera angles, mile-a-minute cuts, stupid choreographed screaming crowd. All the futuristic crap that some moron producer thought would appeal to a modern audience. It's the same wrong idea that makes bad filmmakers think that 100 years from now, the most popular sport will be RocketLaunchMoonBallExtreme. Nope. It'll still be football basketball baseball soccer golf tennis. And it's because those sports are timeless, and if they're complex, it's only a complexity that's laid on a simple frame, and so the complexity becomes elegant.

Anyway, the new AG is about 8 levels beneath the original version, but it's still okay to watch because the concept is great.

Here's what they've done right:

1) Keeping Assault. This was by far the greatest game on the original, and it's still the best. There's something primitive and awesome about having to dodge the projectiles of an overlord while you scurry between protective boundaries and try to take him out with a lucky shot. It's the ultimate underdog game. When I was a kid staying at my dad's for the weekend one winter, we set this game up in the front yard. It had just snowed, and it was packy, so we built a series of boundaries in a zig-zag pattern. Each one had a single snowball behind it. Then my dad had his station, in front of a garbage can, with thirty or so snowballs stacked up. I had to run between the snow walls while he tried to pelt me, and if I hit the garbage can I won. Some of the most fun I've had. At the same time, this game is hilarious. You have this huge gladiator, probably on steroids, posing and posturing and talking shit and being all physical, and when the game starts, he's behind a gun. It completely nullifies any strength he has, and you could bring in any random redneck who's hunted his whole life to do a better job. It's the only AG game like that.

2) Having the Gladiator shot backward into the water if he/she loses at Assault. Fucking awesome.

3) The water motif in general. Great call.

Here's what they've done wrong, and how to improve it:

1) Making the Gladiators into posturing villain types. Listening to these idiots make puns on their own names gets old about halfway through the first time. Nobody wants that. It just makes the Gladiators look ridiculous.

How to fix it: Give the Gladiators masks and don't let them talk. Think about it. How badass would it be if you never saw a Gladiator's face, or heard him speak? It would add an amazing element of mystery, and would make them ten times more terrifying. Instead, we have to listen to shit like "JUSTICE IS ABOUT TO BE SERVED," and think "oh, I see, he's just a moron."

Additional idea: Have a Gladiator coach. A small, brooding, mysterious figure in a suit. When a Gladiator wins, he walks through a tunnel back to Gladiator base, and the coach gives a little nod. When a Gladiator loses, he walks back with his head slumped, facing the coach's withering gaze. Basically, I want the Gladiators to be like my idea of sports teams in the old Soviet Union.

Also, before each event, the coach looks at a clipboard in front of the tunnel, then turns and gives a secret signal, indicating which Gladiator he wants. Then, boom, the music starts and Titan runs through the tunnel. This would make it more personal, like the Gladiators were really a team who wanted to defeat the contenders at every event, and not just a bunch of individuals who would talk some shit but not really care if they lost.

2) Speaking of music: the loud blaring rock that plays after every event is completely ineffective. So are the swooping shots of the audience giving the thumbs-down in rhythm to the beat. Watching some grinning disney-land dad cheer with his two spoiled kids is the exact opposite of badass.

How to fix it: Give each Gladiator specialized introduction music. Sure, some could be rock, but there could be variety. As my friend Brandon once told me, for example, the best serial killers always listen to classical music. Imagine if you had a Gladiator strutting out to Bach while some contender stood shaking on the Joust platform. That's scary shit. It gets psychological. Also, the audience should be audible only. Black them out. They should be trying to re-create the howling masses of the original Coliseum, and showing the actual crowd makes it painfully clear that it's onlay a bunch of over-fed Americans.

3) Gladiator names. Boring, predictable.

How to fix it: Instead of the usual fare of Titan, Siren, Venom, Justice, etc., how about something that personalizes them a little more? What about Gladiators from different nationalities? What about identifying characteristics? Couldn't you have a Gladiator called Saint Christopher, who wears a cross around his neck and a long white cloak? Or one from Samoa who does a tribal dance before every event? (editor's note: apparently they have this. oops.) The closest we come now is Wolf, who has his howl, and Helga, who I guess is from Germany.

Another great idea is to have Gladiators specifically suited to each event. Like one called "The Spider" who is ridiculously fast on the wall, or "Tarzan," who dominates the rings. Or, like I said before, a redneck type called "The Sniper" behind the gun in Assault. The downside to this is that it'd be really tough for the contender to ever win.

Additional idea: "The Sniper" could have a hunting dog with him. Actually, every Gladiator could have an animal. I want one called "The Shepherd" who wears tattered clothing and leads around a lamb.

4) Hulk Hogan and Laila Ali. Completely unnecessary. They add nothing.

How to fix it: Have a single, unobtrusive host. Someone out of the Jeff Probst from Survivor mold. The host is not the show, and all their bits are just designed to waste time. I do, however, like the fat referee. It's one of those inexplicable decisions that gives a show character.

5) Interviews with contenders. Over-talky, useless. More times than not, they make me dislike the contender.

How to fix it: Show two heavily produced bios at the beginning that make the contender seem likeable. Show them at home, doing their thing, helping kids, training, whatever. Do NOT interview them during the show. I hate that for the same reasons I hate interviewing football coaches as they jog to the locker room at halftime, or baseball managers in the dug-out in the fourth inning. It's even worse for a contender, because they're actually playing. They should be focused completely on the task at hand, and it spoils the tension of competition to get their thoughts on every single aspect of what they go through in the arena. That shit is sacred.

6) Only five events.

How to fix it: They have eight events to work with. Use all eight. There's definitely enough time, even with commercials. If they cut all the interviews and the posturing and the crowd shots, they could roll through, and it would be better. More people would watch.

7) The Gauntlet. Stupid event. New, I think.

How to fix it: This is where a contender tries to run through a narrow alley and reach the end line while being shoved and pinned by Gladiators with mats. There's zero sophistication to the game. It's a football drill. Get rid of it.

Instead, bring back the game where you jump on a rope and grab balls from the hanging pod at the center! That was great! Also, the roller ball game where you move inside huge spheres and try to settle on a pod while the Gladiator tries to knock you off. Those two games were clearly hatched from the mind of a demented genius! And they replaced them with the fucking Gauntlet? Come on!

Basically, it comes down to substance and personality over empty style. By catering to their notion of what America is like, the idiotic writers and producers created a boring, predictable show full of masculine cliches. What people really want is something mysterious and original. And American Gladiators isn't a show like Arrested Development where that kind of originality would hamper its chances; it has a basis of competition, which everyone can relate to, and was already popular years ago.

Viewers need to feel that real victory is at stake. By distancing the contenders and Gladiators, and creating an atmosphere of mystical, almost cabalistic gloom, the perceived triumph is greater. That's how you make American Gladiators great.

What it means to be American

2008-02-15T10:21:00.000-08:00

Something has been happening in my office that serves as a nice metaphor for what it's like to be young and white and not poor in America today.

About five months ago, one of our managers- an exceedingly nice, quiet woman- began bringing candy to work. She kept it in a box in the outer corner of her cubicle, and it was filled with all kinds of bite-sized chocolate; Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Butterfingers, Snickers, Hershey's, etc. The first few times I went by, I'd apologetically ask if I could partake. She made it clear with a smile and a permissive wave that it was fine, and I shouldn't even ask. Still, whenever I took a candy bar, I'd say hello and thank her.

Eventually, I began to look forward to Wednesdays, when she worked from home and I could raid her office without being spotted. Some days, by 5pm, I had helped myself to as many as ten bite-sized candy items.

I began to feel that these chocolates were a part of my life. I wasn't paying for them, nor did I do anything to earn them, and yet I still felt that I was deserving. On the days when she was in the office, however, I couldn't make more than one or two runs without seeming like a hun.

Whenever I walked by her cubicle, I would hope she was in the bathroom or otherwise occupied so I could have my fill. But she rarely left her desk.

I began to resent her. I'd peer into her area, see her hunched over and hard at work, and think 'why the fuck don't you ever take a walk?' Each time I passed and she hadn't budged, my annoyance mounted, until finally I noticed in myself a clear distaste. She was a dragon guarding a pot of gold.

What had begun as a nice gesture on her part, and a pleasant surprise for me, her co-worker, had transformed. I felt entitled to the candy that she bought and transported and supplied and gave away free, and when I couldn't indulge myself to gluttonous extents, due to fear of perception, my offended mind would not let her good deed go unpunished. For her kindness, she earned my ire.

I am a marauding, selfish, overfed American of Generation Y. Somewhere somebody is being pelted with rocks while they stumble on treacherous terrain, struggling to survive from second to second. Someday that person will tear me to pieces. I hope I remember to thank them.

This story is like 30% true.

Ten Ordinary Things I'd Rather Do Than Haggle With Sleepy's Over A Bed

2008-02-12T07:48:00.001-08:00

In no order:

1) Go out on a lunch date with a girl who's a dental assistant from a small Wisconsin town and reminds me of a news anchor from back home. We're both unsure of each other at first, but leave the date feeling optimistic.

2) Get a call from an old kinda-friend who's in New York for the week and wants me to come with him to a strip club tonight. I try to bring up other cultural things we can do, but he's psyched up about the strip club.

3) Have a go at baking a three-layer cake, fully aware that I've never successfully baked a normal cake, but feeling ambitious.

4) Spot a spelling error on a chalk board outside a pub advertising soccer matches, and go inside to inform them of the mistake.

5) Get accidentally hit in the side of the head by the protruding metal of an umbrella. Cringe, lean down, hold my head, and hiss "fuck!" Have the owner profusely apologize and try to help while I wave him off. When he persists in apologizing, look up and say, "man, just walk the fuck away."

6) Listen to a British Sea Power song on my iPod while walking at lunch and imagine how awesome I would have been on an English schooner.

7) Have somebody misinterpret my humor as anger.

8) Have somebody misinterpret my anger as humor.

9) Google myself to see which blogs have linked any internet articles I've written, then e-mail the blog creator to ask if he or she wants to get a drink sometime.

10) Respond to spam e-mails with clever take-offs on the original content. Respond to my mother's e-mails, whatever their content, with the single line, "Kathy, you're being ridiculous."

It Is A Common Law Idea To Love

2008-02-11T13:33:00.000-08:00

Action!

Film.

Pond.

Algae.

Plankton.

Low Man.

I can think of a clever low man whose title does not reflect status.

Can you guess who he is?

Willy Loman.

Were you thinking of Lo Mein?

It is the hour of my feast and I am St. Riddicker.

-St. Riddicker C. Ambodextrial (h e w ill r aise t hem t o t heir f ormer s hape)

StIlL BeLlS pEaL, charmed 11th

Broken Bottles Make A Rainbow

2008-02-11T13:09:00.000-08:00

Hair Care.

Care bear.

Fair share.

Fairgrounds.

Carousel.

Stationary Horse.

I can think of a clever stationary horse that you cannot ride in a circle.

Can you guess what it is?

A pommel horse in a gymnasium.

Were you thinking of a tranquilized filly?

I wish you one hundred happinesses!

-St. Riddicker C. Ambodextrial (t he b odies o f g hosts a re b uried i n f og)

I Don't Have To Prove Myself To Any Human Man

2008-02-11T10:15:00.000-08:00

Antipodes.

Podcast.

The Bowery Boys.

Five Corners.

Pentagon.

I can think of something clever that has five sides, but is not a Pentagon.

Can you guess what it is?

A steak dinner with mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, cole slaw, green beans, and carrots.

Were you thinking of a complicated war?

I'm interested in if you make it!

-St. Riddicker C. Ambodextrial (h ark t he t olling b ell u pon h is p romised a rrival)

Bullion Ain't Got Shit To Do With a Bull

2008-02-11T09:57:00.000-08:00

Tarnation!

Tar Nation.

Tar Heel Nation.

North Carolina.

Gigantic Chairs.

I can think of a clever Gigantic Chair that you do not sit on.

Can you guess what it is?

The Chair of the National Obese Person's Foundation.

Were you thinking of Chairman Mao?

I think you can do it!

-St. Riddicker C. Ambodextrial (f ollow h is w ord t o t he e nd o f t he w et g rass)

Wanton And Wonton Do Not Derive From The Same Word

2008-02-11T09:25:00.000-08:00

Oh what a day.

What a day-oh.

O-dell.

Deli.

Sandwich.

I can think of a clever thing that sandwich reminds me of that isn't a food item.

Can you guess what it is?

Sandwich-board advertising.

Were you thinking the Earl of Sandwich?

I love you.

-St. Riddicker C. Ambodextrial (w hisper h is n ame o n a c old m orning)

Who We Are

2008-02-07T06:01:00.000-08:00

A pretty apt summation from John Heilemann in New York Magazine:

"If you find yourself drawn to the Clinton candidacy, you likely believe that politics is politics, that partisanship isn't transmutable, that Republicans are for the most part irredeemable. You suspect that talk of transcendence amounts to humming "Kumbabya" past the graveyard. You believe that progress comes only with a fight, and that Clinton is better equipped than Obama (or maybe anyone) to succeed in the poisonous, fractious environment that Washington is now and ever shall be. You ponder the image of Bill as First Laddie and find yourself smiling, not sighing or shrieking.

If you find youself swept up in Obamamania, on the other hand, you regard this assessment as sad, defeatist, as a kind of capitulation. You're perfectly aware that politics is often a dirty business. But you believe it could be a bit cleaner, a bit nobler, a bit more sustaining. You think that paradigm shifts can happen, that the system can be rebooted. Most of all, an attraction to Obama indicates you are, on some level, a romantic. You never had your JFK, your MLK, and you desperately crave one: What you want is to fall in love."

What I especially like about these descriptions is that Clinton supporters can recognize some of the Obama attributes in themselves, no doubt, and vice versa. It portrays the ideology of both camps in a (somewhat) positive light, and makes the argument that both have the best interest of the country at heart. And underlying it all is a desperate plea to to the faithful of the losing candidate, whoever that may be: don't forget that you're a liberal, a democrat, and that our country needs one of these two people as president. We need it badly. So when the loss comes, mourn the memory for a day if you need to, then shed it like an old coat and support your party.

Why I'm voting for Hillary

2008-02-06T07:56:00.000-08:00

If you're not into politics, this will be a very boring post. Consider yourself warned.

With Super Tuesday over and nothing decided on the democrat side, I felt the need to write something about my choice, if only to get my thoughts on paper. I don't expect to sway anyone or anything like that, but the more I've seen, the more strongly I feel that Hillary Clinton is the right choice for the democratic nomination.

On the most basic issue, policy, almost everyone concedes that their views are "almost indistinguishable." (New Yorker) That being said, Hillary is, in general, very slightly further to the left than Obama, with the biggest difference being her support for Universal Health Care. But both support immigration reform and both vow to pull troops out of Iraq in a short time, so it's not like we're talking about a huge gap. What the decision comes down to, then, is the old "experience versus change" argument. But what real "change" would Obama bring that Hillary wouldn't?

Which brings me to my next point. I would be happy and proud to have Obama as president, but his rhetoric of change and the support he's gaining is starting to resemble a personality cult. I'm not saying he actively avoids discussing issues; I think he started the campaign with that strategy, but jettisoned it quickly when Hillary jumped to her early lead. What I am saying is that when he gets into what I'll call "preacher" mode, policy issues disappear and it becomes all oratorial flash.

Everyone who sees Obama speak in public says how magnetic he is, and it's certainly apparent on television as well. There's a genuine inspirational quality about him. But let's not forget, Ronald Reagan had that too. Charisma doesn't always translate into great leadership, or great ideas. He's managed to galvanize the youth population, but I think there's something a little worrisome about that.

And before I continue, let me add this caveat: a few weeks ago, I was on the Obama train. My thought was that the raw force the man exuded was exactly what the country needed. But after reading and studying more, it's apparent to me that there's an act of seduction going on that can be construed as slightly disingeuous, on his behalf, and slightly credulous on the part of youth. The more I speak with Obama supporters, and let me again clarify that I was just as guilty recently, the more I realize that they don't have a command of the issues, but that they've simply fallen under the sway of his charm. And there's something to be said for a personality of that nature, especially in a position of leadership like the presidency, but for so many people to choose based on that alone is scary.

Enough, for now, about Obama. Let's get into the positives about Hillary.

*Toughness - Hillary has been vilified from day one, and for no better reason, at least originally, than being a First Lady with the audacity to pursue policy. She's always been a strong personality, and people bridled at that. When she introduced Universal Health Care reform in '94, it was defeated by the Republicans in what amounted to petty, partisan politics. Something that could have greatly helped the uninsured in the country failed merely because of conservatives hating Hillary. When the Lewinsky scandal reached its apex, Hillary was, astoundingly, vilified again. Some wanted her to leave her husband, and railed against her for "setting the cause of feminism back fifty years," and many accused her of staying with Bill for personal gain only. Never has a woman trying to hold a family together under impossible circumstances been so excoriated. Then, when she ran for Senator in New York, she was vilified again for having the gall to run for office and possibly harbor presidential ambitions. Rick Lazio, her opponent, even approached her aggressively during one of the debates. And now, finally, she's running for president and is vilified by both parties.

And throughout it all, what's happened? She's stayed strong, and she keeps winning. Show me anyone else who could have gone through that kind of hell, with unfiltered hating pouring in from all sides, and still maintained their character, grown as a politican, and grown as a person.

Nobody, and I mean nobody, is tougher than Hillary.

*Experience- some are trying to frame this as the "experience versus change" decision. But again, what change, really, will Obama bring? Their policies are virtually the same, and what the "change" comes down to is the perceived notion that Obama's personality will somehow bridge gaps between Republicans and Democrats and set our country on a new, united path.

Dream on. I'm all for idealism, but if people truly think a black liberal from Chicago is going to win the hearts and minds of neocons and red staters, and if they think the Republican political machine, built for twenty years on the premise of dirty politics, wil lie down and die when faced with such a uniter, they need to wake up. There's a rift in America, and if the rift can ever be healed, it will be done with policy, not rhetoric. And when it comes to policy, Hillary's bringing the same exact change.

So if we put that idea aside, we're left with experience. When discussing their policies, although the general framework is the same, Hillary approaches with more pragmatism. She goes into details, some of which are boring because they're intricate and well thought-out. Obama speaks in generalities, focusing instead on the idea of a catalyzing change that will erase the gaps among Americans. Forced to choose between those two alternatives, I fall on the side of pragmatism. Hillary is a policy wonk, and I truly believe her when she says she'll be ready, on day one, to take over. She's thought everything through, certainly more than Obama (as I'll show later), and has real plans on every single aspect of governance.

To me, that's everything.

*Hard work - just as nobody's tougher than Hillary, nobody works harder. Even her detractors concede the point that, throughout her career as First Lady, advocate, Senator, and presidential hopeful, she's a dedicated, and at times obsessive, leader. A quick example is her newly-learned expertise on defense policy since taking her place on the Senate Armed Services Committee. There are a thousand more. Meanwhile, since becoming chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee's subcommittee on foreign affairs, Obama hasn't held a single substantive hearing. A lot of that owes to time spent on the campaign trail, but it's certainly worth noting. In the end, we really don't know how hard he'll work, or how prepared he'll be for either the Republican attack machine or the presidency itself. Is that a chance we can afford to take? What do we really know about this guy?

And though Hillary takes a ton of flack for her so-called "ambition," (which, let's be honest, exists; nobody runs for president without ambition), it's Obama who strikes me as the more nakedly opportunistic. He's basically rode a tide of rhetorical flair to the nomination process at an incredibly young age, and without his qualities as a speaker, he'd be nowhere near his current position. He's certainly more calculating than Hillary. Which leads me to....

*Caring - this is an out-and-out personal call, but from watching Hillary speak, and hearing anecdotes about her more private moments, I'm convinced that she legitimately cares about people. She's spent a career advocating for the lower middle class and those below the poverty line. Her focus on education, health care, and immigration reform confirms the idea. If she plays dirty politics, or is accused by pundits of being cutthroat, I genuinely believe it's because she thinks she can help the most people, and desperately wants her vision instituted for America's benefit.

I don't mean to imply that Obama doesn't care. I'm just not convinced his desire for the presidency is 100% about caring. I think there's more personal ambition involved than in Hillary's case.

*Electability - This is the biggest knock on Hillary. The talking point among her opponents is that she won't be able to reach out to undecided voters, or to hold the middle ground, while Obama's charisma has a greater chance to make up the gap. I find that attitude to be completely flawed. Kerry was nominated on this premise in '04, and he got destroyed by the Republican attack machine. Keep in mind, the guy was a Vietnam hero and was running against the worst president in recent memory. And he still lost! It proves that the Republicans can and will go after anyone, no matter how unimpeachable their character seems. They'll go after Obama with the same fervor. Hillary, on the other hand, is tough as nails. People call her unlikeable, but watching her speak and watching her newly adopted tone of positivity and focus on policy, I can't see it. I think her character shines through, and I think her strength will become evident to more and more people. And she's already proven she can withstand the conversative attack. I envision a general election where she gains more and more support as people start to realize her true character, especially against a rigid guy like McCain. On the other hand, I can easily see Obama's rhetoric being exposed as a vapid defense mechanism for lack of experience.

And as a final, practical point, let's not forget that Hispanic voters have shown zero willingness, historically, to vote for a black candidate. That held true last night, which seems to indicate that it won't change in the near future. That could be a gigantic problem in swing states with large Hispanic populations, particularly Florida.

What it comes down to, in the end, is that I find Hillary to be a more pragmatic, prepared candidate. I think she's better equipped to lead the country, has more thoroughly researched solutions for the myriad problems caused by the Bush administration, and is overall more legitimate. The results of Super Tuesday seem to hold that up; she scored a huge victory among those in need, such as the working class, the elderly, and Hispanic minorities. Obama's main voters can all be attributed to his personality and "realm of influence," which includes black voters, youth, and undecided voters hoping to feel excited. It seems to lend credence to a very controversial, but perhaps valid, quote from a Clinton staffer:

"If you have a social need, you're with Hillary. If you want Obama to be your imaginary hip black friend, and you're young, and you have no social needs, then he's cool."

Personally, I'm going with substance over style.

Here's something about a phrase

2008-01-28T08:12:00.000-08:00

Note: Crossword challenge didn't go off. At my new place, the newspaper kept getting stolen. At work, ditto. I threatened the careless apes at the New York Times without pause, but finally I had to concede and cancel the paper.

On to business. Back in the sixties, hippies used to say "let's blow this joint." They meant, "let's smoke this marijuana." Somehow, over time, the phrase evolved to mean "let's get out of here."

(Please note that I'm not 100% sure any of that is true. "Joint" is also an older term meaning "place," so it's very possible that "blow this joint" pre-dates the hippies. I could look this up, but I prefer to operate on conjecture and guesswork.

edit: I was completely wrong)

Anyway, at some point it became cool for just about everyone to say "let's blow this joint." It was appropriated by the mainstream, losing the connotations of a licentious, pot-smoking lifestlye.

There is a new phrase undergoing this process of incorporation.

"Blow one's load (early)."

Back in 1981, young people who were judged popular would say "he blew his load" to mean that some contemporary or other had orgasmed. It became common in the argot of youth.

Over time, the phrase evolved to mean committing too much of any resource too early in a given process, thereby precluding later success.

Example: McEnroe came out with a lot of energy, but he really blew his load in the first two sets. By the fourth, Borg was running him all over the court.

Now, the phrase doesn't even elicit a giggle when used in that context. It hasn't made its way to television or mainstream print yet, but its presence in ordinary conversation means that the shift can't be far off.

But we will know its origin.

On Friday, I'll have a piece on McSweeney's. It's about football and authors. Keep an eye out.

Stymied: The Crossword Challenge is shot in the starting gate

2008-01-02T06:29:00.001-08:00

I recently packed my belongings and tramped eastward into New Bushwick. I phoned the New York Times in an appropriate manner, but they failed to forward Monday's paper. Or, perhaps, it was stolen. In either case, I didn't take lunch Monday and forgot to buy a paper, and yesterday found me out of sorts due to Spirits imbibed on the 31st. By the time I remembered anything about a Crossword, the paper had again been appropriated by the private sector.

Judging by today's smooth delivery, the Times and I are back on similar wavelengths, and the challenge is on for next week.

There Will Be Blood is an excellent movie.

The Great New Year Crossword Challenge: A Quest For Perfection

2007-12-28T10:33:00.000-08:00

The New York Times Crossword, according to legions of cruciverbalists, is the creme de la creme of American puzzles. Since watching the documentary "Wordplay" in the spring of 2006, I've been haunting the nether regions of the weekday Arts Section, scribbling away at the various acrostics. Looking back, the beginning was shameful- the puzzle increases in difficulty as the week progresses, and those first Mondays and Tuesdays were mildly difficult, Wednesdays were a challenge, and Thursdays and Fridays were impossible.

ALL THIS HAS CHANGED.

My skill has improved gradually, and I'm at a point where a missed box Monday through Wednesday is an anomaly, Thursday success rate is at or near 80%, and Friday hovers around 50%. From where the sun now stands, a perfect week is distinctly possible. I may have already achieved this phenomenon, or perhaps not; I haven't kept track.

