I called it a "Sting", but I Meant "Twinge"

“In Greek ‘nostalgia’ literally means ‘the pain from an old wound.’ It’s a twinge in your heart far more powerful than memory alone" - Don Draper

An Unpopular Topic

It has been a long time since I even thought about discussing the issue of abortion with anyone. The last time was probably in college when I was told by my then-girlfriend that because I was a man, I didn’t deserve to have an opinion. She said this before I even had a chance to tell her what my opinion was.

Anyway, quite recently, in the course of discussing the Presidential campaign, I witnessed reasonable people arguing the merits of the abortion issue. It was strange. Out of habit I declined to participate in the discussion. One side argued a woman’s right to privacy and the ability to determine what happens with her body. The other side argued the preciousness of life and a moral duty handed down from a higher power.

Both arguments have compelling points that can be made, which is why the topic seems so pointless to discuss. I am not going to tell you my opinion on the matter, either – that would be equally pointless. But as I listened to the argument (actually, as I read – it was on an internet message board), it occurred to me that the anti-abortion activists have taken the wrong approach if they truly want to change laws. If they really want abortion to go away (which is debatable, since this is a great wedge issue for conservatives) here is a two step plan for what they should do:

1. Drop the religious overtones to the argument. The problem is that your God is not necessarily my God and why should what your God says govern the way that I live my life? This is probably a tough one to swallow, since many anti-abortionists believe their cause is mandated by God. But a better angle would be to pursue the cause from a social contract point of view, or better yet: a constitutional view. Everyone in this country is bound by the constitution, so if your argument is couched in those terms it is more applicable to the general population.

2. Embrace Roe v. Wade. Anti-abortionists have spend the last thirty-five years working to get Roe v. Wade overturned, but it is a well written and well reasoned opinion. Have you actually read it? It is right here: http://www.tourolaw.edu/Patch/Roe/. Even better for anti-abortionists, it has the tools that you need to chip away at abortion and (eventually perhaps) eliminate it almost completely.

Roe v. Wade states unequivocally that the State has a compelling interest in protecting a fetus after it has become viable. That should be the strongest point in any anti-abortion argument. In fact, Roe v. Wade specifically allows a state to prohibit abortion (except to protect a woman’s life or health) after viability. According to Roe v. Wade, viability occurs at about 28 weeks into the pregnancy and as early as 24 weeks. Of course, Roe v. Wade was written thirty five years ago. I’m no expert, but I have to believe that medical advances over the last thirty five years ago have to have made viability occur earlier in a pregnancy. If not, perhaps that is where anti-abortionists should spend their money: on medical advances that would lead to earlier viability.

No matter what you believe in the abortion argument, there is always a line to be drawn. The line determines at what time the fetus/child has its own set of rights under the constitution. Some would argue that the line should be drawn at birth, others say at conception. The court in Roe v. Wade drew the line at viability. It seems to me that the best way to reduce abortions would be to accept this line and then work on having viability be declared to be earlier and earlier in a pregnancy. (By the way, Wikipedia has this to say about the current state of fetus viability: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fetus#Viability)

Stealing Jeff Kay's Topics (and paraphrasing him for my title, too)

Jeff Kay asked his commenters on the West Virginia Surf Report if they had ever been accused of something when they were totally innocent. Here is my story:

After my first year of college I went back home and got a job at the local movie theater. I did just about everything for the theater, from selling popcorn and other snacks to picking up trash in the theaters after the movies ended. I had worked at a movie theater all through high school, so I knew my way around a popcorn kettle.

Anyway, one Saturday afternoon I reported for work in the afternoon and was called into the manager's office. Inside was the manager and two douchebags in suits. It turns out that one was a regional manager and the other was from the "home office" in Denver. They asked me if I remembered working on a certain day, which, of course, I didn't. Then they asked me about working with a certain girl who sold tickets in the box office. Again I didn't have any recollection of the shift. Finally they abandoned their FBI questioning tactics and got to the point.

It turns out that a mystery shopper had come in during one of my shifts. This particular shift I was working as a ticket taker. The mystery shopper wrote in his report that he had paid for two tickets and handed them to me to tear, but I only handed him one stub back.