But starting next week, the GREAT NEW YEAR CROSSWORD CHALLENGE is on:

**Complete all five puzzles in one business week, Monday through Friday, to perfection, with no missed letters and without reference to secondary materials**

I'll update each afternoon, except for Tuesday, which is January 1st and doesn't require me to work. I'll update Tuesday's puzzle on Wednesday morning.

The stakes: If I fail, I have to clean the doorstep of every man in town for two moon cycles. If I succeed, I choose my first wife from the eligible women of the village.

Also, "Wordplay" is a fun documentary to see if you haven't already. It's like watching the spelling bee, except the contestants are older nerds, with the pain of life well-etched on their faces. The filmmakers follow some of the best puzzlers around in the weeks and months leading up to the climax, when all in question converge on a Connecticut hotel for the annual crossword championship. The finish is dramatic. There are also cameos from famous crossword puzzlers like Bill Clinton and Jon Stewart.

See you on Monday.

Life Lessons for Women

2007-12-21T10:02:00.001-08:00

Today I taught a life lesson to a woman on g-mail chat. We can call her Emily.

me: let me tell you something emily
a life lesson
if you were nice
like me
you'd have over 100 dollars in gift certificates
to various dunkin donuts and barnes & noble type places
all from bosses at work, mind you

emstrachan: yeah im getting nothin for xmas

me: instead, you're at home with nothing to your name but a frown and some vague ideas

emstrachan: grinch
way to rub it in

me: people love me
that's the point i'm trying to make

emstrachan: i get it ok!

me: i ask around here about you
nobody knows you
i show them pictures of you
they don't really say much at all
they just give me a look that says "i don't know what to say to this"

emstrachan is offline.

Crass Historical Motherfucker: In the Building!

2007-11-28T06:45:00.000-08:00

Yay-yo yay-yo, diggity dayity
cancel all my calls to the rain-drop deity
I know he ain't recognize my spontaneity
like the Pope ain't speaking straight to the laity

Word and power, brothers in things past, I am the Crass (gasp!) Historical (what?) Motherfucker (drop that song, make it long, turn it hostile with a gong!).

Today, brothers, I got some improper shit on the mind. I'm like Vlad the Impaler on a rainy morning when he feeling itchy, dig? Your mind be doing more revolutions than all of Central America since back in the day! My ideas is iller than the Incas after Francisco P. gave them diseases!

First off, yo, before we gets to bullets, I want to address a point. I heard some rattety-tattety-scim-scam-scattety coward-boom-battety Kats on the message boards talking shit 'bout how the CHM ain't truly crass. Say what? Get out my nest with them critiques, blood! If a fruitcake expect me to be getting crass in the modern way, he done ignored the Historical in my name. And I sure as gutters ain't doing no old-school crasstastic material, cuz them fools was dirty beyond what's cool. I got to live in this day and age, heard, so I don't make time with no old school savagery. I'm serious, y'all- medieval brains basically invented forty-six ways to violate a dude in what folks in the know call "the prison way." They only had a mind for one sort of crass behavior, but brother did they expound. You couldn't barely haggle with a crippled dude hawking gourds without the man making promises about your rectum and the town's bluntest object (oftentimes the gourd itself). I'm just saying.

So I crass lively in the middle ground, best I know how. On to the bullets:

*The Crass Historical Motherfucker be wondrin' why any respecting twee-bird would cotton to routine showerin' of a morning. Does the ign'rent fool misunderstand some basic facts about time and washing hoh^ body?

^Let me interrupt myself. HOH is a word adopted by folks of politically correct ideas to mean 'his or her.' You ain't suppose to denote particular gender when talkin' in the universal, and typing out 'his or her' can get bulkier than the Holy Roman Empire in the days of its penchant for overextending. Maybe you think hoh is a bullshit pronoun, but I ask y'all to consider the Amish. Those backward barn-dwelling haters use the pronoun 'hine' on holidays and special occasions. That's some ancient English. If they gonna hold on to old usage like it was a thing, I can't hardly fault no feminist with bad teeth, loud concepts, and armpits like a dude for hatching her own style. I'm on board, Pat (insert your favorite androgynous girl name if you're of a mind).

Back to the thing-which-is-next-to-Godliness. I've known some humans in my day, and not many was nocturnal. We go about our day getting dirty in a thousand ways. This is a fact even Doubting Thomas wouldn't dispute. So what sense does it make to sleep in that filth? Shower by night, fool! Then rest your night hours stationary, like 99.9% of mankind will, and a morning shower is 8 kinds of redundant- as long as you keep a clean bed! I got some ideas 'bout that, too, but I wouldn't want to bore a brother. Point is this: standing under the nozzle in concert with a rising sun is equal parts foolish with sending your Mongol sailboats to Japan in the season of Kamikaze wind. It's bad timing, yo!

*There's a tune out in recent times called "2080" by the band Yeasayer. A dullard who half-reads the CHM, mouthing every word and taking breaks to lick peanut butter from his fingernail, still understands I ain't a homeboy much interested in the future. Such a song title, you'd think, would send me on coughing fits to a dusty museum. But this shit is timeless, yo! It spits more arsenic than Napoleon on Saint Helena, and I mean that in the best way. And much as a dude digs on things historic, I do value an era with buttons that rewind a tune without fuss. Sometimes you want to hear a song 84 times in a row, and let no man tell me that's wrong. Plus, it do beat listening to some frizz-haired prophet-without-a-home preach Leviticus on the gray underground, with his jaundice eyes and above average hysteria potential.

*Riffing on subways, I want to let y'all know of a poster that spouts some serious spurious information. Come as it do from a clothing store called Daffy's, it ain't likely to fool a discriminating man no-how, but still and all I got obligations for even the least of our kind. To a basic point, Daffy's promises "High fashion. Low prices." Maybe that idea holds some charm for you. But I have it on good authority, from a girl who knows more than how to put on a pair of pants, that any dude wearing Daffy's threads might as well be burning a cross among the one group of Crusaders that knew how to fight, far as his chances of impressing go. Don't wear Daffy's!

*The Crass Historical Motherfucker wishes to give props to the AFL-CIO for no special reason other than a feeling of 'preciation. The fellow who works for his scratch is ever vulnerable, past what's proper. Don't forget, my peoples, we're spinning on a planet where men of power kept slaves until modern minds got some higher ideas. If somebody don't protect the steadiest shoulders, the bluest collars, in no time flat they'll be toiling extra hours for the right not to be jailed with men of low mind. Good looking out, AFL-CIO!

*Lastly, an epiphany. The CHM realized of late why a soul with liberal ideas got to wear morals on its sleeve, and why a conservative seems overall reserved on the matter. It hit me, yo: a conservative ain't got to have morals, because hos (he or she) has the smarmy confidence of a thing been proven time and again: money concerns gonna trump all in the end. A liberal is like a Hiroshima school kid shooting rubber bands at the Enola Gay.

Yo, I didn't say it was a happy thing. Some days don't end happy, brothers. Some words bring rain. Some history ain't bear repeating, but that don't mean it won't come 'round no-how.

Nah, fucks to that. Let's end high: the CHM met a female. She was straight wearing a tricorn and handing out pamphlets for a re-enactment of Bastille Day. Instant chemistry. I'll keep a steady reader updated. Big promises and love,

-THE CRASS HISTORICAL MOTHERFUCKER.

An Item to Discuss

2007-11-27T06:29:00.000-08:00

No man or woman of the city may call me a follower of pop culture. It would be a ridiculous assertion. I do not while away the hours lauding the latest celebrity triumph or excoriating their mishaps. I keep a respectful distance, recognizing the power while quietly maintaining my polite disinterest.

Yet a man can't keep from reading posters on the subway. It is natural for the eye to wander, as history teaches. Lately, I've been inundated with the idea of Tyra Banks as a talk show host. A former model, Banks is apparently making the leap to television. This is as much as I know. The posters, featuring the star in various smiling poses, suggest an atmosphere of intriguing, impish fun. Words like "Conversationalist" (playing off the idea of a conservationist, which we may safely assume Miss Banks is not) are emblazoned across their center. Another poster says "Gabology," conveying the concept of Banks as an instructor, albeit in a nontraditional field.

Enough description. Here is the plain fact: Tyra Banks has a weak face. She looks like someone who had to watch an aggressive uncle beat a pet dog to death at age seven. Since then, her smile is a defense. She shrinks at meeting new people. Confidence in herself is shattered. She fights a constant battle to forget the harsh world impinging on her purple thoughts.

The hype for her new talk show seems sad and desperate, like a spastic vegan hawking his wares at a gun show in Abilene, Texas. The more we see of Miss Banks, the more eager her promotion, the more we are prepared for her failure. She plainly lacks the composition to hold together a dinner party, much less a television show. Jay Leno, smirking like a fat pasha, will be using her name as a punch line in mere months.

I have a new idea for a poster. It shows America in a post-apocalyptic moment. Tyra Banks and an unidentified man are the last two people on Earth. She is wrapped in black fabric. An earthquake has split the ground before them. The man, with a near-hysterical expression, is hanging from the ledge, having been caught in the new crevice. It is obvious he has protected her in the days since the old world ended, keeping her from catastrophe. Now, having fallen to ill fortune, he merely needs her hand. But Banks, traumatized, can only rock back and forth in the fetal position, gripping her dark cloak. She seems him out of the corner of her eye, but is paralyzed to the point of inaction.

Beneath, the caption reads:

Tyra Banks Will Let This Man Die.

We know you are weak, Tyra Banks.

Expressions!

2007-11-26T09:23:00.000-08:00

Shit evolves when I discuss business with Kyle. Today:

"That show is so good, you'll start humping the air."

We have: AN EXPRESSION.

Other examples a person might use:

"Man, that new line of Nissan Altimas make me straight up hump the air."

"This top 40 song is so hot, you'll get orgasms from oxygen."

"That actual orgasm was so poor, I felt like I was humping the air in Denver."

(The air is thinner in Denver. It's not a good place to hump the air.)

In other news, if an office puts exotic trees all around, they're basically telling you they want to make the place a jungle. That means that all the laws of the jungle apply. Be aggressive if you can, and be careful if you can't. Personally, I just released a boa. I don't know what to expect, but havoc is a safe bet.

Oh the Misanthropic Topical Arrangement...

2007-10-05T08:38:00.000-07:00

Kelly, get in the OWNED line. Here's me owning her while she tries to apply for a class at an improv theater:

Me: I just applied for an experimental improv class
Her: applied??
Her: how do you apply?
Me: yeah you have to write in and apply
Me: they review everyone
Her: sounds cool
Me: hopefully it works out
Her: what the hell...it doesn't say how to apply...
Her: do you write a letter or what?
Me: you have to do a 200-word paragraph
Her: i don't get how they're supposed to review anything about you
Me: about what your goals are in improv
Me: and like your comedy idols and stuff
Her: oh
Me: i think they just go on the essay
Her: where does it say that?
Me: in the about section on the webslant
Her: fuck man...all i see is to see the instructions below and there are none
Me: did you click the webslant?
Her: what's a webslant?
Me: the part with the star on top
Me: the about section
Her: this is the page i'm looking at: (link)
Her: which part are you talking about?
Me: wait how many times did you refresh
Me: just now
Her: uhh i don't know. i didn't refresh
Me: ok so you're fine
Me: just visit the webslant and click the star
Her: what is a webslant shane
me: by the about section?
me: do you want me to just write your essay?
Her: fucking nevermind

Punchline: There is no such thing as a webslant.

Someone get that girl a weep-dish pizza.

Wicked Gil

2007-09-27T11:40:00.000-07:00

Kyle wrote a song. I named it "Mary Girl"

The Flower doesn't think
Does it even know?
The little mary ran up the stairs
Thinking lightly
Like an explosive miracle
Does the past even know?

Mary Girl

Sorry to say
The stub could stick with me
Revolving in tiny little motions
Some Say
'Pansy, you like it that way!"
I'll tell you

I never liked it that way

I'm not too proud to say that I'm okay

2007-09-25T08:42:00.000-07:00

Kyle gives me a taste of my own medicine on g-chat.

Kyle: i've got to get rid of a couple Beirut tickets for Wednesday I need to rid of. interested?

Me: The country or the band?

Kyle: THE GAME

Me: HEY-OH

Kyle: you just got p3wed

Someone get me a tear mug.

I got a permit with the city, you should see it sometime

2007-09-24T08:17:00.001-07:00

I owned the piss out of Brian Glidewell today on g-chat.

Brian: i've got to get rid of a couple Beirut tickets for Wednesday i need to get rid of. interested?

Me: the country or the band?

Brian: band

Brian: $56 for the pair

me: then nah, not interested

Brian: k

Someone get that son of a bitch a crying pan.

It's Hard to Find Nice Things

2007-09-18T07:28:00.000-07:00

I want it on record that I coined the following phrase:

Levity is the soul of tit.

Wild Wild South

2007-09-12T09:15:00.000-07:00

"We tried a desperate game and lost. But we are rough men used to rough ways, and we will abide by the consequences."

-Cole Younger, member of the James-Younger gang, upon his 1876 capture following the attempted robbery of a Northfield, Minnesota bank. Younger, along with his two brothers, was sentenced to life in prison. Bob Younger died in prision in 1889. Cole and Jim younger were paroled in 1901, but Jim committed suicide in 1902. Cole went on to tour the south with Frank James in a wild west show, and he became a Christian in 1912. He died in his Missouri hometown in 1916, age 72.

"Governor, I haven't let another man touch my gun since 1861."

-Frank James, while surrendering himself and his firearm in 1882 to Missouri governor Thomas Crittenden. Five months earlier, his brother Jesse had been assassinated by fellow gang members under Crittenden's employ. Due to his voluntary surrender, James stood trial in Missouri and Alabama only, avoiding extradition to Minnesota to face murder charges for the Northfield robbery, where he shot and killed a cashier. James' status as a confederate hero and champion of southern rights garnered sympathy and led to his acquittal in both trials. He went on to work as a shoe salesman, theater guard, telegraph operator, and entertainer. He died on his farm in Missouri in 1915, age 72.

The Sporting News

2007-08-30T08:07:00.001-07:00

Since I know most of you turn to this blog for all your sports information, I am declaring today a feast of celebration. It is a day of wonderful athletics, and the weekend will only continue the theme.

Baseball: The Yankees have triumphed twice against the Red Stockings, winning the home-stand. This afternoon at one they attempt the sweep. There is nothing like afternoon baseball to alleviate the oppressive boredome of my average Post Meridian. A victory today would set us 5 games back in the East, give us an 8-7 edge in the season series, and keep the pressure on the Mariners, who share our lead in the Wild Card hunt.

College Football: The season begins tonight. The main event is #2 LSU taking on Mississippi State. If you can't get behind SEC football, there's nothing to be done for your sad soul. The southeastern United States is a congealed mass of anger, impotence, poverty, and crime. Yet each autumn, stadium lights shed a sort of grace on that beleaguered land. It is like the smile of an ugly child receiving an award for sheer persistence. Even the teeth of a dog glow in the sun.

Unfortuantely, I will be practicing improv in some godforsaken dump of a theatre. I will be attempting to conjure imagined events in a manner approximating reality, while on any of myriad local televisions, fierce men without the luxury of pretense do battle against one another for the only kind of pride worthy of human exertion.

Tennis: Andy Roddick attempts to enact his bullheaded advance in the US Open, while Roger Federer skims along unruffled. Barring upset, the two will meet in the quarterfinal. For young Andy, the soulless embodiment of American excess, all flash and no spirit, the slow advance is akin to a covetous 13th centure Hungarian king. Yea, cruel despot, you may storm the native landscape, accumulating useless fiefdoms, but listen! Do you hear the thundering horde advancing from the east? Do you reckon their numbers? Do you tremble at their might? For they are the Mongols, and at their head is the great Khan!

From now on, I will only write about sport. There is no higher plateau.

You can find me on the internet

2007-08-29T10:39:00.000-07:00

Chilly walk home

2007-08-28T09:54:00.000-07:00

Today am I endorsing a product.

The product: Vaseline Intensive Care Aloe Cool & Fresh Body Lotion.

The story: Yesterday, while attending the US Open (my first professional tennis event), I neglected to cover the thigh area above my knees with any kind of sunblock. The result was a vicious burn. But this morning, in search of relief, I purchased the aforementioned lotion. Even before application, I was reassured by the non-threatening sea green of the bottle and the assertive dark blue of the cap. I had a feeling I could trust the firm yet gentle image implied by such a well-wrought chromatic combination. In the handicapped bathroom at work, I applied the cream to the affected areas, and the sensation brought to mind the loving ministrations of a Geisha covering a samurai's war wounds with ameliorative cucumbers. Minutes later, the throbbing red pain had all but vanished in vast, glistening pools of aloe, and I moved about the office with strides both confident and unhindered, earning admiration from my peers.

The Open was a blast. Roger Federer is one of the more graceful humans alive. He could dance with Apollo and reduce that quintessential heliophile to clumsy, supplicating tears.

Fall is almost upon us, which means the advent of college football season. Continuing last entry's theme of apropos nomens, I bring you LSU wide receiver "Early Doucet." Upon his christening, could fate have hidden, in its folds and nooks, any profession excepting star athlete for the crying babe?

I think not.

Finally, would you wish to wait in the backfield, mandated by shouted numbers to receive a hand-off and dash boldly through the guard-tackle hole, when across the line, in the linebacker position, crouches a man named Xavier Adibi?

I think not, redux.

QED.

Look like the tin can that swallowed the kitchen

2007-08-24T06:37:00.000-07:00

I've become obsessed by a name.

A statement of that sort sounds like the cutesy ramblings of a junior high attendee, I know. You may think I'm of low mind. Maybe I've turned. I'm afraid the monomania this name has induced may be irreversible.

The name is Wee-Bey.

It's from a show called "The Wire."

I think it's the greatest nickname ever. If there was a contest, people would stop when a fellow called out these two syllables. He would be raised upon shoulders and gallantly toasted while a jealous rival cringed in a corner, staring at a piece of paper with the smudged word "Totem."

"Totem" is a good effort, rival monikerian, but it's no Wee-Bey.

Wee-Bey.

He's a drug dealer on the show.

They call him 'Bey sometimes.

Yo Bey.

Wee-Bey.

I am A-Rod

2007-08-22T08:25:00.000-07:00

Based on the astonishing success of my McSweeney's piece, I've been approached by www.newsgroper.com to pen a parody blog for their website. They asked me who I'd like to write, and I immediately thought of A-Rod.

You can read the blog here: http://www.newsgroper.com/alex-rodriguez/

My first entry was the 8/17 one, titled "A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day." That was not my title. The content is mine, though. There should be a new entry up soon.

Anything below the 8/17 entry was written by the guy before me. Those missives portray an arrogant, crass A-Rod, which I find to be a predictable choice with predictable results. Hopefully they get deleted soon, but apparently it would be stepping on toes, or something, and I have to just post until they're off the front page. Still, their presence rankles, so read them with a ready scoff on your lips.

My own entries tell of A-Rod's adventures at a grocery store, and a mano-a-mano duel with Mike Mussina.

Anyway, the site is more or less boffo, so after you've read and admired my A-Rod entries, be sure to check out whatever else they're offering. I don't say this out of any vested interest in the website; as per usual, I am not being paid for my formidable talent. Their possible failure does not concern me. My purported appreciation of the format is forthright.

I imagine it's only a limited time until the A-Rod blog is being universally lauded by everyone who has ever loved sport.

Meanwhile, the Yankees are in the process of humiliating themselves in Anaheim. Their unbelievable incompetence against a team they may face in the playoffs five weeks hence is beyond worrisome. Another first-round exit seems entirely probable. In other sporting news, Duke University basketball is saddled with talentless whites, Notre Dame football is unranked, the Giants are poised for another .500 season as their feckless quarterback whines to the media, the Knicks are doomed to at least fifteen years of mediocrity, and my new one-handed backhand is a disaster. It is not a good time to be a sports fan.*

*Unless you like other teams than the ones I like.

Goodbye.

There's a Portrait

2007-08-21T13:49:00.001-07:00

The best e-mail address of all time is officially:

I_Have_Email@email.sex

Plays in the street as the cold wind blows

2007-08-20T10:34:00.000-07:00

The top floor of a ten-story building in Angevine City, in the heart of Crumland, housed the office of the Prime Minister. The Prime Minister of Crumland was a dangerous position, subject to constant assassination attempts perpetrated by the disgruntled and adventurous. The ten-floor edifice in question often served as the focal point of such intrigue.

The nebbish building manager, though he valued protection, found himself at the mercy of budget restrictions. He decided to implement an electronic swipe-card system, which, though pricey as a one-time fee, would allow him to lay off every security guard. After four months, he'd recoup his original expense, and in a year he'd have saved a goodly sum. Assassins, he reasoned, would be unable to get past the unyielding turnstiles without proper identification.

Four days after the system was implemented, three assassins vaulted the turnstile, took the elevator to the top floor, and shot the Prime Minister fourteen times in the face. Because there were no security guards in the building, they managed to escape before the notoriously slow Angevine City Police arrived.

The next Prime Minister moved in the following day, and the nebbish building manager realized he'd have to take further steps for protection. He removed the turnstiles, hired one security guard, and built a chain link fence in the lobby. Only the guard could open the fence's single gate, and only when shown proper identification.

One week later, four assassins entered and told the guard they'd shoot him if he didn't open the gate. The guard complied, opened the gate, and was shot. The assassins took the elevator to the top floor and shot the Prime Minister forty-six times in the gut. Because the building's lone security guard was neutralized, the assassins escaped before the Angevine City Police could dispatch a car to the scene.

The next Prime Minister moved in after the weekend, and the nebbish building manager destroyed the chain link fence. In its stead, he had a large cement wall built in the lobby, ensuring that no assassins could pass through. Because the builders constructed the wall on a night when the Prime Minister was working late, he effectively isolated the new leader inside. For two weeks nobody could enter or leave, but the manager stuck obstinately to his new policy, arguing that at last the Prime Minister was safe. On the fifteenth day, the Prime Minister, on the verge of starvation, took the elevator to the second floor, jumped out the window, and survived with mere scrapes. He found a pay phone and dialed the Angevine City Police, who vowed to send a car. Unfortunately, ten assassins were tipped off, arrived before the precinct telephone operator remembered to report the call, and shot the Prime Minister eighty-nine times in the carotid artery.

The nebbish building manager had the wall destroyed with a wrecking ball, and the new Prime Minister moved in the following week. All security guards were re-hired, installed outside the leader's office, and ordered to shoot any person taking the elevator to the top floor, with no exceptions. On the second morning, the first security guard to arrive shot the rest of the security guards as they tried to exit the elevator, and then shot the Prime Minister, who had slept late. In the Angevine Medical Center, the Prime Minister made a slow recovery until sixteen assassins found his room and shot him three hundred and twenty-four times in the small intestine. The Police Department arrived on scene six days later, after getting severely lost in the city's labyrinthine streets.

The next Prime Minister moved in a month later, and the nebbish building manager, changing tactics, had flyers posted all across the city saying that the new leader was dead. This, he reasoned, would prevent any and all assassination attempts. The news was shown on all major stations, printed in every newspaper, and led each radio broadcast. The ubiquitous false report of the Prime Minister's death depressed the Prime Minister so much that he killed himself.

At his funeral, one hundred assassins disguised in priestly vestments shot him six thousand, eight hundred, sixty-four times in the adrenal gland. The police investigation began three months later, but stalled when nobody could find the proper grave.

Come disconnect the dots with me, poppet

2007-08-16T08:34:00.000-07:00

David the Collie craned his neck and bayed. Down his genetic line lingered the ghost of a wolf ancestor, and some lucky recombinance made the atavism surface on clear nights. Julie knelt by his side and stroked the golden mane. The name came from a chapter of her brother's history book, about the war, when the Jews wore their yellow insignias. "Star of David" sounded fierce, like a shield or torch held by an ancient watchman. She wished the symbol had existed to protect, but it just marked them instead.

Her dog would be a protector. By an instinct needing no experience, she knew you couldn't keep someone from choosing you as an enemy like the Nazis had done; that everyone brave gets their own Nazi.

They wandered far into the pasture, and the motion lights on the long porch dimmed and died. Hidden among the withered wheatgrass, Julie leaned into the panting dog's warmth. She followed his gaze, and the moon's bludgeoned eye returned the ache in gloomy, muted white. David's longing echoed her own, throbbing tonight and always with the wrenching distance of faith.

A Confusing Incident

2007-08-14T12:50:00.000-07:00

I was on Third Avenue, coming home with a bag of two Spicy Tuna Rolls from a restaurant called Sushi Time, when I spotted a very attractive, young brunette just ahead of me. She had dark, shining hair, long legs, and was chattering into a cell phone. A small boy, maybe 7, trotted on her left, and she patted him on the head. I wondered if the boy was hers. She seemed too young to have a kid that old, but you never know.