The douchebags asked if I could explain that. I told them that I could not. There could be a hundred explanations for that happening and, since I couldn't remember that particular shift or any of the particulars of that situation, I had no idea what the explanation might be. Their theory was that I pocketed one of the stubs and then gave it to the box office girl, who issued a refund and then she and I split the money. I almost laughed in their faces. Tickets at that time cost $5.25*. I told them that I had not taken part in this elaborate scheme and asked if there had been a rash of refunds issued lately. They sheepishly agreed that there had not.

*How much do you think it cost the company to send those two assclowns to North Kansas City to investigate this conspiracy?

I was allowed to go back to work, but I was told that under no circumstances was I to work as a ticket taker any more. Everyone I worked with thought that it was hilarious, especially since all the good scams involved the concession stands anyway...

I Wish This Didn't Make Me Smile So Hard

But it does...

Food Poisoning Made Easy!

A few weeks ago I took a package of frozen fish out of the freezer, and placed them in the microwave to thaw out, intending to cook it and eat it for that night's dinner. Later that evening me and my sweetie decided to eat out. The next day, I went to put something in the microwave, and there was the package of fish, slowly rotting away.

Well it was 6 days until trash day, so rather than let it stink up my garbage for a week, I stuck it back in the freezer with the intent of throwing it away on sunday.

Today my sweetie went to the grocery store and brought back some fish. I decided today would be good day for some fish so I took out a package of Wild Mahi Mahi and put it in the microwave.

A few hours later I went to cook it and I noticed a foul, fishy smell. I went on cooking thinking that it was just fishy and the smell might recede after time. By the time the meal was finished it was beautiful, I pan fried the fish with tomatoes and mozzerella melted over the top, and I placed it on a bed of baby spinach, with homemade Tartar sauce and potato wedges on the side.

Just then my sweetie walked in complaining of the smell, apparently the smell had wafted into the living room. I replied that the fish smells bad but hopefully it won't taste bad. I made her my guinea pig and she took a bite. She frowned. I took a taste and spat it straight out. As I was dumping the otherwise beautiful meal, sweetie said "let's not get Tilapia anymore."

"Tilapia? That was Mahi Mahi!"

"I didn't buy Mahi Mahi, I bought Tilapia!"

She looks in the freezer and pulls out a package of Tilapia. I realized my mistake, I had cooked the rotten fish. The good news is, as I type this blog, I am munching on beef nachos from Cancun! Oh and no one is sick, yet.

Because It's Expected of Me.

Yes I did go to see Star Wars: The Clone Wars with my step son yesterday.

No, my other Star Wars fan friends didn't go with me. (They politely declined my invitation.)

Yes, the theater was empty.

Yes I did enjoy it.

Yes I did laugh at the jokes that make other adults cringe, Like Sky-Guy, Artooie, and the battle bots' banter.

Yes I did hope Jar Jar was in it.

Yes I will TiVo the TV series.

Yes, I do hope that the live action series gets back to adult themed Star Wars, but this is better than a lot of crap I'm forced to watch.

Basically it was a pretty cool little space cartoon with lightsabers and spaceships, and those are the things I like. It wasn't great, better than Attack of the Clones but worse than the other 5 movies, but don't compare it to the movies, just watch and have fun. If you're not hard core about Star Wars save your money, this will air on TV for free.

Olympics

I have been watching a crapload of the Olympics coverage. I find it fascinating and I root for the good ol' US of A as much as the next guy (or more if the next guy doesn't happen to be from here), but this article seems like a whole lot of sour grapes. Ok, maybe those Chinese girls weren't 16 years old, I don't know, but I just can't buy the argument that they were more impervious to pressure because they were younger. Don't we usually hear from sports announcers that older, wiser, more mature veterans are less likely to succumb to pressure? Now, because the US girls only got a silver instead of a gold they argue the opposite?

Seems like a load of shit to me. I'm not sure that those girls being younger caused the US girl to fall off the balance beam or fall during her floor excercise.

Then again, whatever, it's just women's gymnastics anyway.

Lustitania

Facebook just made me type in the word, "Lustitania" before it would let me publish a comment. I just wanted you guys to enjoy the word "Lustitania" with me. Oh, and also, I'm officially a PhD candidate now. Can I have some money? Really? Last week I was named "emerging leader of the year". Does that count for any money? Bullshit. Wanna buy a plaque?

Good Luck Charm

When I turned on the Cubs game today it was tied 5-5. Then the Cubs scored 3 runs in the 8th and won it 8-5.

When I turned on the Cards game they were up 2-1. Then the Phillies scored 4 runs in the 8th and now lead 5-2.