I watched for a long while, thinking about things, but pretty soon I overtook her on the left. Her arm was swinging, and I guess one of us veered toward the other, and for an accidental second our hands met, and one or both of us, in that instant of contact, clutched.

She looked over, I began to mumble an apology, and she said "I love you."

For a strange moment, gazing into her brown eyes, I felt really connected. It didn't matter that she might have a kid. Maybe that was just the thing I needed to grow up, to mature into a man. It all seemed perfect, like fate was finally looking out for me.

"I love you too," I said, and reached for her hand.

"I was talking on the phone," she responded, and jerked her arm away.

I had forgotten about the cell, invisible on her right side. I thought she'd just been fixing her hair.

"I wouldn't want someone with a kid, anyway" I said.

"I'm babysitting him," she told me.

Thinking quickly, I hailed a cab. The driver got mad when I asked him to drop me off a block away, at my work, so I tipped him ten dollars. The whole thing took so long that the girl caught up with me, and I had to sprint to my office to avoid any more conversation.

What a confusing incident.

SNAPSHOTS! NEW YORK CITY! GLAMOUR!

2007-08-13T13:15:00.000-07:00

On the subway, the white boy with the buzz-cut, jean shorts, and black sneakers glances at me over sunglasses to let me know just how rough he might be. The hipster with the Colin Melloy hair uses serene hipster eyes to seduce a girl leaning against the door. Both men do well in their respective haunts, I imagine. Later, in the bank, the slim Asian girl with the odd sagging ass can't stop looking back at me. I wonder if this is a weird flirting ritual or if something's amiss in my appearance. I've just come from the coin machine, depositing maybe four months worth of change. If you guess near the final total, you get a prize...a Commerce Bank pen, I think. I guess 47 dollars and 34 cents. The actual total is 116 dollars and 76 cents. The Blarney Stone at 3pm is already full of ruddy middle-aged Irish Americans, or Americans who want to be Irish, and one of them comes to the serving line to speak to the Hispanic cook. He praises the chicken cutlet. "It's good," he repeats four times, with other words sprinkled between. His inflection is surprised. The Times puzzle is a cinch, and I have time to read an article about a television show where a man named Mystery teaches virginal white boys to seduce women with social manipulations. The writer, a woman named Virginia, ends the article by calling Mystery's tactics "ingenious." Then another article talks about a crap show with David Duchovny as a New York writer in Los Angeles with writer's block. But Alessandra the writer and I both know that writer's block is bollocks. Saying that now, I don't even feel inclined to knock on wood. On Third Avenue again, a blond from behind looks beautiful in a white dress until I overtake her and see she's older by fifteen years than first imagined, and inside the lobby of my building the security guards have new card readers that don't beep like the old ones. Maybe I'll knock on wood anyway.

Hilarious and/or Apropos Take-Offs on Common Adages, Part 1

2007-08-13T07:22:00.000-07:00

You can lead the Norse to slaughter, but you can't make them slink.

MORAL: Scandinavians are brave to a fault.

Two Videos I made

2007-07-31T07:15:00.000-07:00

Below you'll find two YouTube videos I made recently for a Video Sketch class at the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theatre. The first is a straight-up comedy featuring my friend Brandon, while the second is a drama/comedy featuring, among others, John Adams Atchley, III.

Parable 1

2007-07-30T09:31:00.000-07:00

Edward's headphones were made of synthetic styrofoam, and conformed to the contours of his inner ear. Their design effectively blocked outside noise, which proved especially convenient on his morning subway commute.

One September, at the end of a long summer, the city buckled and burned under the season's final heat wave. The eyes of the citizenry were tinted rageful red, and exhaustion dueled with fury for atmospheric dominance. On Edward's C train, the air conditioning unit had malfunctioned, and pressing bodies, athrob with discomfort, shared their temperature. Edward wore a large blue backpack, filled with library books to be returned at lunch, and while he dimmed his thoughts in deference to the music, a grinning rider unzipped the bag's small pocket in tentative increments. Inside, he found a cell phone, a pair of keys, and various receipts, all of which he kept. Others on the train saw him, and some began to protest, but the man took a pistol from his left pocket, and his grin increased when he showed them. He brought one finger to his lips, and the gun tilted down.

Edward remained oblivious.

At the next stop, the man with the gun stepped off, and a woman tapped Edward on the shoulders. He removed his earphones, and she told him everything. "Why didn't you stop him?" he asked, and she told him about the gun.

While the train waited in the station, the doors remained ajar. Edward raced out, and another passenger stepped onto the platform. He pointed at a departing figure, and Edward gave chase.

The gunman took his time, and Edward caught up at the turnstiles. Both slowed while they exited the station, and Edward's energy dissipated as he considered his next course of action. "Hey," he said, and the man turned around. "You stole from my backpack."

"And what'll you do?" said the man. His hand drifted. Edward felt compelled to move, and because the man fumbled his weapon, the altercation became immediate. The gun stayed in the man's pocket until a pen had wrenched his eye from the socket, and then he spun around, howling, and shot all six bullets into the ceiling. Edward ducked. Everyone ducked. Soon the gun clicked, empty, and pieces of debris fell from the cement ceiling of the station.

The police questioning lasted two hours, all processes included, and Edward was free. At the desk, he picked up his phone and keys in a plastic bag. The man was arrested.

Afterward, Edward feared the man with one eye. He spent two years worried that they'd meet on a late night, in the subways, where the man would have his revenge and more. He looked over his shoulder with increasing frequency, and anyone who fit the man's build, even slightly, quickened his pulse.

On the second anniversary of the incident, Edward had a breakdown. He moved out of the city, and for a time his life returned to a liveable state. He married and had children, and gradually, as the children grew, his fear returned. He began to worry about revenge on his family, enacted with all the ferocity of satisfaction delayed. He saw the man with one eye wherever he looked, and his sleep was interrupted by nightmares.

The stress ate, and soon his wife left with the children. Edward felt some relief, thinking this cleared them from the one-eyed man's revenge, but his own fear persisted. Soon, he left the country.

This too proved a measure short, and he underwent plastic surgery, changed his name, and moved again.

For twent years he lived this way, until business forced him, one summer, to return to the city.

The trip found Edward distraught, and before he'd been two hours out of the airport, he returned to the police station. There, he explained his history and requested records on the whereabouts of the assailant. This information was confidential, and his request met an official denial, but the clerk followed him outside, and the two struck a deal. An hour later, they reconvened on a nearby street corner, and copies were exchanged for money.

The records said the man had died twelve years prior of a heroin overdose.

Edward considered.

The one-eyed man had faked his own death, he decided. He'd gone underground, dispatching his own identity, and had been hot on Edward's trail since.

Edward had another breakdown, and his wife paid for him to live in a rest home in the country. Drugs kept him mostly sedated, but the image of his pursuer never left, and he never achieved the rest that would let him leave the home.

As he died, old and withered, Edward looked up at the faces of his children, but all he saw was a man with one eye.

Accepted McSweeney's article

2007-07-26T08:27:00.001-07:00

The good folks at McSweeney's have finally come to their senses and accepted a piece of mine for the main page. Previously they'd rejected me twice, accepted a piece for their Short Imagined Monologues section, and followed this minor validation with the heinous error of rejecting the spectacular piece you can read in the previous entry. Now, on try #5, I've cracked the front page. Hurrah! Here's a sneak preview. By 'sneak preview,' I mean to say that I'm pasting the entire thing into my blog. It's a magnum opus of humor and egotism, and it would be a crying shame to isolate it to one humor magazine, no matter how well-respected. I don't know when it will go on McSweeney's. They just say "in the queue," without giving any hints as to the length of said queue.

People Whose Names Are Anagrams of My Own- Shane Patrick Ryan- Hold a Town Meeting

SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: Alright, everybody, let's settle down and take a seat.

"PANICKY" SARA RENTH: I'd rather stand.

SHERRY ANNA PATICK: That's fine, Sara. (she bangs a gavel) As Mayor of Bluff Creek, I call this meeting to order. Mr. Anikaph, please proceed.

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Tonight's first order of business is-

PHANTASIA KRYNCER: Why is Secretary Anikaph's placard spelled wrong?

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: For the last time, I am NOT a secretary! I'm just helping Sherry keep things in order. Secratary is my first name, it's Romanian, and yes, it's spelled differently. Can we move on, Phantasia?

PHANTASIA KRYNCER: Fine with me.

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Thank you. Now, the first order of business is the vandalism problem, which has only gotten worse since last month's meeting. In the past week, the town's front lawns have been littered with garbage, most of it stolen from the landfill.

CHRIS P.A. TANNYAKER: Isn't the culprit obvious? It has to be Trash-Can Rik.

"TRASH-CAN" RIK PAYNE: Excuse me? I take offense to that, Chris! You're new to Bluff Creek, so maybe you didn't know, but my nickname stems from a deep commitment to proper waste disposal.

SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: That's true. Rik's done a lot of good. This hits him harder than anyone.

CHRIS P.A. TANNYAKER: My apologies. In that case, I'd look to the town drunk. The vandal strikes at night, right? I'd bet alcohol plays a big role.

"TIPSY" KAREN CHARNA: Go to hell, Chris!

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Everyone calm down! We won't get anywhere with all this shouting! I see a hand…go ahead, Seth.

SETH, AN ARYAN PRICK: Have you questioned all the minorities?

(loud boos)

SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: Seth, we've talked about this before. If you're going to be racist, we'll ask you not to attend the meetings.

SETH, AN ARYAN PRICK: I'm just saying…

HARRY STANCAK PINE: Look, I hate to say this, but maybe Seth, in his backward way, has a point. Bluff Creek is a small, insular community, and we natives have a way of being cold to outsiders. Couldn't the guilty party be a disgruntled out-of-towner?

SIR CARY K. TANNAPHER: Surely you don't include me among the accused!

HARRY STANCAK PINE: Well, no, it probably wasn't you…

SIR CARY K. TANNAPHER: A Knight of the Crown has no business among trash! Further, he will not stand to be so impugned!

HARRY STANCAK PINE: What about the Greek guy? He's always angry.

PHINEAS CINTAKARRY: I have a name, you bastard!

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Order! Order! It's unfair to accuse outsiders with no evidence, Harry. And look, maybe this is endemic of a bigger problem…let's face it, there's just not enough space at the landfill. People are more wasteful than ever, especially the youth.

HENRY "PACK RAT" NISA: I disagree. I'm only seventeen, but very thrifty.

HENRY "RAT PACK" NISA: Anyone want to go watch a Dean Martin film?

HENRY "PACK RAT" NISA: Be quiet, dad!

HENRY "PARK ACT" NISA: I still support the 1881 Yellowstone Park Act.

HENRY "PACK RAT" NISA: Grandpa, you're embarrassing me!

SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: People, can we focus? Does anybody have a valid idea on how to stop the vandalism?

PERRY TANIACI KNASH: Yeah, I've got an idea. I've got a great idea. Let's ask Icy Pants.

"ICY PANTS" HANNAKER: If one more person calls me Icy Pants, based on nothing more than the fact that I have a Norwegian last name, I am going to fucking explode!

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Why don't you address the allegation? Where were you on the nights in question?

"ICY PANTS" HANNAKER: Gee, I don't know, maybe I was de-frosting my jeans, Secratary!

PHANTASIA KRYNCER: He's not a real secretary.

PERRY TANIACI KNASH: So you do have icy pants!

"ICY PANTS" HANNAKER: I was being sarcastic!

"PANICKY" SARA RENTH: What if it's terrorism??

ATICAS PHERRYKANN: Oh God, I see where this is going.

SETH, AN ARYAN PRICK: I bet you do. Careful everyone, Mr. Muslim extremist here might be strapped with dynamite!

ATICAS PHERRYKANN: Seth, you have known me your entire life. You see me every weekend at church, and, further, you know my last name is German. It is different- I repeat, different- from Louis Farrakhan. Who, for the record, is also not a terrorist.

SETH, AN ARYAN PRICK: Well what about-

PAT NYACKER SIRHAN: Seth, I know what you're about to say, and I'm warning you to stop.

SHERRY ANNA TAPICK: Enough! If nobody can be civil, I'm ready to adjourn this meeting, and the trash problem will continue unabated!

STEPHANIK CANARRY: Pardonnez-moi, si vous plait. I may only be the town's hair stylist, but there is one man whom nobody has mentioned. I'm speaking of the mysterious Armenian butcher.

"PANICKY" SARA RENTH: Cipher Syntarakan!

(The back doors burst open)

CIPHER SYNTARAKAN: Did someone say my name?

(general gasps)

CIPHER SYNTARAKAN: That's right, citizens of Bluff Creek. It was me! I dumped trash on everyone's lawn! And I'm talking everyone! I'm talking Ayn Tanrick Parish, the girl named after Ayn Rand. I'm talking Yanshir Trespancek, the Bosnian refugee! I'm talking Terin "Ash Can" Pyrak, the chain smoker! I'm talking "Prankster" Cay Hain and his lesser-known sidekick, "Prankish" Arny Cept, who finally got a taste of their own medicine! I'm talking H.N. "Paris Racket" Nya, the man who runs the French black market. I'm talking "Aspen" Ricky Hartan, the arrogant rich guy who skis a lot! I'm talking NN Party-ac, i.e. Shark, who I'm not real sure what his deal is, except that he creeps me out pretty bad. I'm talking-

SECRATARY ANIKAPH: Enough! Someone subdue that man!

(Cipher Syntarakan throws smoke capsules to the ground. When the smoke clears, he has escaped. Only a note remains, pinned to the door. It reads "I escpr! Ran! Thnk ya!")

"TIPSY" KAREN CHARNA: Did something just happen?

Rejected McSweeney's article

2007-07-02T07:52:00.001-07:00

As everyone who reads this blog probably already knows, I recently had an article accepted at McSweeney's. My first two submissions were rejected, and they accepted my third. In a fit of inspiration, I wrote and submitted my fourth on Friday, and received a rejection notice this morning. Although the good people of that website don't agree, I liked this better than the piece they accepted, so I'll post it here. Some of you may recognize the poem from an earlier blog installment. On a sad side note, I tried to copy and paste from Word into gmail, and while it looked okay in my submission, the rejection revealed that it was interspersed with long, strange bits of gmail links. The editor probably didn't even bother to read it. It looked such a mess, I can't say I blame him. Enjoy!

A Poetic Recap of the Hypothetical Dogfight Between WWI Flying Aces Eddie Rickenbacker and Manfred von Richthofen, aka “The Red Baron,” as Written by an Enthusiastic Patriot to Celebrate Independence Day in America, with Endnote Commentary by a Humorless Historian.

FLYING CIRCUS [1]

Fearless Eddie Rickenbacker [2]
left his helmet in the locker [3]
and said unto Le'gens du arme, [4]
"Today my soul is free from harm."
He swaggered to the waiting plane-
a Nieuport 28 from Spain- [5]
and once the rear guns were aligned [6]
(and confidential papers signed), [7]
he made the tiny engine sing [8]
and woe! the Hat (was) in-the-Ring. [9]

Sipping on his grail of tea, [10]
the Baron smiled, sick with glee. [11]
He thought of evil things he'd do
aboard the Albatross D-2. [12]
A finger traced the Kaiser's crest; [13]
the wicked German beat his breast. [14]
Soon with gestures quick and mean,
he drank a human blood canteen [15]
and in a flash- his craft aloft-
the deathly red beret was doffed! [16]

The pilots met above the lake
called Vunderlee ("the steady drake") [17]
and circled twice around before
they made their silver missiles roar. [18]
But Rickenbacker saw his chance:
he flew up close, he drew his lance [19]
and leapt into the German plane- [20]
a tactic some had called "insane." [21]
But with a shout of "U-S-A!" [22]
he slew the Nazi; Oh, hooray! [23] [24]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[1] A reference to Von Richthofen's Jagdgeschwader 1 air unit.

[2] Eddie Rickenbacker's first flight, on April 29, 1918, came eight days after the Red Baron's death.

[3] The practice of flying without a helmet is forbidden by military protocol, and there is no indication that any pilot seriously challenged the rule.

[4] Rickenbacker, an American, would not have reported to a gendarme, a title which describes a French military policeman. Its inclusion would seem to be for convenience of rhyme only. In addition, the French spelling is inaccurate.

[5] While I'm surprised to report that Rickenbacker did, in fact, fly the Nieuport 28, none of this model were ever manufactured in Spain. Again, rhyme would seem to be a motivating factor.

[6] This is wholly spurious as a supposed preparation for combat.

[7] See #6.

[8] The engine was actually larger than average for WWI-era aircraft. It is unclear why the adjective "tiny" is utilized.

[9] A reference to the 94th Aero Squadron, sometimes called "The Hat-in-the-Ring Squadron."

[10] There are no historical documents to confirm that Von Richthofen drank tea, much less from a grail.

[11] Any assumption of sadism would also appear to be poetic license.

[12] At the time of this hypothetical encounter, Von Richthofen had switched to the Albatross D-III for its superior maneuverability.

[13] No such emblem existed.

[14] Along with being inaccurate, this line may be borderline offensive.

[15] See #14. Completely unsupported by historical evidence.

[16] As stated in endnote #3, aviators wore helmets, not "deathly" berets.

[17] There is no lake in Germany called "Vunderlee." Further, the word itself is nonsense, and does not translate to anything resembling "The Steady Drake."

[18] Neither plane was outfitted with missiles, silver or otherwise.

[19] The idea of a pilot carrying a lance, in any epoch of aerial combat, is preposterous.

[20] Even in the context of the poem's largely questionable content, I find this detail especially unrealistic for reasons too numerous to list.

[21] This tactic has never been seriously discussed by military strategists.

[22] Such a shout would be inaudible above the engine's din.

[23] Nazis did not exist in World War I. This line displays a stunning lack of research and passively condones a harmful stereotype about the German population.

[24] As a final comment, I feel obliged to point out that the aftermath of such a stunt would be highly problematic for Rickenbacker, who, after a series of unlikely acrobatics, would now find himself alone in an enemy plane. The act of landing the plane in a friendly field would prove extremely difficult. In light of this and other shortcomings, I'm sorry to report that I cannot give this poem an official endorsement.

Musings on Harry Potter

2007-05-29T10:12:00.001-07:00

I was speaking with my ex-girlfriend on The Google Chat, and she mentioned that her chief desire at the moment was to curl up on her couch with Harry Potter.

Being a waggish devil from way back, I asked whether she meant the book or the man himself. She said both.

This brought to mind a scenario where a girl lays on her couch, reading, with Harry Potter sitting on the floor watching his television programs.

"What're you reading?" Harry asks absent-mindedly.

"Ummm..." replies the girl.

This situation is awkward at best, and I was sorry I ever posed the jocular question.

TODAY'S LESSON: Mind your jokes, young man!

When Parodies are Lamer than the Original

2007-05-02T10:13:00.000-07:00

This happens on occasion.

Example:

Those Inspiration/Motivation/Whatever posters with a positive word, a nature picture, and a caption.

These are pretty lame. You can find them in a dentist's office or on the living room walls of well-meaning middle-aged mothers. However, the parodies, with titles like Indifference, Stupidity, or Laziness, are lamer. They are not funny, and what's the story...are they meant to shock dentists or moms? Are they meant to signal rebellion against the establishment? It doesn't work- even if moms or dentists are authority, they're too kindly.

Example:

The periodic table of elements.

This is extremely useful as a scientific guide, make no mistake. The periodic table of drinking elements, which some may argue is not a parody at all, is nonetheless a lame college thing to hang. I never walked into any dorms and saw an actual periodic table adorning the wall, but if I did, I'd be impressed.

Example:

Jeopardy.

This is a tough call. The SNL parodies are pretty funny, but in the end, Jeopardy is just a sweet quiz show that provides hours of enjoyment (aggregate). The parody is lamer.

Example:

Paris Hilton

I've seen a million Paris Hilton parodies, but none of them are ever funny. They are the only things in the world lamer than Paris Hilton, except possibly Paris Hilton look-alikes. Also, Paris Hilton parodies never made a pretty good sex tape.

Example:

Life

While the magazine and the board game are semi-interesting, they cannot compare to the original cereal, or its cinnamon offshoot.

Example:

Bohemian Rhapsody

Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" doesn't even sound like the awesome Queen song, and is a pretty lame parody.

Spring Spring Spring

2007-04-23T06:06:00.000-07:00

I'm in a good state of mind at the moment. Thanks for tolerating uninteresting entries. Or you're welcome for variety. The ToM will roll on, these things need to incubate.

Plot of an upcoming story:

Girl in park, lonely
Notices guys walk by, wonders if they'd be reliable
Makes a composite sketch of her favorite guys, stealing features from each
Projects mental/emotional qualities on them, takes the best for her composite
Goes home, writes it all up into a Classified Ad
Sleeps on it, decides to submit
Gets a load of responses
Sets them all up to meet at the same place, same time in the park by a monument
Goes herself
Ten women show up, at first worried about the others
Eventually realize the set-up, one cries, some laugh, others just leave
Four agree to grab a drink, including our heroine
Something happens that night

Look for that one in Harper's or maybe The New Yorker.

This weekend was beautiful. Spent time outdoors, running and reading and the like. Last night I finally saw Contempt, and thought of this quote, which may not be original and may not be true: Women are essentially simple and spend their lives pretending to be complicated, while men are a jumble and spend their lives pretending to be simple.

The more I think about it, that's probably tripe. Not a good idea to generalize, but I bet we could find at least two humans in the world to whom it applies, so there's truth in it. It passes the world's most lenient test of worth. Good thing, too, my thoughts need to be mollycoddled.

Contempt was great, ps. So far by Godard I've seen:

Contempt
My Life to Live
Band of Outsiders
Breathless

They've all been good. Band of Outsiders was my favorite, but Breathless and Contempt were both great. My Life to Live dragged a bit, but I still give it a positive rating.

On that topic, here is my list of the best American films of 1970s. That's my favorite decade for movies, and these are my favorites. No order, there are twelve total.

Five Easy Pieces - 1971

Exceptionally well-acted film featuring Jack Nicholson, it's basically the story of a talented guy who can't get his life together and hurts a lot of people because of a selfish/noncommittal streak. Interesting to note the director did a few great films in the 70s, then somehow found his way to directing straight to video pornos.

M*A*S*H - 1970

One of the first from Robert Altman, this one is about a MASH unit in the Korean War trying to deal with the shitty realities all around. Very sad, but also one of my top 5 comedies of all time.

Nashville - 1975

Another Altman film, and the last I'll include, though there could be more. This is the man at the peak of his directorial style. The ensemble cast flits in and out of the country music scene in the titular city, building up to an outdoor festival organized on behalf of a populist presidential candidate. Amazing story, great acting all around.

The Conversation - 1974

The outstanding factoid about this film is that Coppola made it as a side project between Godfather 1 and 2. Starring Gene Hackman, it's the story of a sound technician coming face to face with the implications of his job. Was nominated for Best Picture and lost to...The Godfather part 2.

The French Connection - 1971

Gritty, suspenseful detective film starring Gene Hackman. Nothing much to say about this one, just that it's a masterpiece.

The Deer Hunter - 1978

Robert Deniro and Christopher Walken star as small town boys from Pennsylvania steel country who get called on to serve in Vietnam. From the magnificent montage of a Russian orthodox wedding to the disturbing war scenes, to the desolate afterword, this gets my vote for the best of the Vietnam films.

Midnight Cowboy - 1969

Yeah yeah, it's 1969, but it won the Best Picture oscar in 1970, so I'm counting it. Jon Voight plays a Texan with a troubled past who comes to the big city trying to make a career as a gigolo. Enter his pal, Ratso Rizzo, played by the greatest actor of our time, Dustin Hoffman. The relationship between the two is (in my opinion, of course) the best friend dynamic in the history of cinema. Sad stuff.

Dog Day Afternoon - 1975

Al Pacino is a novice bank robber trying to appropriate some funds for his gay lover's sex change operation. Smart, funny, tense, and depressing, I've always found it to be Pacino's best performance.

Deliverance - 1972

Based on James Dickey's novel, this one stars Burt Reynolds and Jon Voight as two of four pals who take a canoe trip through the deep woods of the south. Things go bad, and the friends are forced to rely on one another to make it back to civilization. Voight is incredible.

Badlands - 1973

Terrence Malick's first film, about an outlaw and his teenage girlfriend going on a killing spree. Martin Sheen plays the lead in a logical forerunner to his turn on The West Wing. Or not. Beautiful landscapes of the Dakota badlands.

The Last Detail - 1973

Another Ashby film, this one with Jack Nicholson and Randy Quaid, about two soldiers assigned to take a kleptomaniac to a military brig in the northeast where he's been sentenced to ten years. They decide to give him a good time on the way. A very gray movie, heavy and sad as snow, but also funny.

I made that list a while ago, and it would probably change now if I really thought about it. I should probably see One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest again, that probably belongs there. Also, I didn't include The Godfather movies on purpose, even though they were awesome. Too obvious. Clockwork Orange could be up there too.