The Best Line of Dialogue in Movie History

"No one's really going to be free until nerd persecution ends." -Revenge of the Nerds (1984)

The Tire Change Debacle

Today, on Twitter, there was some debate as to who had the worse hot day experience, Josh Mueslix, who had to grill on the hottest day of the year, or me, who had to change two tires when it was 107 degrees. I couldn't do it justice on Twitter, so I decided to make a full blown blog post here.

On July 19th I was at work. I was tired and bored so I decided to leave work early. As an added bonus, I would be home in time to let my fiancee have the car to go to karate. I called her and let her know this, and I was the hero of the moment!

I left work at 10am and decided to take an alternate route to avoid the construction on I-35. I'd been driving around on a worn out tire that I knew I needed to get replaced. I was trying to hold off until the next paycheck because I've been spending so much money getting ready for the wedding. I was pushing my luck, the tire had started to shimmy and shake the car. As I turned onto the on-ramp of 69 Hwy at 119th st I heard a Pow! Flapity flapity flapity! Fuck! I'd blown it.

My first thought was no big, but I'd better call my sweetie so she can get on the bus. I called her but it was too late. I'd gone from the hero, to the goat.

By this time it was about 10:30am and 90 degrees. It was that heavy Kansas City hot where the humidity hangs in the air and you have to swim through it and it breaks down your soul until September when you're ready to move to Alaska. The sweat pours from my body like its from a fountain and the clothes stuck to my body like spandex.

I went to the trunk to look for the spare. My mom gave me this car last year summer and I'd never had to change a tire. At first I thought there was no spare, but then I found the donut and jack. Those are two of the tools you need to change a tire. But there was no lug wrench.

I called my fiancee. I told her I needed a tow. I got a number for a nearby company and called. I told them what I needed and they were going to charge $65 for a "tire change fee." I paid with my debit card, what else could I do? After I got off the phone my savior arrived. 6'2" and buff, his black hair shielded me from the sun and his Laoasian skin had grown brown in the mid-western sun. He had been working on his Toyota in the parking lot of the apartment complex by the on-ramp. "Do you need some tools?" I told him that my shitty Ford wagon didn't have a lug wrench but that I'd just paid for a tow-truck so I would just let them do all the work. He insisted I take the lug wrench. I called back to the tow truck company and asked if they would cancel my payment and to my surprise they did!

Things were looking up. I was sweating like a pig but i was invigorated by the new circumstances. I changed the tire in a jiffy, returned the lug wrench to my Asian-American Adonis and I was on my way.

There was an NTB just down the road but I decided to go to a place I knew on the other side of town that would save me about $50.00.

I don't know if you've ever tried to get from southern Johnson County to Southern Kansas City without the use of I-435 but it ain't easy. 119th turned into Red Bridge I think? I know I wound up on Red Bridge and I actually wound up on the red bridge. For a while I went up Holmes. Bannister was no help and I couldn't take 71 Hwy with my donut. Eventually I got to Troost.

I needed to have been going to Paseo but I didn't now that at the time. My memory of the place I wanted was on Troost. By the time I'd traveled up to 55th st I knew I'd gone too far. I went to make a right turn on 55th and head to Paseo when: Pow! Flapity flapity flapity. You've got to be shitting me! I'd blown the donut.

There I was with no lug wrench and no spare. I was on the bus route that would go by my house but I was exactly $1.25 short of bus fare. (When will the bus start taking debit?)

By this time it was 11:30 and 100 degrees. I tried to call my friend, no answer. Another friend, no answer. Should I call Brown Walker down all the way from Kearney? I called my fiancee again to see if she could get her son's dad's car and come and rescue me. She could, but she had to take the bus to his store to get it, so I had to wait around in the hot sun.

Luckily, what was next door to me? Mike's Tavern! Yes! A cold beer is just what I needed! I sat at the bar and watched an hour of Denise Richards: It's Complicated and listened to some Rockhurst sorority girls chat away. Finally I got the call that I'd been rescued. We got the tire and headed off to the nearest tire store.

Surprisingly the tire still held air. Only the belt had snapped. I wonder if it would have gotten me home. We pull into Midas and it will cost $100.00. That's four times too much but fuck it. I want to go home. After 2 hours of waiting on Midas, and a hot car ride to two different Wendy's the tire was ready.