Man, Jack Nicholson had a really good decade. Check this out:

Easy Rider (1969)
Five Easy Pieces (1970)
The Last Detail (1973)
Chinatown (1974)
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975)
The Shining (1979)

Those are six films to hang your hat on.

Okay, enjoy the weather. Go running and listen to breezy music. Maybe The Papercuts' album "Don't Go Back," if you feel like a recommendation.

This one's for Egypt

2007-04-19T10:19:00.000-07:00

After Spring

Your sister called them agents
when she saw the flag branded
on the steel-blue hull. You waited
through fog, through morning-

her artistic anger stewed
like years before when bitter cold
kept you inside with dad sequestered
and the poor woman unwanted by all
we could name except the coddled mutt
who broke her with a preference
for slight affection and its reluctant crown
rising between crests of irritation
and a cry for old solitude
fashionably recollected in that house
of trap doors and high ceilings
where whispering walls urged
blistering children in limited roles
to loathe the general and vaunt
lonely souls until over-exposure
cast them in harsh tones magnified
to degrees no hero could withstand
when they seared and the waves broke
to be felt all over those rooms
cold and whistling with winter drafts
Little man the warmth has a cost
we never lacked but Little man keep
a clenched fist for the memory
of days when it wasn’t so easy

but it never felt easy
when silence would summon
a ghost with its gavel
while she walked on shattering
shells with a grimace
recalling the moment
abroad in the autumn
his breakable knee when
she could have cried murder
and kept every future
from choosing the tunnel
where views of a gold street
illumined the targets
who caught all the excess
to aid our survival
each day in that fort
that was built like a prison
and how could we know,
the quiet believers,
that all of the windows
could double as mirrors
reflecting the judgments
in clever disguises as
you tried the feat
of escaping in pages
where words from a genius
brought tears and resentment
for all you imagined
kept hidden in corners
so jealously guarded
by dragons with faces
like neighbors and leaders
and every intention
just hammered and hammered
your delicate smile
until it was bitten
by years that had never
been lived by me either

And all that I’m good for
abroad in the summer
is squinting at schooners
that sail from the harbor
and nod through our silence
and heighten the wonder
of finding the angel
again in the ether

See that I’m here,
little sister
you know me-
when you want your own
you just have to ask me.

ToM: West Region, Second Round Results

2007-04-17T10:26:00.000-07:00

(1) Google
def.
(5) Outer Space, as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys

For a passing moment last evening, it looked as though the tournament's overwhelming favorite had begun to retreat. Google, straying for the first time from its YouTube attack, sent out a battalion of American bloggers to confront Outer Space, as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys. Armed only with ennui and questionable writing ability, the bloggers were quickly decimated by a series of sickly green, pulsating moons whose three hundred mucous-coated lips spewed devil-red saliva which burned faces and condemned souls to Hell (as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys.*)

Acting on their early momentum, Outer Space charged ahead, determined to mount an advance on the central Google server. On its way, however, a concave construct of projector screens played the YouTube-embedded music video "Tonight, Tonight" by the Smashing Pumpkins on repeat. Outer Space slowed, multiple mouths agape, and eventually oozed to a complete bilious stop. One word could be heard repeating like a chant from the collective voice, and it was "Heaven."

Capitalizing on the revelry, Google used thousands of antique Civil War mines purchased illegally on Froogle to annihilate the enemy. Because Elizabethans had no concept of the vastness of the universe, and could only consider outer space on their small terrestrial terms, the internet monolith finished the job in less than fifteen minutes. Following the victory, reporters speculated that the "Tonight, Tonight" sting had been the primary plan all along, and the initial ruinous offensive had simply been a convenient way for Google to thin its bulky ranks of bloggers.

*Their conception of hell is much more accurate than their conception of space.

(2) Unreliable Husbands of the Old West
def.
(3) Bread

Unlike Newt Gingrich, who could not resist the temptation of bread and eventually succumbed in gluttonous fashion, Unreliable Husbands of the Old West showed zero dependence on the ubiquitous vittle. They seemed content to consume an endless supply of tequila and vodka, produced from agave and potatoes, respectively. "We gets our starch from the tsar's madeira," commented one vagrant, using one of vodka's many nicknames and showing a surprising worldliness for a fellow of his stripe.*

Onlookers applauded the rebellious spirit. One loquacious gentleman stood upon an actual soap box and declaimed on behalf of the itinerants. "Truly, these heroes have embodied the American spirit of dependence! We are not slaves to any man or substance, be it red or bread! Like those tax-weary colonists whose bravery preceeded them, our courageous Unreliable Husbands cast off the yoke of grain which has so dominated human cuisine since-"

At this point, the man was accidentally shot by an errant bullet from saloon festivities, becoming the third bystander casualty of the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS. Nevertheless, the spirit of his remarks pervaded and took root, and Unreliable Husbands of the Old West earned a strong win and the right to play Google for the West Region Championship.

*It was later discovered that this person was not an Unreliable Husband of the Old West, but a confused cast member of the HBO television show "Deadwood."

WEST REGION CHAMPIONSHIP:

(1) Google
vs.
(2) Unreliable Husbands of the Old West

ToM: Midwest Region, Second Round Results

2007-04-16T07:45:00.000-07:00

(5) Bobbing For Apples
def.
(1) The Rosetta Stone

In a year replete with surprise upsets, it should come as no shock that Sunday's action saw two underdogs advance to the Midwest Regional Championship. In the opening match, yet another top seed fell, leaving Google as the tournament's only surviving one-seed. The Rosetta Stone, after violently decimating Babe the Blue Ox in the first round, came into the day as heavy favorites against insouciant upstart Bobbing For Apples. Sticking with the tactic that proved so effective against Babe, the Stone invoked ancient Gods and scaled the firmament's of a rust-red barn directly over a group of children engaged in the eponymous opposition activity.

At the apex of the slanting tin roof, poised next to a rooster-bedecked weather vane, the Stone tumbled forth with deadly accuracy. Yet at that exact moment, one of the children below had captured a rosy fruit and stood to celebrate. The four other competitors lifted their heads to view the spectacle, and the descending Rosetta Stone landed directly in the full barrel, impacting none of their heads.

Though some water was displaced by the splash, enough remained to completely cover the fallen tablet. Terrified, the children sprinted away screaming, and Rosetta Stone proponents insisted that the retreat signified forfeit. Officials on scene agreed, and only required that the submerged stele free itself from the barrel to claim victory. Hopeful supporters kept a vigil for three hours, but despite a prodigious climbing ability, swimming was beyond its means. As the sun reached its meridian, and activity inside the barrel ceased, officials congregated and determined that the children had instigated the match's only successful maneuver by eluding the crashing slab, and thereby earned advancement.

(7) Toothpaste
def.
(3) Greenery Day in Japan

The evening match can effectively be called a case of poor luck, with a determined, strong competitor handcuffed into serving its opponent with each well-intentioned advance. Known for unerring discipline and tireless work ethic, Greenery Day's army of tree-planters went to work fast and early, sprouting new and variegated forests in trademark fashion. Predictably, oxygen levels rose, which in the past has hindered opponents and led to victory.

With Toothpaste, however, Greenery Day faced an opponent whose cleansing qualities were only fortified and enhanced by the uber-oxidized environment. Normally taken for granted as a bathroom fixture, Toothpaste's new cleansing abilities cast it into the limelight, earning universal laudations. Before day's end, Toothpaste had booked an interview slot on The Morning Show, been chosen as Time's Man of the Year, and had its cardboard container officially selected by Oprah's Book Club.

Relegated to anonymity, Greenery Day in Japan proved incapable of variety, instead clinging robotically to the original blueprint. Upon notification that Toothpaste was the overwhelming winner, the Greenery Day Army committed mass suicide by impaling themselves through the pointed crowns of Bonsai trees. In a gesture of sportsmanship, Toothpaste offered to clean the teeth of the dead, but only on the condition that they receive a Christian burial. The terms were rejected by His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Akihito.

MIDWEST REGION CHAMPIONSHIP:

(5) Bobbing for Apples
vs.
(7) Toothpaste

ToM: South Region, Second Round Results

2007-04-13T08:13:00.000-07:00

(5) The Concept of English
def.
(8) A Child's Peashooter

Following its stunning first-round upset of David & Goliath, A Child's Peashooter found itself in the unenviable position of competing sans ammunition. Its lone pea had been used to great effect against the Philistine giant, but faced with a company of wildly-spinning cue balls, it could only lie in wait for inevitable destruction.

Ineluctably, the destruction came. In mere chaotic moments, the once-proud peashooter was reduced to splinters by repeat high-velocity cue ball attacks. Yet for the second match in a row, great controversy surrounded The Concept of English's victory.

"In my mind, the win against A Child's Peashooter had nothing to do with 'English'," said renowned cellist and TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS super-fan Yo-Yo Ma. "It was just a bunch of billiards balls flying straight. Whatever spin they might have had didn't matter in the least. If this was a movie, I'd accuse the writer of rank negligence."

Following these comments, Yo-Yo Ma was bitten by several snakes, and all his cellos were destroyed in various fires.

After its first-round triumph over The Know-Nothing Party, The Concept of English faced allegations of collaboration with Pope Pius IX. It is not known whether the 19th-century Roman Catholic leader continued his support in round two, but critics maintain that the motive for revenge against a child's toy which destroyed a key figure of the Old Testament may have proved too strong a temptation to resist.

(7) Vladimir Nabokov
def.
(3) My Friend Dustin

In a see-saw battle which lasted fourteen days and featured innumerable elegant twists on the English language, history's pre-eminent novelist narrowly edged the game associative dynamo. Although the outcome was in doubt for most of the fortnight, Nabokov showed too much class over the final day, and Dustin's ambitions collapsed when he inadvertently connected two of the Russian's most famous works, completing a strange circle and verifying the author's claim that the entire breadth of human knowledge and beauty is contained within his oeuvre. As My Friend Dustin struggled to conjure some topic on which Nabokov couldn't claim influence, journalists on scene transcribed the fatal stream-of-consciousness narrative:

Dustin: "Greek...Greek History...Plato...Play-Doh...Elephant...Trunk...clothes...vacation...retreat...elite...replete...Lolita...Greek Pita...Bread...Sandwich...Peanut Butter...Jelly...Deli...Pickle...Tough Spot...Hot Spot...Hell...Heaven...Church...Bell Tower...Spire...Pyre...Funeral Pyre...Pale Fire..."

Upon uttering this last title, Dustin dropped to his knees, exhausted and demoralized. The venerable writer approached and, in a seemingly magnanimous gesture, offered his hand. When the fallen opponent reached to accept, Nabokov withdrew in a juvenile gesture. Dustin collapsed face-first in the dirt, and the Russian danced gleefully to the disgusted boos of a pro-American crowd.

As he circled the stadium, gesturing profanely to spectators, Nabokov tore his cardigan in two, revealing a t-shirt with a picture of a peashooter snapped in half. The text below read: "You're Next!" When fans began to laugh, pointing out that A Child's Peashooter had lost days before, he feigned humiliation. Yet as the mocking reached a fever pitch, the writer had another surprise in store- he ripped the t-shirt in one swoop, exposing a tattoo on his bare chest. The inked image brought a sudden hush to the arena; a series of cue balls, cracked and useless, were crushed beneath a bookshelf containing Nabokov's novels.

SOUTH REGION CHAMPIONSHIP:

(5) The Concept of English
vs.
(7) Vladimir Nabokov

ToM: East Region, Second Round Results

2007-04-11T10:09:00.000-07:00

(4) Meryl Streep
def.
(1) Creighton Blue Jays

On any normal day in the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS, a one-seed falling in the second round would be cause for surprise. But on the eve of Creighton's match against Meryl Streep, an unbelievable gaffe on the part of coach Norton Douglas made the outcome all but inevitable. Speaking to reporters in the lobby of his hotel, he called Meryl Streep's integrity into question, accusing her of poor parenting. The excerpt below captures the worst of the ill-timed remarks:

"And, what's...what's the story with her daughter...that Kate Hudson? A different last name? To me, that's just...that's being a bad mother, to put it bluntly. You don't let your kid take another last name just for the sake of having a different identity. Just so she can land a few movie roles? You let her make up a whole new name, for that? I'm sorry...maybe I'm old-fashioned, but where we come from, out in Kansas, folks stress family values. Plus, it's widely known that Kate Hudson is promiscuous. And she was terrible in that flick about the gay lawyer with AIDS."

Unfortunately for Mr. Douglas, he ignored certain key facts:

1) Kate Hudson is not widely known as promiscuous.
2) Kate Hudson's mother is Goldie Hawn, not Meryl Streep.
3) Kate Hudson did not make up her own name. Her father is the comedian Bill Hudson. It was Ms. Hawn who chose to keep her maiden name after marriage.
4) Creighton University is in Nebraska, not Kansas.
5) The 'flick about the gay lawyer with AIDS' most likely refers to "Philadelphia," starring Tom Hanks and Denzel Washington. The film did not feature Kate Hudson, Meryl Streep, or Goldie Hawn.

The story exploded in the morning papers, and popular sentiment shifted to Streep. A disheartened Creighton squad never stood a chance. Star point guard Eddie Santangelo shot a mere 1-17 from three point range, and Streep's 'Oscar Defense'- placing her various statuettes in dangerous positions on the floor- effectively hindered the Creighton attack. At the half, they had scored only 9 points, and Coach Douglas sat on the team bench with his shoulders hunched, the picture of a defeated man. Streep kicked off the second half by performing the "fuck fish" monologue from "Adaptation." The crowd erupted, unaware or unconcerned that the lines belonged to the character of John Laroche, played by Streep's co-star Chris Cooper. Completely overmatched, the Creighton players left the court to catcalls and derision.

(2) The USSR Red Army Hockey Team, 1975
def.
(6) The Atlantic Ocean

On the morning of the match, the Atlantic Ocean entered a period of widespread calm referred to as 'The Halcyon Days.' Usually occurring before the winter solstice, this legendary annual timespan ushers in fourteen days of complete calm, when not even a slight ripple disturbs the surface of the otherwise unpredictable and turbulent ocean.

Red Army team members, upon taking the ice at the neutral Reykjavik Arena, could harly believe their good luck. "I am not believing what I see," said astounded netminder Vladislav Tretiak, in broken English. "I think 'oh, maybe huge salt waters from Atlantics make us into food for fish. But no, we win. Soviet Russia win again."

And win they did, as the lone team in the arena, scoring exactly one hundred goals in three periods of play. The Atlantic's strategy of overcoming Iceland (and with it the arena and the entire Red Army team) with a series of shark-led tsunamis faltered when it couldn't summon a single wave. Coastal residents of Iceland watched in fear as thousands of sharks congregated near the shore, but their trepidation became outright joy when the creatures were forced to retreat to the deep.

"For the first time, we have defeated the sharks that have terrorized our country for centuries!" said Icelandic premier Gzryuny Ven Der Bang. In addition, national poet and songwriter Ermitz Smits-Bakker composed a new national anthem to commemorate the event. Translated, the lyrics are as follows:

Iceland!
Iceland!
You have faced the great whites!
They have come in fierce hordes!
Like they have done before!
Oh those years, they were difficult!
Difficult years, O Iceland the Brave!
Your children were eaten, oh yes!
You could not swim, except in their mouths!
But now there is one white greater!
This time a separate white knew triumph!
A white land free of sharks!
It is you to whom I refer, Iceland!
Iceland! White Country!
Iceland! White Paradise!
Now your children are not eaten!*

*It should be noted that much of the poem's beauty is inherent to the Icelandic tongue, and is therefore lost in translation. Also, there are more exclamation points in the original.

EAST REGION CHAMPIONSHIP:

(2) The USSR Red Army Hocket Team, 1975
vs.
(4) Meryl Streep

A Healthy Dose of Pain

2007-04-10T07:27:00.000-07:00

Last night I had the longest, strangest dream of my life. A bit of an epic, actually. It kept referencing itself, switching locations and people, but coming back to close the circles. Unlike most dreams, it seemed to end at the perfect spot, even though the ending was sad and a bit terrifying. I've tried to map it out here, because it's pretty interesting, but my divisions are going to be laughably imperfect. I'm reasonably sure of the sequence, and I'm positive on all the details. Unfortunately, I think there was a beginning I've forgotten, and other small details must also be gone for good. Anyway, here it is, unedited and true. I hope it's somewhat interesting for the synchronicity, if nothing else, but I'm jotting it down more for myself, so if you get bored and stop reading I can't say I blame you. However, there's a surprise ending.

1) It started in my stepfather's old blue Toyota truck. The sky was cloudy and a little dark, but it wasn't raining. The passenger seat had an old tattered seatbelt, tied off into semi-functioning strap, and I played with the frayed edges. We were driving on my high school's baseball field, heading toward the football field (it was a big complex where all fields merged, the football field doubled as the baseball outfield, and the home-side bleachers were also home-run territory). I saw sitting on the bleachers, among the crowd, three high school friends, Josh, Kyle S. and Kyle F. I waved, but they didn't see me or didn't respond.

We drove toward the endzone, over the field and without interrupting a game, and he dropped me off at the admission gate. I have a vivid memory of the corner approaching, and wondering where he'd drop me off. He had a strange habit of circling around things or leaving me off well ahead of the destination, which was always a point of anxiety. Once away, I had the feeling of being older, and was happy for it, because I knew in real high school days I'd feel self-conscious walking down the sideline among all the cool kids and upperclassmen. My stepfather drove off.

2) I moved toward the fifty yard line, feeling confident, and noting at least one familiar face standing against the small fence separating bleachers from field. Then I saw my oldest brother T. walking toward me. We both smiled and planned to shove each other at the same time. Neither succeeded, our simultaneous action only serving to disrupt each other's balance for a moment. He laughed and moved away. At this point, my friends who I was supposed to meet on the bleachers were lost from the dream. Next I saw my youngest brother K. reclined on the ground, watching the game. He was a bit older, maybe fourteen, indicating that some time had passed.

It seemed to be the first time we'd seen each other in a while, and he wasn't as shy as I remembered. He stood to hug me, and it was a bit awkward since we had different motions planned, but there was warmth. In real life, K. is one of the people I care most about in the world, even though I live far enough from home that we don't see each other as often as I'd like. In the dream, he became one of the few recurring themes. I was introduced to his girlfriend, whose name was Alissa. She was a thin girl, and seemed annoyed at something. She'd been lying down in front of him and to the right, and she stood up, gave me a quick smile, and said something cutting to K. before walking away. Interesting, because in college I made a film where the surrogate for the girl I'd been in love with was named "Alissa," and earlier that day I'd watched it for nostalgia's sake. In K. I see myself, partly, so the parallel is curious.

3) Also on the field was a step-cousin C. She was taking care of a small child I didn't know, teaching her something I can't remember, but I think came from a book. I haven't seen C. in years, so it was a strange cameo, and it somehow led to the livign room of my dad's old house. Inside, C. took the child and left, followed closely by my step-mother, who had appeared. Both seemed to be a bit condescending toward me, or mildly reproachful at least, and I wasn't sure why. Their departure left me with K. and my youngest sister S.

I somehow knew it was my sister, but she didn't look anything like my actual sister, and she didn't seem interested in seeing me. I tried to call her by old nicknames and make her laugh, but it wasn't happening, and she went away. It had become somewhat clear that I wasn't the most welcome person in the world, and nobody reacted warmly to me except K. He and I went outside to kick a soccer ball.

4) On my old front lawn the day was still overcast. We kicked the ball around a pond and three tall maples, and it was a very pleasant experience. The satisfaction of leading someone perfectly with a pass manifested itself, and this was odd because that feeling is something I get from throwing a football, not kicking a soccer ball. Nevertheless, it was the same. Finally the ball rolled down the hill and crossed the road, and threatened to roll down a gully into the forest facing our house. Somehow K. stopped it right at the edge and laughed.

5) Next I was at the football field again. A friend from college was there on the sidelines, and I said something to make him laugh. He was the kind of person who made you feel like a million bucks when he thought you were funny, but also had a way of attracting people that made them court his approval to regain that feeling. Breaking away from that group of friends was one of the difficult choices I had to make, because it led to a good deal of isolation. But I never belonged anyway, and my actions more or less made the choice for me.

6) Suddenly I was in the game, and that need for approval and belonging returned. We were starting at the softball field, though, strangely, and had to get to the endzone all the way at the admissions gate where I'd been dropped off by my stepfather before. The situation was desperate, time enough for one play only, and a full field to go. There were announcers present, somehow, and they kept talking about my love life in vague terms. We got down to the line, and my younger cousin M. was the quarterback. I was the right guard, for some reason.

Because I badly wanted to be accepted, but also wanted to trick them into winning the game, I played off the announcers and tried to sum up the desperation of the game with self-deprecation. I said "this is like trying to make love in an ice house." There was a bit of silence, and then laughter, and then my cousin the quarterback started to repeat it, but the center to my left thought he was saying 'hike' and snapped the ball. I burst through the line and sprinted for the corner. The journey there mimicked the earlier one in my stepfather's truck. I didn't have the ball, so I don't know what I was doing, but I felt surprised that nobody caught me, since I've never been fast. In any case, we tied the game with six points, and we'd have to make the extra point to win.

7) There was a celebration of the game at my old babysitter's house, which was across from my grandparent's house. K. was there again, along with a bunch of other kids. I was younger too, I think, and we all had towels. We went into the back yard, which was a swampy marsh area, and swam. It was getting late in the day, and more overcast than before. The scene had a strange feeling of post-disaster, but the kids still played happily. I went to retrieve my towel by the sidewalk after swimming, but the neighbor there (not my babysitter) told me it was my brother's towel.

8) I went across the street to my grandparent's. The day became sunny. I felt their presence by the back yard parking lot, and think I may have seen them. I left soon and walked down the road that leads to a cemetery. This was very brief, and I never reached the cemetery, and the concept of it didn't even enter my mind, I think.

9) The dream moved to a classroom. I was standing at the front, speaking with someone anonymous. Other people my age were hunched over desks. I was shorter, thinner, and had a buzz-cut. My bearing was vaguely military, or, more accurately, a poor imitation of the military tough-guy attitude, and my arms were crossed. I was telling the person the story of the game, and a lot of other things about myself. Finally, I came to the tale of a physic's test. I began to retell, but realized I'd reached the present and the test was awaiting me. The person smiled and gestured to the seat, and I took a breath and went over to begin.

10) Back at the football field, my cousin was getting ready to kick the extra point to win the game. Only my dad was around with some people I didn't know. They were fans of our rivals, and he was teasing them because he lived in their town. He made little comments that they semi-tolerated. I asked my cousin if he wanted a tee to kick from (a block, actually, black and with little divots), and he said yes. We re-hashed the game winning play, where he said my line, got the ball, and ran for a touchdown. A faceless center snapped the ball, I held it, and felt tremendous anxiety. He kicked the ball through the uprights, in my head was pure elation.

11) I returned to my babysitter's, where K. and I and the other kids were still swimming in what appeared to be questionable conditions. The old gray sky had returned. Again, I left the group and walked by a scattering of mittens everybody had thrown off before swimming. On the other side of the street, a child who was three years old at most was by himself, but didn't seem scared, just happy.

12) Back at the classroom, I was sitting next to a girl who was very kind, telling her this story with the same self-important (but not malicious) military bearing. Apparently, someone had driven by and seen the same child, and had a wrist bracelet with a number to call in case of this type of emergency. They called, and I hated this person, because they were an informant type from outside the community and didn't realize the child was tethered by an invisible string that kept it safe. A government agent came to visit the family, but he was laid back and not regimented like everyone expected, and he just gave them a warning about the child and the unsanitary swamp conditions. This was a big relief, because for whatever reason, the stakes were high in the case of conviction.

At that point, my Physics test was handed to me. It was in a booklet, and the Physis section was soggy and wet with nothing written on it. I became very worried, and told the girl I didn't do so well. "That's okay," she said. "You'll go to Newport and it won't even matter." I understood that I'd told this girl I was going to a school called Newport. I became a little hopeful, and when I flipped the pages of the book, I saw an essay. It said my name was John, and it mentioned Newport University. Soon, though, the sentences turned nonsensical and disoriented. The writing devolved into chicken scratch. It became clear that Newport was a delusion, and the last sentence of the essay contained the phrase "I have to tame the beast."

That's when I woke up. It was 3am. I looked out my window and half expected to see the devil's staring in at me. Then I checked my own thought processes to make sure I hadn't gone schizophrenic. Everything seemed to be in order, but it took me a moment to regain myself. I turned on the lamp and wrote it all down.

It's difficult, because it's impossible to capture the feeling of the dream with insufficient words, and it doesn't help that I'm interrupted at every turn. But I've never had a dream like it before, and maybe I never will. It included so many people who are important to me, the only notable exceptions being my mother and my friend Brandon. The second return to old scenes, too, is new to me. It almost followed the path of an improv show, which may mean that the system is entering my head. On paper it seems like a random jumble, but at the time it felt like an epic.

I haven't tried too hard to analyze it yet. The end, I think, signifies that my character throughout was imagining his role in things, turning real situations into fantasy, and was probably insane. This would explain the tepid reaction by everyone but K. The parallel of the original truck ride, along with the run in the football game, seems like an overlap, a person who may have imagined themselves in a real game, sprinted toward the endzone from a different field, and possibly interrupted the real game. What's really strange is that my run stopped right before it reached the real field, at the exact spot where the truck entered. So if it was an overlap, my delusion changed toward the end.

The recurring presence of K. might be an indication of my worry for his future, and his difficulty with the Alissa girlfriend character might be the prelude. It was also interesting that he was the only person to really treat me in a kind manner, other than the girl in the classroom.

Ah, this is useless and silly. In the end, I'm grateful for the dream, despite the sad ending. I think the feel of the story, the arc of the highs and lows and the general atmosphere, is more important than what it may have meant. The basic lesson I take is that even in my/John's demented state, the sadness and elation were still beautiful, maybe more so for the imagination.

She met another blind kid at a fancy dress...

2007-04-09T10:08:00.000-07:00

Cooking. For 20-somethings in New York, it is all the rage. Men don aprons in the same thoughtless manner that a child might wear a baseball cap. Fanciful dishes with exotic ingredients grace the tables of precocious couples, who eat gingerly while sipping an appropriate wine. They share secret smiles across a scratched wooden table, bound romantically, they imagine, by intricate culinary concoctions. Regional magazines adorn their covers with comprehensive, arbitrary lists of acceptable eateries. Recipe books are no longer perused solely by spiritless stay-at-homes in an effort to forestall alcoholism. Even unaffiliated publications, with reputations to protect, cede precious pages to sonorous descriptions of aroma and taste- designed, one thinks, to stimulate arousal. Yea, the very fabric of existence is infiltrated with foreign spices and additives, and the simplicity we have known falters, obscured by the steam from overactive kitchens.

I am not a fellow much seduced by food. Though I consume my share, I am contented, even pleased, by three slices of deli turkey on white bread, slathered with excessive yellow mustard. Or pasta, cooked for eight minutes in a boiling pot, topped by store-bought marinara with an Italian name, yet manufactured in Delaware. Even omelets, more in the shape of a tortilla, filled with packaged swiss cheese and buffalo sausage. Oh, and let us not forget plain cereal, bobbing in a sea of two percent milk. These are the mainstays of my diet.

Friday evening, I dined with a friend at a restaurant called "Planet Thai." Here, I ordered a spicy tuna sushi roll. I successfully mixed a potion of soy sauce and wasabi in the tiny stoneware platter provided, and found the combined flavor pleasing. As an appetizer, it quite sufficed, and I felt content at my foray into prandial extravagance.

For the entree, I risked attempting the infamous 'Pad Thai' dish, perpetually vaunted by peers who fancy themselves gastronomes. Following the raging success of the Spicy Tuna rolls, I had high hopes indeed, and was crushed to discover that the putrid meal was an ill-fated combination of sauteed onions topped by a runny mixture of peanut butter and toilet water. I stormed out in a huff, leaving my friend to pay the bill. I doubt very much if I shall ever frequent that establishment again, and the insipid company of my gaping mate will not be in anything like high demand.

Today, having neglected to visit the grocers on Sunday, I fell back to the old standby of sweet and sour pork from a Vietnamese establishment on Third Avenue. It is one of the few Celestial plates to be trusted; the residuum is a boggy pastiche of stringy flora gathered by children in oriental swamps and tangled into quart-sized blocks by undiscriminating farm-hands whose own sense of taste has been annihilated by a lifetime's exposure to Agent Orange.

I found it adequate.

On a Beech tree rudely carved

2007-04-03T09:55:00.000-07:00

An abeyance, for now, in the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS, while I attend to other matters in advance of a four-day vacation, whose duration will be passed without proximity to our little work-a-day blogosphere.

Due to recent travels along the eastern length of New York, weekend sleep has been scarce, and I've fallen into a regressive pattern of afternoon naps and morning misery. This is to be expected, of course, when all energy is concentrated on the short evening hours where a young man's activity is expected to peak. Nevertheless, the forthcoming hiatus will come as a welcome reprieve, and may afford a chance to regain a proper circadian rhythm. I must admit, however, that the preponderance of investments in future slumber have yielded precious little in the way of return.

There is something terribly obscene about the typo "teh." It is worse by far than any other misspelling, grammatical error, or miskeyed term in our native tongue. Exactly why this is so, I can't quite explain, though I theorize that it hinges on our perception of "the" as a bulwark of language, without which our manifold nouns would crumble into pidgin nonsense. Too, there is the error's guttural pronunciation, calling to mind our thoughtless neanderthal predecessors, whose resurgent influence is keenly observed in the youthful zeitgeist. The congregating hordes of English debasers- enemies from within- would be wise to make use of the corruption as their principal arme de choix.

Now, a rhyming alternative history poem about the airborne dog fight between Baron Von Richthofen and Eddie Rickenbacker, which may have occurred had the former not perished a mere eight days before the latter's first foray.

FLYING CIRCUS, RE-VISITED

Fearless Eddie Rickenbacker
left his helmet in the locker
and said unto the gens d'armes,
"Today my soul is free from harm."
He swaggered to the waiting plane-
a Nieuport 28 from Spain-
and once the rear guns were aligned
(and confidential papers signed),
he made the tiny engine sing
and woe! the Hat (was) in-the-Ring.

Sipping on his grail of tea,
the Baron smiled, sick with glee.
He thought of evil things he'd do
aboard the Albatross D-2.
A finger traced the Kaiser's crest;
the wicked German beat his breast.
Soon with gestures quick and mean,
he drank a human blood canteen
and in a flash- his craft aloft-
the deathly red beret was doffed!

The pilots met above the lake
called Jungfernsee ("the steady drake")
and circled twice around before
they made the mounted guns to roar.
But Rickenbacker saw his chance:
he flew up close, he drew his lance
and leapt into the German plane-
a tactic some had called "insane."
But with a shout of "U-S-A!"
he slew the baron; Oh, hooray!

ToM: West Region, first round results

2007-04-02T06:18:00.000-07:00

Good news. Last night, nearly asleep, I thought of a word which contains at least one letter from each of the 10 vertical columns of the keyboard. It does so in 13 letters total, and is approximately an adverb. As such, it is not perfect, but constitutes a significant leap forward for typographic linguistics. There are roughly 250,000 words in a thorough English dictionary, and if anybody knows of a 10 letter entry, neither plural nor adverbial, which uses one and only one representative from each column, please inform me at your earliest convenience. I apologize if I've neglected proper punctuation (by the omission of a single comma?) at any point in this paragraph.

THE WEST REGION, FIRST ROUND RESULTS

(1) Google
def.
(8) All-Male A Cappela Groups

In the fastest victory in TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS history, Google swiftly dispatched the well-meaning, heartwarming, but ultimately ineffectual undergrad crooners. While the musical octet (calling themselves "Eight Guys, No Girl, and at Leasta' Bass!") tuned to a pitch pipe, Google set up a high-definition projector and screen. Soon, the YouTube video of All 4 One's 1994 R&B hit "I Swear" began to play. Completely rapt, the a capella singers drifted toward the screen, forgoing any plans to actually perform. The individual members were heard to mutter such awe-struck platitudes as "this is fucking art," and began to mimic the group's dramatic body language, placing clenched fists on their hearts and leaning forward slightly, eyes closed, to mouth the lyrics.

In the ensuing two minutes, gesticulations and lip-synching brought all eight to a position mere inches from the projector screen, at which point they wrapped the canvas in a circle, creating a tight cylinder with themselves at the center. Strange moans and caterwauls were heard inside, climaxing at the second chorus. At least one audience member vomited, and the general mood of those in attendance could be euphemistically described as "uncomfortable." It was a stark relief when a bespectacled Google representative set the screen on fire, consuming the lives of all eight and effectively ending the match.

(5) Outer Space, as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys
def.
(4) Flowery Language

"Hyacinth and amethyst adorned the landscape of her heart, betrothed to fragrant oakmoss and blazing scarlet upon the amorous lovestrokes of an incandescent horizon," began Flowery Language, reaching forward as if to grasp something beautifully intangible. Before it could continue in this vein, it was approached and violently torn apart by a bulbous, oil-slicked space creature with throbbing veins, one gigantic eye, jagged spikes, small, awkward flippers, seven mouths, and a twelve-foot erect penis.

(3) Bread
def.
(6) Newt Gingrich

Opening with impressive fervor, Gingrich assailed Bread with populist rhetoric, attempting to associate the well-established food with wealthy, out-of-touch, ivory tower liberal professors. Fifty percent of spectators vehemently agreed, mimicking his anger, while the other half seemed befuddled and frightened. Yet when pressed for specifics, Gingrich and his supporters only responded with more bile. To the bewilderment of the Bread faithful, the momentum continued unabated after Bread's logical speech on its origins and importance to human cuisine, backed by impeccable research and exhaustive fact-checking. Gingrich seemed on the verge of a narrow victory when, in a seemingly fatal error, he proved unable to resist the allure of the exact thing he preached against.

In a feeding frenzy, he ate bread for four straight hours, eventually rendering himself incapable of standing. Despite what some called "inexcusable greed and hypocrisy," almost none of his supporters rescinded, instead concocting elaborate excuses which, when parsed, proved fallacious at best. Gingrich, lying prostrate on the arena floor, bread crumbs bedecking his over-extended suit, gurgling like an infant, still appeared on the brink of winning. Unfortunately, he chose that exact moment to eat a slab of Dutch Rye. Even Gingrich's enormous throat was too narrow for this last piece, and he began to choke, spewing bread pieces onto four of his five chins. Despite the vocal support of his constituents, everyone was "too disgusted" to help, and the former Speaker was medically disqualified. When reached for comment, liberal professors in ivory towers said they were happy about Gingrich's defeat, but "were sort of hoping he would advance and eventually be torn apart by a space monster with a twelve-foot erect penis."

(2) Unreliable Husbands of the Old West
def.
(7) Awkward Silence

After decades of responding to the furious silence of wives and other loved ones with resentful hollerin', violence, and continued drinking, Unreliable Husbands of the Old West were completely unfazed by Awkward Silence. In fact, judging by post-match interviews, it's not clear whether the victors were ever aware of their opponent, or even that they were competing in a tournament. The unceasing clamor, resulting in much internecine conflict, including four deaths by gunfire and one by a broken chair over the head, left little room for the challenger to exercise its subtle machinations. "We're more effective around insecure teens, middle-aged office drones with little-to-no personality, and disparate groups of shy people," said an Awkward Silence Spokesman. "Hats off to Unreliable Husbands...they really outgunned us today." The spokesman then shifted uncomfortably as reporters were left to wonder if the pun was intentional.

Second Round, WEST REGION:

(1) Google
vs.
(5) Outer Space, as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys

(2) Unreliable Husbands of the Old West
vs.
(3) Bread

ToM: Midwest Region, first round results

2007-03-30T06:57:00.000-07:00

While jogging around the track at McCarren Park yesterday afternoon, I watched a soccer match on the interior turf. The near goalie fielded a slow roller and punted the ball in a high, narrow arc. I followed the trajectory to its apex, and at the absolute peak, when gravity and momentum reconciled for a hovering moment, the sphere perfectly obscured the moon.

I didn't know until the bottom fell out, of course, because I've been conditioned not to notice the lunar presence in daylight hours. In that respect, the soccer ball seemed like a sort of agent, assigned to draw my attention upward. By whom or for what reason, I'm unclear. Later that night, around 3am, I woke to find the moon (yellow, now) aligned near the middle of the top window pane. Facing west, the view from my room encompasses a cement rooftop courtyard (off limits), morning smoke rising from some Manhattan stack, the taller, grey, loft apartments immediately opposite, and, between the morning hours of one and five, the arbiter of tides. The latter has become something of a leitmotif, consolation for my wakeful habits.

I don't have a point with all this.

THE MIDWEST REGION, FIRST ROUND RESULTS:

(1) The Rosetta Stone
def.
(8) Babe the Blue Ox

Oh the mangled dead we leave, when burdened beasts expect reprieve! After kicking off the match with a brief declaration of divine right, The Rosetta Stone set the tone early by scaling a large firmament. Babe, who had stared dumbly during the arcane speech, seemed to suspect nothing, and despite ample forewarning that the stone was clearly bent on falling from a great height, the maligned ox still held out hope that some new friendship might be in progress. Owing to that essential goodness, he was staring upward with a dopey grin when the Rosetta Stone made its first dive. The result was a broken nose. Wasting no time, the slab raced up the same edifice and repeated the stunt, this time cracking the animal's mandible.

The pattern continued uninterrupted for four hours, at which point referees declared a ten minute intermission. In the second half, it is difficult to know exactly when Babe's lack of movement owed more to severe injury than a longing for companionship, but there is no doubt as to the moment of death. Just after a kidney shot at the eight-hour mark, Babe emitted a loud, low bellow, and roared the name "Paul." He expired soon thereafter. Spectators called the match excessively gory, the type of inhumane slaughter only acceptable to sadists or bullfighting aficionados. Nevertheless, it is worth noting that the majority stayed in their seats, rapt, until the fatal conclusion.

(5) Bobbing for Apples
def.
(4) Derisive Laughter

Represented by two sullen teenagers wearing black t-shirts, Derisive Laughter encountered a group of children near a quaint barn, huddled around a barrel full of water filled with macintosh apples. The adolescents adopted cruel grins and approached. However, because they were so engrossed, the children couldn't be bothered to acknowledge their would-be tormentors. Unrecognized, Derisive Laughter soon lost its heart, the catcalls and taunts fading into insecurity. Finally, after a brief discussion, they agreed to "give the game a shot," just to "see if it's as gay as it looks." Soon, they were enthusiastically plying the barrel with mouths agape, grinning like toddlers. Referees, determining that their laughter had gone from "derisive" to "excited," declared Bobbing for Apples the winner.

In a sad footnote, the teens both contracted Foot and Mouth disease from the filthy water.

(3) Greenery Day in Japan
def.
(6) The Expression "Whatever, Dude"

Overrun by highly-trained, idealistic Japanese eco-fiends, The Expression "Whatever, Dude" was outgunned from the start. Unable to get off their asses and do anything, they sat back and watched idly while thousands of Ginkgo and Bonsai trees were planted in their immediate proximity. In less than thirty minutes, Greenery Day had constructed a dense forest, and oxygen levels reached critical mass.

Known for taking, long, languorous breaths, purveyors of "Whatever, Dude" fell at risk for the rare "oxplosion" phenomenon, which occurs when the O2 compound nullifies carbon and hydrogen in the blood stream and converts all bone marrow into ethanol, instantly killing the victim. Although they had some inclination as to the precarious nature of their situation, the loafing, apathetic layabouts stayed true to form and refused to move. Greenery Day called the tactic "historically brave, like a big, fat, disgusting captain going down with his ship of sloth."

(7) Toothpaste
def.
(2) Tiger Woods, Derek Jeter, and Tom Brokaw

Despite a strong finish to the regular season, Woods, Jeter, and Brokaw failed to sustain their momentum, succumbing in a hard-fought match after their timeworn strategy proved too repetitious. Things started auspiciously enough, with Brokaw relating the story of Guadalcanal, a World War Two naval battle where the sacrifice and hardship of the Greatest Generation (tm) helped to defeat the Japanese fleet and turn the tide of the Pacific campaign. Jeter, after a polite pause, shook his head in awe and said "that's really something, Tom." Woods agreed, stating "I can't imagine, Tom...those were some real unselfish folks." The crowd applauded, and murmurs were heard about Woods and Jeter, to the effect that they were "real polite, and very well-spoken."

However, as the stories continued, toothpaste proved resilient, refusing to go away despite being turned down by both its opponents and spectators. "You'll need me soon," it muttered, and continued canvassing the stadium. Meanwhile, Brokaw's stories grew slightly disjointed, and Woods showed signs of listlessness. Still, they retained the slight edge until dawn of the second day. Jeter, standing to stretch, began tossing a baseball to himself. Brokaw had been in the midst of detailing Rommel's African adventures, when he stopped to ask if Jeter knew that baseball had been invented by General Douglas MacArthur. Knowing this wasn't true, and frustrated by a season of boredom, the New York Yankee invoked Perseus and angrily hurled the baseball into the stands, where it struck an old man in the face, knocking out his front teeth.

Always an opportunist, toothpaste loudly proclaimed that if the man had practiced good dental care, his teeth would have stayed intact. As Woods and Jeter grew less tolerant, the atmosphere of the crowd changed, and all sought to take precaution. Toothpaste became universally accepted, earning great acclaim and eclipsing the faltering trio. Finally, Brokaw called Adolf Hitler "the second toughest Mexican I ever knew," and Woods stormed off in a huff. Jeter followed suit, and toothpaste declared victory.

Second Round, MIDWEST REGION:

(1) The Rosetta Stone
vs.
(5) Bobbing for Apples

(3) Greenery Day in Japan
vs.
(7) Toothpaste

ToM: South Region, first round results

2007-03-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

After 'discovering' these outcomes between the hours of two and four a.m. this morning, I drifted off and was rewarded with a dream about my true love. My friend Kyle and I were on vacation in a town called Tupper Lake. It's a former logging community close to where we grew up, and not the sort of place you'd ever visit unless being dictated by the strange logic of dreams. It was night, and we wandered to a party in a large, brown house with a big lawn. Inside were two girls- sister, I think- and Kyle hit it off with one immediately and left, leaving me alone with the other.

We sat on her couch and talked. She was one of those rare dream characters who don't resemble a person you already know. I don't even think she had familiar features. Unlike real life, there was no uncertainty to the rhythm of our conversation, and when we kissed it seemed like a natural progression instead of something to be excited about. The dream jumped to the morning (without any implication, not that type of dream...) and her mother came down the stairs with cups of coffee and a knowing smile. We smiled back, being in love.

Part two of the dream shifted to Ocean City, Maryland, a place where you really would take a vacation. I was alone in a condo my grandfather owns- three buildings removed from beach front- sitting on the street-side deck. Now there were more friends elsewhere, and by a new logic I had to convince them to come out with me as a precondition for seeing the girl again.

Kyle was in love with the girl he'd met, had other plans, and wouldn't come. Brandon was on a new diet, couldn't drink any alcohol, and so was out. A third party had his own excuse, both elements lost from memory. Outside, the waves reached the base of the Coral Reef (the building's name), alarming because, as I mentioned, it isn't on the beach. The flood kept rising, all the way to the deck, then subsided without leaving a trace of itself.

Part three found me on an Ocean City restaurant patio, facing the true-love-girl across an aluminum picnic table. Her face and body had changed, and the feeling of closeness from the first night had disappeared, replaced by a polite distance. She treated me with what seemed natural friendship, devoid of other feelings, and I had to fake the same. She spoke of her boyfriend, and I tried to seem casual while asking if she'd told him about us. She laughed and said yes, as though what we'd done hadn't been anything.

Her boyfriend, not present, had wanted to know why I didn't have a respectable job ("in a good-sized metropolis," she added, to which I protested, "but I live in New York!") or solid future plans. I had no excuses, and her silence conveyed the absentee's scoff. She expressed admonishment for his strange practicality, but it was the mild kind women reserve for loved ones they don't plan on leaving. There was also the hint that maybe his questions weren't too unreasonable. She'd changed completely, isolating me as much as I'd been accepted in part one.

I woke up to the computer screen, and after my eyes adjusted, the first words I read were: "A stunned audience booed the arrogant victor."

THE SOUTH REGION, FIRST ROUND RESULTS

(8) A Child's Peashooter
def.
(1) David & Goliath

In the surprise of the tournament, top-seeded David & Goliath fell victim to an unlikely upstart. Though many spectators assumed the fearsome duo would simply snap the Child's Peashooter in half, David chose the unorthodox strategy of hurling stones from a long distance. Goliath nervously waited in the background, offering scattered bits of advice. At one point, microphones clearly picked up the following excerpt:

Goliath: I'm not sure this is the best idea.
David: Trust me, I've seen it work before.
Goliath: Please don't face me when you're throwing stones.

Although David was surprisingly accurate, the Child's Peashooter proved too small a target for his stones, which landed in close proximity on all sides. One projectile actually hit the toy, but had very little effect on its wooden structure. Finally, they were forced to approach. The Peashooter, sensing an opportunity, fired its lone hardened vegetable, hitting Goliath on the forehead. "Ow," exclaimed the giant, lifting a hand to his head, "that stung." Hearing his teammate's reaction, David immediately ran over, removed the sword from the Philistine's scabbard, and cut his head off. Afterward, a distraught David attempted to explain. "I saw him get hit in the forehead, and I sort of blacked out...I was just going on memory at that point...you see Goliath get hit, you decapitate him. It's scripture, literally. That was my only thought, but I have no excuse. Just a real mental lapse."

With a newfound respect for the peashooter, David entered into negotiations. Reluctantly, the peashooter agreed to a deal which would allow Israel continued sovereignty in exchange for David conceding the match. At one point, when the talks were reaching an end, a frustrated spectator shouted "Just fucking break the peashooter in half! It's a child's toy." David responded by hurling a stone, which hit the stunned supporter in the testicles. Uproarious laughter followed the stunt, but, according to legal sources, a lawsuit is pending. Afterward, the Child's Peashooter called the victory "bittersweet." "I'm thrilled to advance," it told reporters, "but I was really hoping for control of Israel."

(5) The Concept of English
def.
(4) The Know-Nothing Party, 1855

When informed of its first-round opponent, the Know-Nothing Party expressed some puzzlement. "We support the English," founder Charles Allen was heard to say. "We're basically English Protestants without the accent." Expecting a courteous, civil battle, the Know-Nothings were shocked at a sudden attack of wildly spinning cue balls. Although they managed to deflect some of the white spheres, the expertly calculated Concept of English would simply send them caroming off a nearby object and hurtling back at the defenseless human. The result was a massacre, culminating in the death or crippling of every Know-Nothing proponent. Allegations of foul play circulated in media reports after the match, purportedly arising from photographs of Pope Piux IX slipping an unmarked envelope to a contingency of cue balls. It is unknown whether the Pope's spiritual and financial support will continue in the Concept of English's second-round match against A Child's Peashooter.

(3) My Friend Dustin
def.
(6) The Chicago Bulls, 1996

Although the Bulls ran out to an early 78 point lead, led by superstar Michael Jordan, Dustin's associative attacks eventually demoralized the NBA Champions. The following six-minute stretch, transcribed by courtside stenographers, turned the tide, and is being called by some "the greatest example of relational dismantling since the heyday of Ellen DeGeneres."

Dustin: Michael Jordan... More like Jordan's Crossing...Jordan's Travelling..Hey, Jordan's travelling!

(Referee calls Jordan for a travelling violation)

Dustin: Scottie Pippen...More like Pippin the Musical..Corner of the Sky..Sky Hook!

(Dustin nails a fifty-foot sky hook)

Dustin: Steve Kerr..Kermit the Frog...Jim Henson...Muppets...Fozzie Bear...More like grin and Bear it...Bare it all...Bare-all...AIRBALL!

(Steve Kerr shoots an airball)

Dustin: Horace Grant...More like Forest Chant...Sherwood Forest...Robin Hood...Prince of Thieves...Principal Skinner...Skin and Bones...Skeleton...Red Skelton...Klem Kadiddlehopper...Grasshopper...Bluegrass...Banjo...Redneck...Rent Check...Rent-a-Car...Gas Station...Pump Spot...JUMP SHOT!

(Dustin nails a jumper)

This relentless style continued for the duration of the game, propelling My Friend Dustin to a comfortable thirty-seven point win. The majority of the Bulls succumbed to severe anger and were ejected from the game, to the point that only Dennis Rodman was eligible for the final ten minutes. Greatly amused by Dustin, Rodman was rendered ineffective, shaking his head, laughing, and applauding while Phil Jackson screamed from the sideline.

(7) Vladimir Nabokov
def.
(2) The Word "Diffident"

To raucous cheers, The Word "Diffident" strode out to the Ray Charles song "You Don't Know Me," wearing a purple, hooded cape with multiple upside-down question marks emblazoned in yellow. Over the music, it could be heard howling in the manner of a ghost. The entire spectacle represented a clear attempt to heighten the aura of mystery surrounding its recent success. Nabokov, wearing a monocle, tweed jacket, olive-green corduroy pants, and Italian loafers, quickly defined his opponent as "lacking confidence in one's own ability, timid, or, alternately, restrained in manner."

Diffident paused for a moment, shocked into silence, before asking "I'm pretty screwed, right?" Nabokov nodded, and Diffident removed its hood, shook the author's hand, and fought to hold back tears as it slouched away. A stunned audience booed the arrogant victor, who calmly removed his tweed jacket to reveal a t-shirt. On its front was a picture of My Friend Dustin, with the dates "1983-2007" inscribed below the grinning face.

Second Round, SOUTH REGION:

(8) A Child's Peashooter
vs.
(5) The Concept of English

(3) My Friend Dustin
vs.
(7) Vladimir Nabokov

ToM: East Region, first round results

2007-03-27T07:58:00.000-07:00

In the ruminative pre-dawn, accompanied by scant moonlight and a steady mechanized purr, I hunched over keys, furiously transcribing ephemeral visions before they slipped my grasp forever. Like the ardent man in an unexplored meadow, swinging his net in ambitious arcs at resplendent butterfly clouds, I must make do with the happy captures, and cope with the tinges of regret at each fluttering escape.

THE EAST REGION, FIRST ROUND RESULTS

(1) Creighton Blue Jays
def.
(8) Bob Hope, 2005

With a stingy 2-3 zone defense, Creighton stymied Bob Hope's aggressive game plan, reducing the deceased comedian to self-deprecating humor which never posed a real threat to the top-seeded Blue Jays. Though Hope scored significant laughs with quips like "I'm approaching fifty...but I won't tell you from which direction!" and "I don't feel old...I don't feel anything 'til noon. That's when I take my nap!", Creighton point guard Eddie Santangelo's 13-15 shooting performance ensured his team a comfortable victory.

Toward the match's end, Hope seemed severely addled, trotting out incongruous lines such as, "When she started to play, Steinway came down personally and rubbed his name off the piano." Long silence greeted this line, after which Hope seemed to lose heart, and was broken by a brilliantly-timed full court press. As Creighton's lead began to balloon, the old-school funny man was heard to say "I'm dead." Whether this was a prediction of the final result or simply a statement of anatomical fact is unclear. In either case, he was correct.

(4) Meryl Streep
def.
(5) The Song "Unchained Melody"

In this highly anticipated meeting of Artist v. Art, the human element triumphed by virtue of variety and personality. The outcome was in severe doubt early, however, as "Unchained Melody" led with its brilliant Righteous Brothers version. Streep countered by listing her various awards and nominations, a tactic which smacked of arrogance. A smattering of boos greeted her lifeless list, and "Unchained Melody" responded with its Barry Manilow cover. The audience roared, and momentum clearly seemed to be sweeping Streep aside. The actress was able to regain a measure of calm, however, and began to tell interesting stories about old acting partners. The strategy met some initial skepticism, but bore fruit with a light-hearted, point-by-point comparison of Deniro, Hoffman, and Woody Allen.

Meanwhile, "Unchained Melody" became redundant, playing itself ad nauseam with covers that gradually depreciated in quality. On its thirty-fifth go-around (a lugubrious James Blunt rendition), spectators had become visibly angry. Shouts of "time's going by really fucking slowly now," and "I hunger for your death!" rang throughout the stadium. Streep picked the moment to reveal her trump card: an emotional performance of Irina Nikolayevna's "Where is my church, where is my Mother, where, Russia, where, oh Nation of Tundras?" monologue from Chekhov's The Seagull. The virtuoso performance reduced many to tears, and "Unchained Melody" conceded.

(6) The Atlantic Ocean
def.
(3) Heinz Ketchup

In the tournament's first upset, The Atlantic Ocean defied expectations by unseating heavy favorite Heinz Ketchup in record time. Aggressively pursuing a "Mix and Change" offense, the Atlantic met surprisingly small resistance from the powerhouse condiment, which apparently thought that even salt water could not dilute its mass appeal. With a medium-sized tsunami, the Atlantic overturned an entire cargo fleet loaded with Heinz-57, most of which spilled into the water. From there, shifting tides carried the ketchup to a gathering of retirees engaged in recreational scuba diving off the coast of Miami. Mako sharks, confusing the red ingredient for blood, soon arrived on the scene and unleashed severe carnage on the group, maiming and killing the majority.

Forced into early damage control, the Heinz company gathered what remained of the spilled ketchup, re-bottling it in makeshift factories. Yet combined with elderly blood and salt water, the result held little appeal for the average consumer. Further, angry lobbyists from the AARP organized a supremely effective boycott, and lawsuits poured in from irate customers across the nation. The Atlantic Ocean took advantage of public sentiment to announce that it was canceling the 2008 hurricane season and severing its 10-year contract with the El Nino weather phenomenon. The shrewd PR move secured victory. A spokesman for Heinz expressed chagrin, calling the loss "the biggest company disappointment since the FCC banned our 'Hunts is for Cunts' ad campaign from the airwaves."

(2) The USSR Red Army Hockey Team, 1975
def.
(7) The Wheel

In a strategy that would prove disastrous, The Wheel team attempted to disguise themselves as hockey pucks, hoping to confuse the Red Army forwards and neutralize their blue-line speed. Yet due to an unfortunate clerical error, they sent out a contingent of tractor wheels, which are large, ridged, and bear no resemblance to a puck. Reduced to idle rolling, precarious tipping, and slow, circular settling, the wheels were forced to watch the nimble Russians skate past and score goal after goal. In a further paralyzing error, it was assumed that a single tractor wheel placed flat in front of the net would prevent all scoring opportunities. "We didn't realize hockey players could shoot pucks in the air," said a crestfallen wheel after the match. "In hindsight, some cursory research may have helped."

Stand-out Red Army netminder Vladislav Tretiak was credited with a shut-out, allowing zero goals on zero shots. Leonid Brezhnev, General Secretary of the Soviet Union, attended the match, calling the result a "triumph of the people's work ethic over western technology, and a further omen of our eventual and inevitable ascendancy." U.S. President George W. Bush, also on hand, seemed confused at Brezhnev's remarks, but greeted him heartily and expressed gratitude that he wasn't wearing "one of them queer Russky hats."

Second Round, EAST REGION:

(1) Creighton Blue Jays
vs.
(4) Meryl Streep

(2) The USSR Red Army Hockey Team, 1975
vs.
(6) The Atlantic Ocean

I'll think of England this time

2007-03-26T06:25:00.000-07:00

Of late, the mewling kittens of self-pity have been stealing forth, begging sympathy rubs for supine bellies. The canines of maturity mostly scattered their kind, but arrived a bit late to the summons and only triumphed after some indulgence. This has been my weekend, the sort that makes Higher Powers snort in disgust. But I've become adept at turning a black collar to the trifling miseries (spared, for now, from visits by the elder sister), and am in no sense waylaid, though it's my shame to confess that to certain logic, the battle wages still. I have not grown up.

There's nothing of real consequence to report, but I'll share this quick anecdote from the new secretary affair. Please reference old entries for background.

Thursday or Wednesday, I can't remember which, I approached to deliver the afternoon mail when I noticed a platter of assorted fruit in neat display on her desk. Voicing my approval, I plucked a strawberry. In the ensuing transcript, I continue my old practice of using the sobriquet "Marissa" for my co-star, which is rather unfortunate because I don't like the name or any of its bearers.

Me: Ooh, can I have a kiwi too?

Marissa: Of course. You can even have a plate.

Me: (growing uncomfortable at the prospect of passing our five-line conversational record, and moving away) No, that's fine. I prefer to eat with my hands. It's a family thing.

As to the origin of that line, I couldn't begin to guess. It's not particularly funny, just odd, and only served to further her impression of my idiocy. I bet if she keeps a blog, she has a running theme of awkward encounters with the strange guy at work.*

*EDITOR'S NOTE: This is a clear case of wishful thinking on the part of the author, symptomatic of self-centered behavior and verging on egomania. In truth, probability suggests that the secretary does not keep a blog, and, even if she did, would not have made one mention of the author, on whom she did not waste a second thought on the day in question, or any occasions previous or subsequent. **

**NOTE FROM BLOGGER (tm) BY GOOGLE: The editor in question is a fabrication of the author, and should be viewed as further support for the solipsistic accusation, and not as new policy on the part of Google, Blogger, or any Google affiliates to revise, amend, or in any way interfere with the production of the still-sovereign blog community.***

***AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you, Google, for standing up for the common interest of the blogging community, and reminding activist editors that their judgments and assumptions have no place in the domain of the powerful, self-governed individual.****

****NOTE FROM BLOGGER (tm) BY GOOGLE: Please note, again, that the author and editor are one and the same person.******

*****EDITOR'S NOTE: Oh, are we?******

******NOTE FROM BLOGGER (tm) BY GOOGLE: Yes.*******

*******AUTHOR'S NOTE: Then how do you explain this!********

********NOTE FROM BLOGGER (tm) BY GOOGLE: The text following the italicized word displayed such unexpected levels of profanity that, for the first time ever, we've actually broken our promise and edited a blog. We can tell you that the author in no way proved his separate identity from the editor, and we can also promise that this is the last time we'll make such a move. As a show of good faith, we include the end of the author's note, which, believe it or not, is considerably more sensical and less offensive than the bulk of the rant.

END OF AUTHOR'S NOTE: ...so you can take your FUCKING NEW YORK QUEER MORALS, along with every GODDAMNED OUNCE OF BUREAUCRATIC GYPSY SHIT, and shove it so FUCKING FAR UP YOUR OWN UNMENTIONABLES that you get it STUCK somewhere between your BASTARDIZED search engine and the WHORE OF A MOTHER who reared you in Silicon WHATEVER-THE-FUCK valley in the middle of DOUCHE-TOWN, USA, population YOU BUNCH OF SHIT HEAD SCUMBAGS.

Nothing else occurs to me at the moment. Tomorrow through Friday, the opening round of the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS will be waged in this very blog. Begin rubbing your palms together vertically in cartoonish spectacles of excitement.

Lastly, a Quick Poem for a Homeless Man I Saw on the Street This Morning

Overcast and in the nook
aloft, a cardboard sign: I'm Hungry.
The girl enlists your twisted head-
dirty, damp, and tensed with shouts
I can't hear for a Purple Bottle's
tones, but I relate until
the man from Cuba's cardboard sign
speaks to quandaries unresolved
and understood by those like you
or the insane, but not by us-
and not on days like these, so long.

TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS: WEST REGION

2007-03-22T09:50:00.000-07:00

(1) Google

After taking over nearly all facets of internet life, the monolothic Google Conglomerate has its sights set on the first TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS championship. Analysts aren't sure what's most terrifying about this search-engine giant; the fact that it defeated all cyber-rivals by enormous margins, or the fact that it did so using only YouTube. In the now-legendary World Wide Web semis, Google dispatched AskJeeves.com in record time with a three minute video of an excited child atonally strumming a toy guitar while shouting the lyrics to "Rock-a-Bye-Baby." Later, in the championship against Yahoo, Google finished the job with footage from a seventeen year old girl's bedroom webcam. And here's the amazing part: she wasn't even home. With most of its arsenal still hidden, future opponents are left wondering how to cope with such theoretical offensive maneuvers as Blogger or Google Earth.

(2) Unreliable Husbands of the Old West

Whether they were drinking away sorely-needed money at the local saloon, having a bad run of luck at poker, or sampling the newest whore in from Cleveland, these irresolute men continually damned their wives and children to lives of anxious poverty. They could be counted upon to pick drunken fights with skillful gunmen, often resulting in premature death and permanent hardship for their surviving loved ones. Even if they managed to survive despite themselves, their wandering ways would leave family members deserted for long stretches. Yet from the first shot of soiled whiskey to their eventual rough submersion in a horse's watering trough, these no-account idlers sure had a rootin' good time. For that, they are a sentimental, yet very vulnerable, 2-seed.

(3) Bread

It is a misguided soul indeed who doubts the utility of bread, this year's three-seed in the West Region. The well-established foundation of all food, Bread defeated upstart contender Eggs to reach the tournament. Packed with various grains, and leavened when necessary, bread is the ubiquitous serve-all which has defined the relationship between humans and food since the dawn of civilization. Its success continued almost unchecked until the 1930s, when it was spurned by Mohandas Gandhi during his first hunger strike. Some historians believe that Bread's anger at this slight led it to collaborate with Hindu radicals in the holy man's eventual assassination. Indeed, Nathuram Godse, the killer, was found to have rye crumbs on his clothing shortly after the fatal shooting. Since that incident, Bread has strengthened its hold on the comestibles industry and lost only four matches, three of them to the video game "Donkey Kong."

(4) Flowery Language

Perfected by female novelists of the 18th and early 19th centuries, Flowery Language retains its influence in the work of precocious, infatuated teens. Spurred by an army of lovesick estrogen, it defeated Laconic, Tough-Guy Hemingway Prose and Rambling, Nonsensical Kerouac Bullshit in the finals of the Shitty Writing division. Flowery Language's confidence is at an all-time high, as shown by the bold declamation of an anonymous supporter: "Like the morning honeydew, sweltering in a miasma of midsummer lilac, christening passerby with invisible aspergillum thrusts, filtering its sugar-sweet aromas upon the ardent forms of auroral lovers, so too shall we ripen and burst, afloat like the graceful waxwain, showering enchantment and stardust from the cloudless azure of our pristine empyrean."

(5) Outer Space, as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys

Basically, it's a terrifying two-dimensional dream of sinister creatures with thousands of teeth, black skin, and godless agendas.

(6) Newt Gingrich

After winning Time's Man of the Year in 1995 for his work in propelling the Republican's to congressional power, Gingrich went on to lead the fight against President Bill Clinton's marital indiscretions. Soon thereafter, he asked his cancer-stricken wife for a divorce in order to legitimize an affair with a younger woman. Ethics violations eventually forced him to resign from the House, but after writing a book about what would have happened if the Nazis won World War II, he's poised to run for president in 2008. Political pundits say the strength of his candidacy will depend largely on whether he can defeat Bread in the first round.

(7) Awkward Silence

...

(8) All-Male A Capella Groups

Full of smiling, bobbing, golden-throated crooners, these dapper young octets have captured the hearts of easily-swayed college girls across the nation. Members are known for having soft sides, volunteering for charity, succeeding wildly when visiting a girlfriend's parents on Thanksgiving break, graduating with honors, writing emotional wedding vows, coaching Little League, fidelity, attending church, helping elderly neighbors with yard work, and being convicted on fourteen counts of child molestation at age 47.

THE WEST REGION

(1) Google
vs.
(8) All-Male A Cappela Groups

(4) Flowery Language
vs.
(5) Outer Space, as Conceived by Ignorant, Poor, Elizabethan-era Cockneys

(3) Bread
vs.
(6) Newt Gingrich

(2) Unreliable Husbands of the Old West
vs.
(7) Awkward Silence

TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS: MIDWEST REGION

2007-03-21T07:51:00.000-07:00

(1) The Rosetta Stone

A stone slab discovered in Egypt in 1799, the Rosetta Stone is inscribed with a long blustering declaration from an ancient king. Despite the fact that it was translated in 1822, it has virtually no meaning to anyone currently alive. The gist of the text is that Ptolemy V named his entire family tree and then claimed that the Gods gave his family line eternal power. Although history belied this notion, the Rosetta Stone found great success in modern competition, storming through the 2007 regular season and handing The Word Diffident (south region) its only loss along the way. The stone's signature move is falling on its opponent.

(2) Tiger Woods, Derek Jeter, and Tom Brokaw

This unlikely trio were the surprise of the league, shaking off a poor start before asserting themselves as a legitimate force. Brokaw's reverent tales of World War Two heroics, combined with Woods' and Jeter's respectful reactions, supplanted their previous strategy, which entailed Woods hitting golf balls at Jeter, who would attempt to field them while Brokaw danced in the background wearing tinker's garb. The change propelled them to the upper echelons, and they are considered a fearsome tournament match-up. Critics of the team point out that Woods has seemed increasingly bored, and that several of Brokaw's stories contain outrageous details, such as the allegation that Italian leader Benito Mussolini founded the United States Postal Service.

(3) Greenery Day in Japan

The rough equivalent of America's 'Arbor Day,' Greenery Day in Japan celebrates Emperor Hirohito's love of nature. Citizens are urged to spend the day outside, planting trees and engaging in other eco-friendly activities. Unlike the stateside holiday, those who don't take the suggestion are subject to criminal penalty, up to and including three months in prison. Participation is so wide-spread, in fact, that the government is often forced to remove new trees due to an overabundance of oxygen. Additionally, the aftermath in 1998 included a plague of bonsai locusts, which lasted for the better part of three years and was declared Japan's biggest disaster since the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

(4) Derisive Laughter

The old axiom "laughter is the best medicine" was upheld this season, with the self-proclaimed "expression of cruel and cynical merriment" defeating long-time powerhouses Aspirin, Amputation, and Chemotherapy on the way to capturing the Medical Division Crown. Many traditionalists were upset that Derisive Laughter was included in the Medical Division at all, claiming that a tenuous connection based on an old cliche is not sufficient grounds for inclusion, especially when the participant is an offshoot of the original idea. Regardless, Derisive Laughter put these critics to rest with its patented "Are You Serious?" offense, which included incredulous questions followed by exclamations of disbelief, quickly seguing into loud guffaws at the expense of others. Most of Derisive Laughter's victories resulted from a shattering of the opposition's self-esteem.

(5) Bobbing for Apples

A Halloween tradition for children, bobbing for apples involves ducking one's head into a barrel of water and trying to obtain an apple using only lips, teeth, and sometimes a nose. Because multiple youths engage in the game at once, collisions occur with some frequency, rendering the game dangerous. It is also severely unsanitary. Nevertheless, the foolish whimsy endeared the game to the COMMITTEE OF MADNESS, who couldn't resist giving the delightful spectacle a five-seed.

(6) The Expression "Whatever, Dude"

In common usage since 1984, "whatever, dude" has been the battle cry of insolent teens, disaffected depressives, and adaptable, unopinionated friends. It is capable of summing up a lifestyle in three succinct syllables, and infuriating parties outside the speaker's immediate circle. The Expression "Whatever, Dude" has an impressive list of victims this season, including the Parent-Teacher Association (PTA), Frustrated Therapists, and Friends who Like to Plan Shit Out and Have a Little Fucking Input So They Don't Have to do Everything Themselves. The expression's devil-may-care attitude is expected to clash with the harsh discipline of its first round opponent, Greenery Day in Japan.

(7) Toothpaste

It was another good year for toothpaste, which easily maintained its status as the world's leading teeth-cleaning ingredient. Since 1992, when the "Fluoride in School" movement came to an end, toothpaste has never been truly challenged for oral dominance. It was rumored to be considering an alliance with chewing gum in late December, but this reportedly fell through when the parties failed to reach an agreement regarding the status of Big League Chew. This failure notwithstanding, Toothpoaste earned an automatic bid to the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS after an easy victory over Mouthwash in the Dental Hygiene final. It will open against Tiger Woods, Derek Jeter, and Tom Brokaw.

(8) Babe the Blue Ox

Paul Bunyan's one-time companion, Babe the Blue Ox has fallen on hard times since the giant lumberjack's death in the spring of 2003. Universally unwanted, he wanders the western hemisphere from Patagonia to the Yukon, seeking friends. The American and Canadian governments have recently discussed plans to euthanize the animal, but to date nothing has been finalized. In a cruel irony, Babe is worshipped in most parts of Africa, but is too large to cross the ocean.

THE MIDWEST REGION

(1) The Rosetta Stone
vs.
(8) Babe the Blue Ox

(4) Derisive Laughter
vs.
(5) Bobbing for Apples

(3) Greenery Day in Japan
vs.
(6) The Expression "Whatever, Dude"

(2) Tiger Woods, Derek Jeter, and Tom Brokaw
vs.
(7) Toothpaste

TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS: SOUTH REGION

2007-03-20T10:04:00.000-07:00

(1) David & Goliath

One is a Philistine warrior, a champion of strength. The other is Israel's greatest king. Now, at long last, these biblical heroes are uniting to take on all comers at the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS. Analysts call the duo "nearly unbeatable," and the committee selected them as the overall number one seed based on an undefeated regular season. The only possible barrier to a championship may come from within; at times, during matches, there appeared to be moments of tension between the teammates. This is rumored to stem from the time that David hit Goliath with a stone, stole his sword, and used it to cut his head off.

(2) The Word "Diffident"

Voted "Most Difficult Word to Define" for thirty-seven straight years, "diffident" continues to stymie top English-speaking linguists. Famous literary critic Harold Bloom, for example, is known to become irate when confronted with the word, either in conversation or on the page. On the rare occasion when a correct definition is discovered, it is almost immediately forgotten. The word is frequently mischaracterizied, often becoming confused with similar terms such as "different," "deferent," "diligent," "decadent," and "daffodil." The word's season-long tactic of bewilderment and obfuscation has put a scare into the rest of the field, as puzzled opponents are generally unable to form an effective strategy and eventually resort to pleas for everyone to "just wait a second," because "they're pretty sure (they) know this."

(3) My Friend Dustin

Dustin has a blog you can read at http://magomra.blogspot.com. We attended high school together in a snow-bound wilderness, and escaped separately to seek gold. Failing, we settled in New York. Dustin's strengths are his simplicity of intellect, wide, berth-creating shoulders, and ability to demoralize opponents with relentless (and meaningless) associative word games. His weaknesses are a fondness for women, reckless hate speech, and tobacco. Critics have called this selection "rank favoritism," opining that Dustin should have been "no higher than a six seed."

(4) The Know-Nothing Party, 1855

Founded by rich Protestants, this American political party was based on a fear of Irish immigrants, who they believed were activist missionaries for the Vatican. The height of their power came in 1855, when they won several important elections, including the mayoral race in Chicago, where Levi Boone barred immigrants from all city jobs. Although this was quickly reversed by Lincoln, and the Know-Nothings faded into obsolescence within three years, their hatred and fear of Catholics and the Irish proved prophetic, as these groups did indeed take over the country for the Pope. [Citation Needed]

(5) The Concept of 'English'

Used principally in billiards, 'English' refers to the spin you put on the cue ball in order to deflect it in odd directions after it impacts the object ball. Its advent changed the course of the game, and all current champions are masters of the technique. Because of its long-lasting influence, oddsmakers actually favor The Concept of English against higher seeded first-round opponent The Know-Nothing Party.

(6) The Chicago Bulls, 1996

Led by superstar Michael Jordan, all-NBA defender Scottie Pippen, and Zen Buddhist coach Phil Jackson, the Bulls stormed to their 4th NBA title in the decade, easily defeating the Seattle Supersonics in the championship game. The team's cohesion, skill, and consistency in Jordan's first full season back from his baseball experiment make them a tenacious underdog, and a fashionable upset pick against My Friend Dustin.

(7) Vladimir Nabokov

Renowned writer and butterfly-catcher, Nabokov is best remembered for penning the novel "Lolita," a romantic treatise regarding a pervert. Hailing from Russia, Nabokov wrote proficiently in three languages, eventually settling on English when political circumstances forced his family out of the Motherland. Coupled with his well-respected literary criticism, Nabokov's writing prowess gives him a fighting chance against "Diffident," although most consider the word too nebulous for even Nabokov's discerning mind.

(8) A Child's Peashooter

Mostly ineffectual after a disappointing season, A Child's Peashooter was able to defeat the movie "Forget Paris" in a surprise upset. This was enough to earn the final spot in the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS. When news of its first-round opponent reached David & Goliath, the Israeli King laughed and predicted a resounding victory. Goliath, on the other hand, seemed nervous.

The South Region

(1) David & Goliath
vs.
(8) A Child's Peashooter

(4) The Know-Nothing Party, 1855
vs.
(5) The Concept of 'English'

(3) My Friend Dustin
vs.
(6) The Chicago Bulls, 1996

(2) The Word "Diffident"
vs.
(7) Vladimir Nabokov

TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS: EAST REGION

2007-03-19T09:37:00.000-07:00

Two Sundays ago, a committee of pseudo-intellectual sportsmen convened to handpick sixty-five basketball teams for the annual NCAA tournament. As is tradition, these teams play-off in a single-elimination format over a period of one month until only one team remains lossless. That squad is declared champion.

The mathematical simplicity holds great potential for a logical, even beautiful, competition, but without fail, the "Selection Committee" ruins everything. They are predictable and boring in their choices, and the ensuing match-ups disgrace the entire country.

Even so, I was often seduced by popular sentiment in younger days, and participated in bracket 'pools' with various other aficionados. I found the process laughably easy, and regularly picked entire tournaments to perfection. After seven consecutive years of flawless prediction, during which my winnings surpassed the five thousand dollar mark, I became bored of the entire process and quit forever. That was the spring of my nineteenth year.

But now, five years hence, the creative possibilities coursing through the dormant part of my medula responsible for all things athletic have spurred me to action. What if the committee demonstrated an iota of originality in their choices? What if they asked for my input, realizing how mundane the tournament has become? What if I was in charge of the committee? What would happen?

First and foremost, I would fire the other members. I've never believed in the 'collective mind,' as it were, or the old adage that two heads are better than one. Maybe the cliche is true for those of more limited capacity, but in my case, inferior intellects only cloud the perfect path, which I'm quite able to discover on my own.

Second, I would reduce the field by half. Thirty-two competitors is more than enough for any reasonable tournament. Further additions only dilute the talent pool, and give hope to those who should never have been allowed to compete in the first place.

Finally, I would be ready to pick. This is where the blog entry departs from the hypothetical, and I reveal the first ever TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS. CBS has copyrighted the phrase "March Madness," so this alternate title is a necessity. It is also, I think, appropriate, conveying a new sense of chaos and strife not present in the current format.

I will be revealing the tournament field in regions of 8, after which time the action will begin. Since the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS currently lacks funding and cannot feasibly be staged in common reality, results will be determined and related in blurbs after severe and irreproachable research by the COMMITTEE OF MADNESS, which consists of me.

Also, let me anticipate nascent ambitions and be quite clear on the following: I will not be accepting applications for the Selection Committee or the COMMITTEE OF MADNESS. This may change in the future, and although nothing is guaranteed, donations made in my name will positively affect potential considerations.

Now, without further ado, THE EAST REGION OF THE TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS!

(1) The Creighton Blue Jays

Earning the #1 seed for the inaugural tournament, this Omaha school is a strong favorite thanks to centralized location, which makes it an ideal capital in the case of nuclear attacks on the major American cities. In addition, several prophets, ranging from Nostradamus to John Titor the Time Traveler, have predicted that the future leader of America- the one to deliver us from foreign and domestic enemies- will be a farmer-general from the Nebraska heartland.

(2) The USSR Red Army Hockey Team, 1975

On the verge of winning thirteen straight Soviet championships, the Russian squad, led by stand-out goalie Vladislav Tretiak, travelled abroad to play several exhibition games against North America's best NHL teams. After defeating the New York Rangers by a score of 7-3, the Red Army played the Montreal Canadiens, the world's best team, to a 3-3 draw. It was called the greatest game of all time, and the Canadiens went on to win that year's Stanley Cup, while the Soviets took the European Cup. Returning after thirty years, the Red Army is expected to make some noise in the TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS.

(3) Heinz Ketchup

There is simply no better product on the market than the ketchup manufactured by the H.J. Heinz Company. Its taste is incomparable, and has dominated the consumer landscape since the late nineteenth century. Though its stock has dropped slightly since John Kerry's loss in the 2004 election, many experts still believe it has an excellent chance to make the final four.

(4) Meryl Streep

Over the course of her long and illustrious career, Streep has been nominated for fourteen academy awards, a record. She also holds the record for most Golden Globe victories, and is a renowned stage actress. Her versatility will be key in a possible second round upset of the Creighton Blue Jays.

(5) The Song "Unchained Melody"

Penned by Alex North (melody) and Hy Zaret (lyrics), this song rose to prominence after being recorded by Bobby Hatfield of the Righteous Brothers. Over 500 cover versions have been released, and the song has risen to the top of the UK charts alone on four separate occasions. A gorgeous commentary on the passage of time and the hopeful-yet-melancholic aspects of romance, "Unchained Melody" is nonetheless expected to struggle in its first-round match-up against Meryl Streep, due to the actress' excellent soprano vocals.

(6) The Atlantic Ocean

This massive body of water, covering nearly 1/5th of the world's surface, has played second fiddle to its larger contemporary, the Pacific, since the break-up of the Pangean supercontinent. If continental shift continues, however, the Atlantic stands to become the world's largest in approximately three hundred thousand years. A representative of the Atlantic, speaking on the condition of anonymity, said that the ocean has a few tricks up its sleeve for first round opponent (and heavy favorite) Heinz Ketchup.

(7) The Wheel

One of mankind's greatest inventions, the wheel has facilitated movement since its advent in ancient times. Although it is absolutely essential to modern life, many consider the wheel poorly suited to tournament play, where it is forced to function independently, without any kind of body, frame, or other machinery.

(8) Bob Hope, 2005

Following his death in July of 2003, many considered the famous entertainer's 2005 persona a longshot to reach the first ever TOURNAMENT OF MADNESS. Nonethless, relentless but good-natured ribbing propelled the patriotic comedian to a dramatic regular season victory over the fictional character Dennis the Menace. His post-mortem jocularity, to everyone's surprise, merited an eight-seed. He will need to maintain this momentum against the Creighton Blue Jays, whose excellent guard play may prove difficult for the aging Hope to defend.

THE EAST REGION

(1) Creighton Blue Jays
vs.
(8) Bob Hope, 2005

(4) Meryl Streep
vs.
(5) The Song "Unchained Melody"

(3) Heinz Ketchup
vs.
(6) The Atlantic Ocean

(2) The USSR Red Army Hockey Team, 1975
vs.
(7) The Wheel

Some More Notes

2007-03-14T08:10:00.000-07:00

1) The New Secretary at Work

By "new," I mean to say that she's been employed for roughly three months. Unlike the majority of the office, she is young and, it's fair to say, attractive. Unfortunately, I've been completely incapable of starting any kind of communication with her. Though I wouldn't call myself a man naturally disposed to flirtatious proficiency, I'm usually able to establish a jokey rapport with other human females of personality. It is tempting to accuse the new girl of dullardry, but I'm afraid this isn't the case. She seems quite open and nice, and has even laughed at witticisms I've made within aural range. But when it comes to interpersonal banter, I freeze.

I've come up with a number of gambits to break the ice, but have had trouble in the implementation. I don't even need an excuse to speak with her; she works for the floor's other boss, and I deliver mail on this boss' behalf twice daily. Roughly three weeks ago, I decided our silence had gone on long enough, and invented an extreme conversational starter. Here's how the idea went in my head (I use a sobriquet for the girl):

Me, delivering mail: What's up, Melissa.

Her: Hey.

Me: So, you've been here like, what, two months?

Her: About, yeah.

Me, mock-serious, but wearing a smile so my intentions are clear: And we barely even know each other! So here's the deal. Every time I bring mail over, you have tell me something fascinating about yourself. You don't have to think of one now, but this afternoon...be ready. I'm expecting huge things

Her: Haha, okay! You're fun and interesting!

When the time came, I redoubled my resolve and started down the hallway to her desk. Halfway there, I realized this was probably the corniest shit I could ever have thought up. I promptly delivered the mail, nodded curtly, and straight-armed it back to my desk.

Yesterday I came up with a less outrageous idea. I'd earlier asked her to have the boss sign a paper permitting some bureaucratic inanity, and while at lunch, she'd sent an e-mail saying the task was complete, and that she would deliver it herself, but she didn't know where my desk was located. This, of course, was either a lie or an oversight. I sit at the entrance, and in order to come onto the floor, you must pass my desk. I see everything. She's walked by on countless occasions, even waving at times, and must have forgotten in the moment.

What a perfect chance, I thought. I'd simply pick up the sheet, and say "Come on, Melissa, you really don't know where my desk is?" Then I'd chuckle and good-naturedly rib her for overlooking the obvious. She'd laugh and perhaps smack her forehead, and off we'd go. Again, I set off in full commitment, thinking the plan fool-proof. Then, halfway down, the doubts flooded. What if she thought I was upset about having to pick up the form myself, and was chastising her? Even my smile might appear strained, a thin disguise for the prissy anger brewing beneath. Indeed, the tension of initiating conversation would stiffen my grin anyway. She might become resentful, or think of me as lazy and coarse, the sort of man who would rather type angry rants on a themed internet message board than engage in meaningful human interaction.

I promptly picked up the form, gave a curt thank you, and retreated to the familiar confines of my desk.

2) A Child on the Subway

There was a small toddler in a stroller on the subway to work today. She had big brown eyes and stared at me in what seemed like prolonged amazement. I did a one-eye wink at her, then tried to elicit smile by doing a variety of exaggerated facial expressions, like the guy in that one Godard movie (Breathless, I think). Her eyes grew wider, and then I remembered being a little kid, and how out of proportion and terrifying and exciting adults seemed. I even have some snapshot recollections from when I was very young. One in particular stands out- I'm in the front seat of a car, going somewhere with my new stepfather. I'm probably about three years old, and my stepfather is new to me. He comes in the driver's side, sits down, and turns. Up to this point I'm just extrapolating details, because all I remember is the memory picture that came next. He faced me, darkened by a perpetual five o'clock shadow and a pair of sunglasses, and obscured further by a downturned, woolen poorboy cap. A pipe sagged form his lips, unlit. He smiled, and for some reason, probably being alone with a new person who looked so intimidating, I cried in fear and wouldn't be placated. I think he eventually had to get my mother. The image has stuck with me forever, despite the fact that, typical bumps aside, we've mostly gotten on well.

The little girl just seemed curious, though, not terrified, so I let her be and turned my focus to certain people, encompassing maybe 30% of subway traffic, who express with tiny sighs, darting glances, and gritted teeth that life is one long series of small burdens. I shouldn't judge them, not knowing their circumstances, but juxtaposing an intent child with their kind is perhaps instructive. There are pitfalls we should avoid.

3) A Sign I Posted

Last week, some woolgathering soul left a scarf in the reception area. A more heedful sort, finding the accessory, brought it to my attention. Today, after no claims, I decided to be proactive and compose a sign. I placed it by the front door, in clear view of the floor's lone exit. For your perusal:

!!!!

IF YOU LOST A SCARF,
PLEASE SEE SHANE*

IT IS BLACK AND SPORTS FRILLS AT EITHER END

*ask about the scarf

4) A Song I Composed

I was improvising lyrics to the verses of "Father and Son," by Cat Stevens, and was particularly happy with the results. Please note this is not bragging. I improvise lyrics to various tunes continually- perhaps as much as 6 hours aggregate on a typical weekday. Rarely is the result worthy of second mention, and it usually devolves into arrhythmic vulgarity. I am an altogether poor freestylist, having grown up in the country where the practice is widely scorned. This time, though, the last verse made me laugh out loud. Again, for your perusal, and a disclaimer: if you don't know the tune, it will be even lamer.

Here I am,
four feet high
waiting for my confirmation
all these souls
down the aisle
Holy water

oh the nails
on His hands
just like needles they have threaded
through the dark
through the night
bringing floods across the land

If I had
such a thread
and a thimble I could sew, Lord
I could stitch,
I could weave
just like Bea Arthur

She was brave
she was cold
when she aged she built a castle
and that old
frowning gal
could sling a needle like a God

The best part is, it's true. Bea Aruther could out-sew pretty much anyone on the planet, and woe to the man who doubts it

The end of this blog entry was all about how funny I am. I apologize for the complete lack of subtlety. From here out, my self-aggrandizement won't be so overt. But remember- in the pursuit of imaginative capers, lonely souls in offices have only themselves. We enlist time and circumstance to evolve and distort a single personality, and so if I credit myself, I am in some sense crediting a different being altogether.

Now, like JD Salinger, I must drink my own urine for vitality.

My new Macbook is GARBAGE

2007-03-13T09:54:00.000-07:00

I received the monstrosity yesterday morning from FedEx (I incorrectly identified the carrier yesterday as UPS - my error), and commenced to set it up in my apartment after work.

Before long, it became clear that the operating system, if I can even call it that, would not run downloaded .exe files. Instead, it insisted on the cognomen "application," a term so vague I could not begin to decipher its possible meanings. I soon discovered that it would be completely impossible to download AIM 4.3 (the indisputable kingpin of the instant message world) from oldversion.com. Instead, I was asked to settle for some nonsense called iChat, which apparently features videoconferencing to the exclusion of sensible layout. Two angry calls to Apple technicians yielded a surplus of ignorance, and I began to positively fume.

The packaged had not been disassembled for thirty minutes when I grew so frustrated that I vowed to dispose of the infernal machine. I had nearly commenced dousing the damned thing with olive oil (the viscosity of which would destroy it completely) when an idea alit in my infuriated brain. Why not use the opportunity for public edification?

So thinking, I borrowed my roommate's writing desk (my own armoire, used for similar purposes, contained a full wardrobe, and was, perforce, difficult to lug) and made for the street. I placed the macbook atop the escritoire, and proceeded to harangue Macintosh, Apple, and all subsidiaries of said company, in my harshest timbre. The volume, I should note, was not insignificant; at a certain renowned Renaissance fair, which I attended at the behest of a former girlfriend whose name I shall not mention, I was told by several knowledgeable antiquarians that my pipes would be more than well-suited for the occupation of medieval town crier.

This continued for perhaps fifteen to twenty minutes. Drawing on association, I began to critique thsoe patrons listening to iPods, and admittedly became too physical in one instance, which led to predictable threats and blustering on the part of the transgressed. A swarthy dose of rodomontade on my part sent her scurrying off, however, and further altercations were forestalled.

Missteps aside, I succeeded in accurately depicting the inefficacy of my new computer. I offered passerby the chance to witness firsthand its instant messaging shortcomings, but precious few showed interest. Such is the apathy of our generation, I'm told.

In any case, I determined to continue the whole night long, should the need arise, if it meant dealing a serious blow to the company's image. If I may be permitted a brief wordplay, I vowed that they would no longer reign as the Apple of the public eye. In order to prepare, I retired to my apartment for a quick snack of apricots and lemon juice, a combination sure to provide sustenance for an intense evening.

Yet upon my return to the sidewalk, both the Macbook and my roommate's writing desk had disappeared. Vigorous questioning of nearby pedestrians yielded no leads, and in short time I quit the search, stymied by hopelessness and a growing inclination to finish The Cossacks, one of Tolstoy's more incendiary novellas.

To the thief, who will undoubtedly be reading this blog with a gloating smirk, I say the following: save your grins until you've more closely examined the capabilities of your loot, for if you are any kind of discriminating instant messenger, severe disappointment is in store. Such are the pitfalls of your chosen profession, and I dare say all future felicities will belong to me.

Due to a certain bulky inheritance received from a great uncle with whom I developed a childhood bond (we would often sit in his den of a morning with two copies of the local paper, taking turns mocking the columnists), the loss does not greatly burden me from a fiscal standpoint. In fact, I've already ordered another Macbook. If one vandal thinks he can stop what may well turn into a powerful grassroots movement, he is sorely mistaken. The demonstration will resume on Friday, if Apple's shipping date is to be believed. Thus far I've been duly impressed with that aspect of the company's functioning.

As a final addendum to the narrative, it looks as though I'll be forced to replace my roommate's erstwhile furniture. At first I pled ignorance to the Case of the Missing Desk, but I'd earlier made the mistake of drawing up plans for my forthcoming protest, detailing in clear terms (and one sketch) the escritoire's role. When he discovered the blueprint, which I'd neglected to burn, I was caught red-handed, and am now forced to pay what I consider an astronomical rate for an item whose utility could be easily duplicated with milk crates and a sturdy piece of plywood.

Some notes

2007-03-12T10:47:00.000-07:00

1. Bill Simmons, quit being a knave and post the "mammoth" (your words) March Madness blog post. It's 1:47pm, and, as far as I'm concerned, anything posted after 3 is in the twilight of the work day and has passed its use as a distraction. Further, I refuse to spend post-work hours perusing an espn sports blog. If nothing happens soon, I'll be forced to postpone my analysis until the 'morrow, and perhaps delay my e-mail feedback until Wednesday. These are the stakes, "Bill." The ball, as they say, is in your court.

2. I was treated to a most ambivalent experience at the grocery store's delicatessen yesterday afternoon. My order was tasteful and simple, comprising only turkey, ham, and swiss cheese. I even confined myself to one measurement and brand (a half pound of each, all Boar's Head). The gentleman behind the counter was a new face, at least as far as my visits have been concerned. Previously, I've been served by a gregarious man with a waterfront home who bragged about the possible selling value at every opportunity. Though I've always fancied myself curious as to the bucks and trends of the real estate market, the fascination of this particular tale wore off quickly, and the lingering residual was a marked torpidity in regards to the slicing of goods. Confronted with his visage, I often slumped into either depression or anger, depending on external factors. The other option, altogether preferable, was a man of laconic disposition and grim expression. He worked quickly and well, perhaps spurred on by a meanness of character which sought only solitude. To this I can relate.

The new fellow, sporting the center-part, bowl coiffure favored by the Hispanic 20-something set, displayed a timid aura, seemingly afraid of mistakes. I instantly despised him, and barked my repeated order in stacatto bursts, conveying, I hope, a sense of urgency. He first began to slice the turkey in abominably thick wedges, an error I chose to ignore in the interest of expedience. His first hopeful placement on the scale revealed a weight of .23 pounds, not even halfway to the desired measure, and his deserved shame registered in a blush. For my part, I snorted in derision.

Nevertheless, he proved to be a game employee, making up in persistence what he lacked in carnivoral flair. When it came time for the cheese, he managed a weight of .58, closer by far than his previous efforts. The lad's arms shot up in a gesture of triumph, and I couldn't help but be slightly affected at his timely resurgence. "Well done," I thought to myself, and applauded in a purely mental manner.

In order not to falsely boost his confidence, however, I immediately chastised him for exceeding the proper weight limit. Feigning anger, I forced him to discard the cheese and begin anew while I stared him down to the point of abashment. It is important that new workers, however favored by chance moments, understand that the road to mastery is long and painful. I think this lesson was well-learned.

3. My Macbook arrived at work this morning. I ordered the machine Thursday, and am happy with the turn-around shipping period. What I'm even happier about is the intelligence of the delivery. Apple products, you see, are manufactured (or at least assembled) in China. Ask any ignoramus, and he might tell you the fastest way to ship to New York is through Europe, or perhaps westerly via Hawaii.

That man is a fool.

Luckily, Apple understands that jets may save hours using the decreased latitudinal circumference at our planet's poles. By heading north, then, in an arced pattern, overall flight time is reduced, and products arrive as much as 24 hours in advance. You can imagine my delight when the UPS tracking website revealed that the midpoint between Shanghai and New York was Anchorage, Alaska. Brilliant.

Thus are tomorrow's dreams made today's pleasures.

4. If I seem to be in a rage today, it is because I spent most of Sunday afternoon excoriating my friend Roberta for her inane artistic taste. My scorn took the form of a letter, which I intended to hand-deliver when finished. Yet unable to focus on practical matters amid the maelstrom of my dismay, I mistakenly closed the Word file instead of printing, ignoring the program's exhortations to save the file. Four hours of work were lost, and the whole ordeal threw me into quite a mood.

Our disagreement began when she insisted that "Letters from Iwo Jima" was the year's best film. I recoiled, labelled it correctly as more hackneyed trash from Eastwood and Haggis, and set her straight with a suggestion of the year's hidden gems she might see. Despite my olive branch, she insisted on her position, and words began to be hurled hither and yon. It reached a fever pitch when she suggested Wes Anderson was a "modern snake-oil salesman, vending his potions of false melancholy in the manner of an unseemly filmic carpetbagger."

At this point I stormed about in silence before demanding an apology. She refused, demonstrating an unforgiveable lack of compunction. I demanded that she leave, and after the door shut, I immediately set to my letter.

I've settled somewhat, but Roberta, if you're reading, I still wish to convey my fury. I am on the verge of swearing you off both as friend and lover, and you would be wise to take steps with an eye to avoiding this eventuality.

Good day to all.

Trouble with girls :'(

2007-03-09T10:42:00.000-08:00

Just kidding! I'm happy and not sweating anything. No trouble at all, Deborah, and frankly, you and Tommie are probably better off with each other. You know what they say: birds of a feather stink together.

That's not the phrase, is it? You get the point. You both stink, so you should pair up instead of infecting me.

Come to think of it, you really aren't like birds at all. I'm the one who's flying away to higher and better places. You guys are more like a pair of emus.

Yes, I understand that an emu is a bird, but it's a flightless bird, so you get the metaphor.

Okay, fine, I used the word "like," so the comparison was technically a simile.

And yes, Deborah, you were the one who initiated the break-up, so if anyone is flying away, I guess it's you. But what I'm saying is, your departure has unfettered me, like Prometheus, and as you scurry away, you'll find that, uh-oh, you can't fly after all, because you're an emu!

Yeah, Tommie, I know Prometheus wasn't a bird. It was the fetter thing, and- right, he was actually attacked by birds while tied, which admittedly clouds my message, but what I'm saying is, humans already have fire, I'm tied up, but because Deborah flew off, my liver is safe, soon I'm untied, and things start to get good.

Fine, I did say before that Deborah was a flightless bird, and Prometheus had his liver attacked by an eagle, not an emu. No, I'm not saying that Deborah is an eagle. If anything, I'm the eagle.

Tommie, you are absolutely not Prometheus. I'm Prometheus, and the eagle, Debbie is the emu, and maybe you're Zeus or something, but without the power, sort of like an emu Zeus, with the same anger and cruelty but none of the strength.

Thank you for bringing that up, Deborah, because yes, in fact I do attack my own liver. Since you left, I've been drinking quite a bit. So thank you, thank you for proving my point.

I love you. Come back to me. Deborah, I mean it, I'm nothing without you. Please, just-

Tommie, SERIOUSLY, just give us a second here.

Yeah, I know, I know, you're the new guy. You can back off now, don't...

I'm not calling you that. Deborah, say something, he's being very aggressive, can we-

Okay, okay...Prometheus. There. I called you Prometheus. Don't...just put your fists down, man, we can talk this out.

Deborah, aren't you...you like this, don't you? You're turned on by this.

Great. Excellent. Run off, emus. You know what they say. "Those who think together, flock together."

Bastard idiots.

I bought a Macbook Pro yesterday at an astoundingly high price. The total purchase was 3 times more than I've ever paid for a single item in my life. I'm not the sort of man who holds his tongue about the value of things, as money is a monster we all must confront, so I'll come right out and say that the total damage, after tax, fell just short of $2,400. It was very nerve-wracking to hit the purchase button, and I've been plagued by guilt ever since. A gentleman's mind goes on flights of paranoid fancy after such an expense, and I'm now convinced Apple will deliver the product in a rubber children's pool, swamped in fetid Chinese swamp water, with a note reminding me that I didn't purchase the required insurance for such an eventuality.

I used 'Chinese' in the preceding paragraph not because I associate that nation with unclean resources, but because the UPS tracking number revealed that the computer is shipping from Shanghai. I'm comforted that steadfast workers of indeterminate age or gender, molded by years of oppression, yet hurried by nascent, unchecked capitalism, constructed the machine on which I'll be perusing various websites reflecting the generational whimsy which will, in time, condemn my own countrymen to tertiary status.

A note on an earlier topic. I have met many, in my time, who choose to remain mum on the topic of their own personal finance. This is something I can respect, having been reared by men and women of reserved temperament, and it is fairly crass to raise such matters sans inspiration. Nobody likes the following fellow:

Fellow: I got an offer from Chase last week, and I basically told them to fuck themselves. I'm like, listen, I'm making six figures, and you want me to bust my ass for 80? For fucking 80??!

Yet there seem to be many who bring up fiscal pitfalls or successes, only to retreat, with the implication that the questioner is treading on rude ground, when pressed for specifics. For example:

Friend: Man, I finally found a place.
Me: Oh, congrats! Whereabouts?
Friend: I'm on the upper west side, just east of first ave.
Me: That's great.
Friend: Yeah, I got an amazing deal. It's normally a pretty expensive neighborhood.
Me: Nice, how much are you paying?

*Long silence while the theoretical friend takes on the expression you might expect from one whose mother has just been accused of harlotry*

Friend: Oh, uh...I like to keep that stuff pretty quiet, man.

My problem with this exchange is that if you didn't want to delve into the specifics of your rent, why mention it so obtrusively in the first place? Did you expect me not to ask? You're a bit like the conservative Jewish girl in college who, on instant messenger, used every opportunity to type the word "God" so she could show off her religious impetus to hyphenate the 'o.' "G-d."

Again, if it's your belief that writing the full name of God on paper or computer or wherever leads to the disastrous and irrevocable sin of eventually erasing or deleting His name, fine. I may have some logical or semantical qualms, but I impose my beliefs solely on family and close friends. But isn't it a wiser course of action to take steps to avoid using the word at all? Wouldn't a simple 'omg' suffice, or, less obnoxiously, a 'wow'?

G-d, I hate when people initiate situations for the sole purpose of highlighting curious philosophical limitations.

Now it is time to deliver the mail, a task for which I'm well compensated. Here at my office job, I make almost two hundred thousand dollars per year. Most of that goes to the dog track, which is why I still live in humble surroundings, but I'm also thinking of building a library with a unique theme. E-mail me with ideas, preferably centering around the movie "Crimson Tide."

The Zook

2007-02-28T10:27:00.000-08:00

I dedicate this post to the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theatre, where I've spent each of the past six nights. The UCBt is a comedy establishment in Chelsea, founded by four comedians and featuring a variety of cheap improv and sketch shows seven days a week. I've become addicted to the improv comedy scene at UCB, and am currently enrolled in a level 2 class. The theatre has a ton of house teams, but the "highlight" of the week is a Sunday night show called ASSSSCAT, where some of the more famous improvisers get together and dazzle with their skill.

Regular performers include Amy Poehler, Seth Myers, and Horatio Sanz from SNL, Jack McBrere, John Lutts, and others from NBC's 'Thirty Rock,' and a hodgepodge of the theatre's best house improvisers. The show sells out every week, and oftentimes a line stretches down 26th street all the way to eighth avenue beforehand. Without fail, people are turned away when the UCBt (located below a grocery store) fills to capacity.

Within this star-packed scene, one performer stands out. Not for his comedic capacity, which is great indeed, nor for his dedication, which is truly nonpareil. No, this improviser is infamous for the shroud of mystery surrounding his activity. His name is Jason Mantzoukas, and rumors swirl regarding the behind-the-scenes power he wields at the UCB. The true extent can't be known, as he operates mostly in the shadows, but legends abound regarding his ruthless, ambitious, and brilliant rise to prominence in the New York comedy scene. Some are even convinced that he's parlayed his success into international control, delving into geo-political realms in order to create a favorable environment for his cronies.

Discovering the boundary between truth and fiction can be difficult, as very few will publicly speak out against "The Zook." It's widely believed that he rewards loyalty and is swift to punish betrayal, a fact which seems confirmed by the relative silence from both friends and erstwhile enemies. In order to give a full picture of The Zook, I will first list only the known facts. Following that, I'll enumerate the widely accepted but heretofore unproven truths, and will finally introduce some of the more conspiratorial rumors.

THE FACTS

*Goes by "The Zook"

*When fans shout "The Zook!", "Zook!", or "Hey Zook!" as he's walking past, he will stop and salute.

*Hates to be called "The Zookie."

*Once got into a fight with an audience member who called him "Zookie" during a scene. Immediately broke character, darted into the audience, cracked the fan's ribs with three kicks, and canceled the show. After, as audience members congregated outside, came out and performed an impromptu solo set. Observers called it the funniest human performance they'd seen. Later that evening, the audience member with the broken ribs died under mysterious circumstances at the hospital.

*Claims to be primarily influenced not by other comics, but by Italian writers, most notably Dante and Machiavelli.

*Is known to stalk the ASSSSCAT line before shows, stare into the eyes of spectators, and bar those he dislikes from attending.

*Has a euphemistically-named "cheering section" at every show, which consists of muscular, Polish-speaking males who sit silently with their arms crossed in the back row. Preliminary identity checks reveal that most have criminal records.

*Refuses to play a woman in an improv scene, calling it "degrading."

*Known for introducing remote control racecars into scenes whenever possible.

*Wears a white rose on his lapel.

*Due to a longstanding rivalry, will not improvise on the same stage as Rob Riggle.

*Was asked to perform a private show for President Clinton in '96, but refused on the grounds that Vice President Al Gore too closely resembled a childhood enemy.

*Was linked romantically with Katherine Harris around the time of the '00 Florida recount.

*Claims to be a scratch golfer who averages .64 aces per 18 holes.

*Is close friends with political pundit George Stephanopolous.

*Went on an improvisational tour of the Russian countryside, but quit after three shows, calling the collective population "mongoloid philistines." Was wanted for assault in that country before long-time fan Vladimir Putin granted clemency.

*Studies film of old 'American Gladiators' joust competitions.

UNCONFIRMED BUT ACCEPTED TRUTHS

*Owns a majority share of the Nestea Corporation.

*Poisoned the water bottle of improv performer John Lutts after Lutts inadvertently cast him as Cleopatra in a scene. The water went unconsumed for three days, when Lutts found it in his bag and poured it into his thirsty labrador's dish. The dog died on the spot, and a veterinary autopsy revealed trace amounts of cyanide in the canine's stomach. Lutts and The Zook later made amends and wrote a one-act play which ultimately failed, but was a primary influence for novelist Khaled Hosseini's "The Kite Runner."

*Authored an anonymous piece for The Village Voice advocating tire-burning as an olympic sport. The article was advertised as satire against the IOC, but had been written in absolute sincerity. As punishment for not understanding the purpose of his work, The Zook threw a burning tire through a first floor window at the newspaper's downtown office. Attached to the tire was a gold medal. The ensuing panic caused over $4,000 in damage. Afterward, the Zook bought the charred tire back from e-bay, and hurled it through the window again, this time with a note that read, "This isn't over."

*Rubs himself in iris flowers in lieu of bathing.

*Has an uncanny memory for faces, and will make mental notes of those who don't laugh during a show, hoping to find them alone in the city.

*Follows unappreciative audience members home after shows.

*Won't perform monologues due to fear that FBI agents attend his shows seeking evidence of past discretions.

*Hired pro-life phone operators to verbally assault the owners of rival New York improv organizations The Magnet and The Pit.

*Is banned from teaching classes at UCB because of an incident where he maimed a forty year-old female student for not establishing a relationship with her scene partner.

*Donates sizeable sums once yearly to the Irish Republican Army.

*Was the brains behind a failed UCB-wide coup directed against the founding members. When the plot failed, he curried favor with the elites by naming his co-conspirators.

RUMORS AND SPECULATION

*Has committed over three hundred acts of violence, including several murders, in and around the UCB.

*Won the lottery as a child and sent every penny to various oil companies.

*Offered his legal services to Ken Lay, and killed him when he refused.

*Has fathered sixty-seven children, including Dakota Fanning.

*Can erase PC hard drives by sneezing.

*Briefly made English the official language of Spain.

*Raped CBS sports commentator Craig Sager.

*Raced the full length of the Nile against a school of red-tailed Catfish, finishing fourth.

*Translated the Rosetta Stone, became angry at the message, and is currently plotting to destroy it.

*Started as an improv comedian in Missouri, where he performed several private shows for the KKK.

*Illegitimate great-grandson of Charles Guiteau, the man who assassinated President Garfield.

*Foiled plans for a land bridge between Alaska and the former Soviet Union.

*Has a button at home which, if pressed, will activate a series of hidden gates and release wild, hungry ocelots into the UCB theatre.

*Can re-enact every Popeye cartoon from memory, but will not say Bluto's lines.

*Runs with the bulls in Pamplona for the sole purpose of committing savage violence and blaming it on the animals.

*Writes haikus for neo-Nazis.

*Wrote Paul Giamatti's Pinot Noir monologue for the movie "Sideways."

*Actively pursues the extinction of pandas.

Blogs are awesome

2007-02-27T09:19:00.000-08:00

Here are some actual facts about our world.

1. Laissez-Faire Construction Speeding

One of our country's most frustrating road obstacles are construction zones on federal highways. They delay traffic during peak hours, and force drivers to brake unnecessarily when the interstate is otherwise vacated. Menacing orange signs speak of lower speed and doubled fines, but what most vehicle operators don't understand is that these are hollow threats.

Why? Because there's a loophole. As many already know, traffic violations are administered exclusively by either local or state police. There's no such thing as a "federal" traffic cop.
However, since the Road Creation & Repair Act (1919), all construction on national highways falls under the jurisdiction of the Department of Transportation, which is, quite obviously, a federal institution. What does this mean? It means that town, county, or state traffic cops cannot stop you for speeding in a federal highway construction zone! It's out of their domain, and would carry the same penalty as arresting someone out of state. Violators can, and do, lose their badge.

Have you ever noticed that truck drivers never seem to obey the "lower speed limits" in these zones? It's because the big-rig community knows the loophole, and aren't falling for the ominous warnings. So next time you pass a construction zone on a federal highway (note: this does NOT apply on local roads), hit the gas pedal and give the workers the middle finger. There is simply no good reason to slow down when the builders are out.

2. Old-Timey Prostitution

You probably don't need to be told that, with the exception of certain counties in Nevada, prostitution is illegal in America. This is a commonly accepted truism, and yet, because of an unlikely congressional response to high suicide rates after the stock market crash of 1929, the act of sex for money cannot be prosecuted in office buildings whose date of construction precedes October of that year.

Here's how it went down: on October 19, 1929, also known as "Black Tuesday," the American stock market experienced an unprecedented recession. A flurry of selling prompted an atmosphere of panic, and those with large stock ownership sold out, which led to minor investors following suit. Before the day was over, prices had bottomed, and many had lost their life savings. Banks foreclosed, jobs were lost, and the manifold tragedies ushered in the Great Depression, which lasted until American involvement in World War 2.

But more importantly for our purposes, many investors and brokers who lost their fortune on that fateful day saw fit to take their own lives. In the days following Black Tuesday, it was common to see these men hurl themselves from the upper floors of their woebegone institutions. The American public demanded a response to what became an epidemic, and congress convened the following week.

Countless ideas were bandied about the House in the ensuing days, one of which was that gray, monotonous office conditions depressed the American working public and cultivated an aura favorable to suicide. In an effort to appear active, the House passed over four hundred items of legislation in five days, setting a record that would stand until the infamous "Laws for Claws" debacle of 1976. Sadly, most measures proved ineffectual. Yet in the midst of this flurry, motion 4164D had a lasting impact; designed to increase employee morale, it mandated an enlivening of businesses with multi-hued walls, increased flora, and, thanks to renegade congressman Charles "Lucky Chuck" Abernethy (D-NC, served 1922-1935), "permissible acts of leisure." The motion was passed unanimously, and signed into law by President Herbert Hoover on Christmas Day of 1929.

What Abernethy knew, and others did not, is that this specific phrase, thanks to an obscure 1834 Senate clause, referred to prostitution. Six months later, when the repercussions became clear, Speaker of the House Nicholas Longworth (R-OH) called a special session to repeal the law. But to Republican dismay, Abernethy's longstanding influence enabled him to successfully attach a rider grandfathering all office buildings currently built. The ploy became known as "Chuck's Pork," referring to the 'pork barrel' nomenclature commonly used to describe such riders. However, because of the subject matter, the term 'pork' gradually became a slang term synonymous with intercourse.

The legislation was not publicized, and was rarely utilized by any corporation. But in the past fifteen years, old, vacant office buildings in American cities have been commonly used as brothels. "Chuck's Pork" has become protection for pimps, who operate with impunity in all edifices constructed before Black Tuesday.

3. Heroic Coke?

Heroin Diacetylmorphine, or "heroin," is an opioid drug known for producing a euphoric high in users. Freebase Cocaine, or "crack," is a coca-based stimulant drug used commonly in poor areas of urban America. Both substances are illegal, but what the government doesn't want you to know is, they may save your life.

In simple terms, the combination of insositol and mannitol sugars in crack, when alone, contribute to high energy levels, heightened consciousness, and an overall increase in brain activity. Meanwhile, synthesized diacetyl, derived from morphine, lends heroin its more serene effects. When the two are paired by simultaneous use, they form a protein bond on the rotational axis, and the joint compound (scientifically unnamed, but known in research circles as "Waldsterben," the German word for "Forest Death" - derivation unknown) is the world's most effective disease killer.

In laboratory studies undertaken at the University of California, Berkley in 2001, Waldsterben proved adept at destroying all forms of virus and bacteria in some of the larger animal species. It also demonstrated a nascent ability to destroy carcinogens. Yet under the guise of stem cell ban, the Executive branch outlawed further research and shut down the Berkley labs, essentially ending all investigation into the drug's cancer-curing potential.

The cease-and-desist order was prompted by the FDA, whose commitment to stemming the tide of illegal substances into US territory was judged as more important than developing a possible eradicator of all human illness. Unfortunately, the Waldsterben compound, somewhat mysteriously, can only be formed when the two drugs are combined, and thus legal methods of further research are impossible. However, recent reports from the scientific underground seem to indicate that explorations continue in experimental medical regions of Michigan's upper peninsula.

DUSTIN UPDATED: it's about TV!!!! http://magomra.blogspot.com

DUSTIN FACT:

He thinks the Genghis-Khan-era Mongols were "amoral swine, but militarily irreproachable."

The first Kate?

2007-02-26T07:19:00.000-08:00

I thought maybe I'd tell my first date story.

First, some preliminaries. I got to see my college friend Kate for the first time since graduation yesterday, and that was a big treat. We hit an improv comedy show and she spent the night on my couch before driving to New Hampshire today. Here are some of the highlights from our time together:

*I got to hear numerous Kate Stories. Kate Stories are a breed of true tales so outrageous and exciting that you immediately suspect that the narrator is full of shit. I always enjoy crazy people, and for the longest time I liked Kate's company because I could count on hearing about some wild adventure or other, and was pretty sure she was functionally insane. It was nice to sit back, put my legs up, suggest a word or phrase, and just wait for the fireworks. At a certain point, I considered her a genius for the unreal ability to concoct incredibly detailed accounts on the spot. I'm not sure when exactly I realized that she wasn't a pathological liar, but it slowly dawned that she was on the level, and probably had the most fascinating life of anybody I've ever known. I have a habit of calling her when I'm drunk, and I always love asking about her life, because it's common to hear responses like:

"I'm thinking of about going to Hawaii and doing some work with dolphins."
"I drove to Virginia to take a basket weaving course."
"I'm trying to get to South Africa, but my contact is having a ton of issues with the Visa."

By the way, I'm not fabricating any of these details to be funny. They're all actual true tidbits. Talking to her is kind of like reading a Calvino novel, in the sense that she's pretty mysterious, and it'd be impossible to ever pinpoint her exact location. The only sure thing is that you'll be surprised. The best part of her stories, though, is the delivery. The insane details are always mentioned in offhand responses, as in:

Me: Do you feel like pancakes?
Her: I used to love pancakes, until I ate them almost every day when I took a year off after high school to work at a ranch in Texas. Now I'm kind of sick of pancakes.

We took a walk around my neighborhood when she arrived yesterday, and I asked about her upcoming interview in California. Turns out, she might be making good money doing child care, and have her mornings off so she can concentrate on horse-riding. This would replace her current job, which entails video-conferencing with a west coast doctor who is trying to establish a new paradigm for re-growing clearcut forests.

Anyway, one of my main life goals is to go on a road trip with Kate, because she might be the only person who gets into more fucked up situations and meets more strange people than me. She's the kind of person who visits LA and finds herself in a party where fruit is served off the naked body of an actual human female model, or who travels with a friend wearing only a wet towel because they've decided to skinny dip in every lake in Northern Maine, or who has an 80-year old friend who was threatened with a gun in his shower by his second wife, and who has a standing offer to let her live in his rent-controlled, 70 dollar per month West Village apartment. When I mentioned an idea I'd had about taking a road trip from the US to the southern tip of South America, it shouldn't have surprised me that she knew a guy who'd made the jaunt with his wife in the 70s. More highlights...

*Because I took all my clothes to the laundry earlier, I was out of gym shorts and slept in the natural state. At about 5am, I had to use the toilet, so I was presented with a conundrum. The bathroom door is kitty (not catty) corner to my bedroom door, so the dash is quick. Normally, I wouldn't bother with clothing, but as I mentioned, Kate was on my couch. So I could either risk her being awake and seeing my naked body dart between doors (something people usually pay good money for), or I could dig up some kind of easy clothing to slip on. After some deliberation, I chose the latter, and proceeded to turn on my light, drop several clothes from the shelf, make a ton of noise, and settle on a noisy pair of windpants, which were literally the only available item of bottom-half clothing that weren't made of denim or khaki. The overall sound impression was of a clumsy 15 year-old being attacked by a super-villain made of paper. I held out hope that she hadn't woken up, but the first question she asked this morning was why I'd donned a poncho in the middle of the night.

*She urged me several times to call into work and tell them I had testicle cancer so we could hang out. According to her, you have two testicle cancer days every year, one for each testicle. I was skeptical, but I checked company policy today, and she's absolutely right. Unfortunately, you have to provide subsequent visual proof of a lost testicle in order to qualify. I'm still deciding if it's worth the trouble. Anybody know where I can get a testicle? I've got a bootleg copy of 'Norbit' if anyone's interested in a trade.

*She violently insisted that I see the movie "Night at the Museum" starring Ben Stiller. When I told her I would unequivocally never see that movie, she accused me of being out of touch and demanded that I name the last movie I'd seen in the theater. My answer was "The Lives of Others," a subtitled German language film which seemed to prove her point. However, I read this morning that it won the Oscar for best foreign movie, which reduces its overall obscurity. Now who's out of touch, Kate? Pardonnez-moi if I maintain a certain artistic cordon sanitaire, precluding the intake of cinema's more fatuous pilules. And really, isn't the content of such farces déjà entendu, at best, and chiefly déclassé? If I felt a yen for coarse burlesque, I'd procure footage of Gypsy Rose Lee in Stage Door Canteen. QED, I believe.

*Before the show, I made her eat a Bob Marley burrito from Burritoville, which is objectively the best food item you can find in all of New York City and the whole world.

*I experienced the beginning of two possible Kate Stories, the first coming in a Starbucks when she flashed a winning smile at the "Barista," who proceeded to flirt and try to strike up a conversation before we left. The second came when a crazy person approached us on the subway, and Kate made the crucial New York mistake of answering his questions without being brief and rude. We found out his dad was a biologist, and he chastised Kate for not asking her own geologist father (degree only) about what kind of light blue stone sat in the bezel of her ring. This is about 800% more detail than you ever want to go into with a subway nut, but the best part was when our stop came, and I eagerly said "this is us!" Kate looked at me, puzzled, and said "Is it? Are you sure?" I was sure, having lived in the neighborhood for over a year, but her question created the unmistakable impression that I was lying about our stop in order to avoid further conversation with the crazy guy. Which, needless to say, is the exact wrong idea to convey. Luckily, we didn't die.

*I got to watch a video of her mother impersonating a gorilla.

So overall, a great time, and guess what story I'm not going to tell? The story of my first date! Instead, this blog will be my tribute to Kate. In fact, the title of this blog was originally "The first date?", but now I'm changing it to "The first Kate?", because that's fucking hilarious. It would also be a good crossword clue, if only we'd ever had a first lady named Kate. Alas, America comes up short again. I think I fucked up the comma use in that sentence with all the quotes and question marks. If anyone knows the proper form, please let me know.

Dustin Fact of the Day:

He once ran a half mile in snowpants to prove he wasn't gay. It was only moderately successful.

Blog post-script:

I jinxed the shit out of my g-mail spam filter with the last entry. It turned from an efficient monster into a porous milquetoast border guard, reminiscent of the Roman Empire when they stopped giving a shit about the Visigoths.

Resilient spam

2007-02-22T05:58:00.000-08:00

My gmail spam filter is an efficient motherfucker. It blocks almost every piece of junk sent my way. However, when one slips through the cracks, I get a strange feeling of affection. I picture it dodging the various obstacles, concocting new stories at every blockade, and, against all odds, bursting into the regular inbox.

It's sort of like if you were a British anti-espionage agent in World War II. They basically caught every German spy that tried to parachute or row into the country, and turned them against the Nazis. The spy net was so comprehensive that they were able to use the sources to deliver misinformation about the D-Day landing, which turned the tide of the war. So imagine the war's over, you've won, and you find out that among all the success, one German actually managed to evade all the sensors, integrate into the culture, and deliver information back via radio. Considering the long odds, it'd be pretty remarkable, right? You couldn't help but admire this one guy's luck and ability.

Nevertheless, he is a traitor, and must be tried and hung for his war crimes. And so it goes with you, "Dental Department," and your offer of Crest Whitening Strips. You'll be marked as spam, and later deleted entirely with the rest of your less successful brethren. But you'll always have your brief moment of glory, a daring achievement nobody will ever forget. Kudos and goodbye.

Dustin Update:

He updated his blog twice since the last time I posted. Music and television, par for the course. Apparently the new show "The Winner" sucks, and the Arcade Fire is good.

I just had a terrible thought. What if my synopses keep people from reading Dustin's blog? That would be counter-productive indeed.

http://magomra.blogspot.com

Dustin fact of the day:

He once gargled saltwater for thirty-three straight hours, setting the world record. However, by the time the next edition was printed by Guinness, he'd been outpaced by someone from China.

Fuck Nabokov

2007-02-02T21:36:00.000-08:00

There's a girl with an obnoxious voice who continually asks for cups. I think she either hovers in the pantry or has some sort of surveillance camera which notifies her the moment the last is taken. As for the voice itself, picture a high, grating whine with a baby girl's inflection. Bludgeoning fantasies often take hold at each new request, and today I considered that it might be good for me. Not because I believe that acting on anger somehow cures the problem- on the contrary, it's more likely to become an addiction- but because if I actually saw this person sprawled out and hurt, it might cue up some heretofore absentee sympathetic reaction. I might start to see her as human, instead of a cup monitoring whimper machine.

DUSTIN UPDATE:

He still hasn't updated since January 21st. Visit magomra.blogspot.com and tell him to stop hoarding.

Dustin fact of the day:

On average, he eats 17 eggs per week. He claims it gives him 'chicken charm,' a term continually referenced but never explained.

First Date

2007-02-02T11:02:00.000-08:00

The story of my first date is wildly uncomfortable, so brace yourselves.

The first awkward detail I can think to introduce is the fact that I was 17, an age where most American males have probably had sex, or at the very least seen a female naked on something other than a computer or television screen. Not me. My romantic history from middle school to date 1 reads like a Jane Austen novel, in the sense that there a lot of emotions and nothing really interesting ever happens. From date 1 onward, it reads like a comedy of errors.

In sixth grade I had my first official girlfriend. Her name was Shelly, and she was two years older. Shelly and I engaged in many awkward phone conversations where the average silence to speaking ratio was 10:1. Luckily, we never communicated in person. Sometimes her outgoing friend Valerie would deliver a message like "Shelly thinks you're cute," and on Valentine's Day I bought her a greeting card. It took me about two hours to pick the right one, and the stress involved almost put me over the edge. After long deliberation inside Newberry's, I chose a blank with just hearts. Inside, I wrote "Happy Valentine's Day, Love, Me." The interesting part there is that I felt enough intimacy with her to write a cutesy "me," something I'd probably learned from reading holiday cards between my mom and step-dad.

In the winter, before classes started, the middle school opened up the auditorium on very cold days. Ten years ago in Saranac Lake, that was pretty much every day. On the fourteenth, I had the card in hand, and was shaking from nerves at the prospect of handing it over. I briefly considered using Valerie as a messenger, but finally gathered the courage to take it over myself. I hitched up my backpack and started side-stepping through the rows of orange seats. Her friends spotted me immediately and began giggling. By the time I reached the gaggle, they were stifling, and my face had actually gone beyond a blush into something scientists call "The Bloodrose Effect." Shelly, who was even more painfully shy than myself, accepted the card and my mumbled "Happy Valentine's Day" without looking up. After the transaction, I ran away, and I think later that month our 'relationship' ended, though it's hard to be sure since we never spoke. Perhaps I detected a slightly colder half-stare when we passed in the hallway.

This raises an interesting point. For some reason, starting in sixth grade, the girls I date tend to be very shy. While I'm not necessarily a bashful person, my pervasive social awkwardness should not be paired with anything but absolute charm in a female counterpart. This might explain why why my relationships to date haven't fared well; the common bond seems to be an overriding unease with the idea of human interaction.

Wow, I didn't even come close to talking about my first date. I promise to broach that subject next week.

DUSTIN: He still has not updated his blog (http://magomra.blogspot.com) since January 21st, which is two weeks ago. You can go read back entries to pass the time, but please leave him a gentle reminder in the comments section that he's being a negligent dick.

Dustin fact of the day: Dustin and I annoy the shit out of everyone in the world by constantly referencing people from high school. When I say "referencing," I just mean "saying their name in the middle of other people's conversations based on a loose association from a word we probably misheard." The gimmick stopped being funny to everyone else about four months ago, when it first started. It's especially unamusing to people who didn't go to our high school. But unlike Courtney Miller when she's holding a beaker of acid, we're not gonna drop it.

The Greg Dowden Affair

2007-02-01T11:05:00.000-08:00

I've been through many strange incidents, some of which make me feel as though a cosmic power delights in playing absurd pranks while I writhe. The following story contains the most bizarre moment of my young life, stemming from a few odd coincidences which aligned and culminated at my friend Brandon's house in late 2000.

We were in the middle of our senior year, enjoying Christmas break by playing Mario tennis at his house. An old friend of ours named Craig Bowden, who'd moved to Indianapolis sometime in middle school, had returned for a visit and was staying with Brandon. While they played, I thumbed through his yearbook, which for whatever reason he'd brought along. It was your typical layout, with horizontal rows of 5 black-and-white portrait photos. The names were on a sidebar at the edge of the page. I thumbed through, idly looking for attractive girls, when I came across someone whose resemblance to Craig was so uncanny that it blew my mind. I showed Brandon, who turned from the match long enough to remark on the similarity. Capitalizing on my ability to make horrible jokes, I said "what's his name, Greg Dowden?" Craig Bowden himself made no comment, apparently unamused by my rhyming jab.

Then I looked to the side of the page, and this is where the story gets fucking strange. The kid's name, no shit, was Greg Dowden.

Digest that, if you will. Not only did Craig Bowden have an unbelievably accurate look-alike in his same school, which is slightly odd but not overly remarkable. Not only did this person have both a first and last name which rhymed with his double, which is pretty amazingly odd and hilarious.

Nope, I'd actually nailed the dude's name with an accidental, obnoxious joke. Craig hadn't reacted because he assumed I knew. I hadn't.

When Brandon saw the name, he started laughing hysterically. I just leaned back against the couch and stared out the window, fully expecting the world I knew to crumble like a curtain, revealing a massive laboratory with giant giggling scientists.

DUSTIN HAS A BLOG:

http://magomra.blogspot.com

In his latest entry, he talked about television or something. Each time I update, I will update you on Dustin's blog progress, even if he has not updated himself. Such is my commitment. Dustin is a big tough person from my high school. One day, I will post a youtube clip of him scoring a touch down.

Today's Dustin fact: He has a friend named Alex who I call "The Sun King."