It was now 3:00 and 107 degrees. I pulled the car into a nearby parking lot on three wheels. I got the borrowed car's lug wrench and went to work. The shitty Ford's jack had gotten hot, and the handle was searing my skin. The hot asphalt dust and sweat were burning my newly formed blisters. I used the last of my strength and patience to finish the job. I headed home at 4pm to take a cold shower with one less Saturday in my life. I still have the blisters to prove it.

"Oh, I've Wasted My Life" - Jeff Albertson

So I was reading the last post and I was going to comment with something to the effect of, "I love it when the fat guy argues with the bald guy." I know both of these men personally and neither of them are fat and both of them wear their hair so short that I don't know if they are bald or not.

So why would I say such a thing? Because of course, it is paraphrased from "The Way We Was" - the twelfth episode of the second season of the Simpsons. The episode first aired on 1/31/1991. Unfortunately it is a paraphrase rather than an exact quote because I could not easily find it on the internet and I have not yet had time to go home and watch the episode. Why exactly am I quoting lines from an over 17 year old television episode? Honestly, I'm not sure - but I think it had something to do with my 1998 desire to be cooler than someone commonly referred to as "Skippy." Help me Jebus!

This is why I hate stat nerds.

Brad Doolittle (who has the world's most appropriate name) has posted this article in which he advocates that the Royals go back to using pitchers the way they did 30 years ago. In this article he cites a stat that proves that modern pitching usage makes batters 3.4% WORSE in late innings than they were back then!

Fact of the Day

Did you know that the currency in Vietnam is called the Dong? Yup.

And yes, I have the maturity level of a 15 year old. What of it?

I'm the only person in America who hates The Dark Knight.

I would say spoiler alert but everyone on Earth has seen this film and if you're going to waste your money liking this film you are an idiot.

Last night I went to see what I thought was going to be a Superhero movie. I left the theater feeling betrayed. Warner Brothers and D.C. comics tricked me into going to see a shitty, 3 hour cop movie/crime drama.

I was prepared for a movie with a darker tone even than 2005's Batman Begins. I really enjoyed Batman Begins. It had the splendor and wonder one expects from a superhero movie, while introducing a deeper, more adult atmosphere. The Dark Knight keeps the adult, but loses the splendor.

My issues with this film are numerous, so we'll begin with what I knew about it going in. They shot this film on location in Chicago. Gotham City is more than just a city. It carries with it a certain imagery of over the top gothic architecture. It is shiny on the top, and seedy on the bottom. This imagery was present in Tim Burton's films, as well as Batman Begins. The Dark Knight's Gotham City just looks like....Chicago. As a frequent visitor to the windy city I even found myself, during the film, calling out tourist locations.

Director Christopher Nolan made this creative choice to ground his audience in a certain reality, but guess what? I didn't go to see Batman for reality. I went to see a fantasy film. That it took place in a city I've been to took me out of the fantasy.

Secondly, this movie is too long. At nearly three hours, I found myself staring at the ceiling and making "get on with it already" hand motions. From a story telling perspective, this movie has six acts. Count them SIX! There's a first act, and a second, but then the story devolves with four seprate third acts. First they catch the Joker, then he gets away then they have to save Harvey and what's her name, then The Joker blows up a hospital then The Joker is going to blow up some boats. Jebus Shit, choose one! Choose one of those third acts and you have a winner. But Four? Jebus!

Prolonging the film even more, is the Harvey Dent B-story that doesn't even start until after the second third act. This plot really needed to be the next film in the series. Dent is a complex character, and Two-Face could have been a great main villain. But, stuck away in a movie about The Joker, the character was wasted. He only had one scene (as Two Face) with Batman, and by the time Two-Face was introduced, I was already ready to leave the theater already.

The aspect of The Dark Knight that made me truly realize how much I hated it is the violence. Two scenes in particular stand out. Once, Batman has to stop some S.W.A.T. team members from shooting some innocent people dressed as The Joker's henchmen. Instead of saying "Hey guys don't shoot the clowns!" He beats them up and strings them from a rope over the 30th story of a skyscraper. Are you kidding me? This Batman always takes the more violent way out (short of guns and killing of course).

The scene that almost made me walk out had Two-Face jamming a revolver in the earlobe of Commissioner Gordon's kid. Come on! I hate censorship but are we really a society that has fantasy movies where we threaten to kill kids? I want to see superhero movies with my kids, but my step-son will be 21 before he's able to watch this. Gimme a break! While I've been typing this blog I've seen 3 Batman related commercials on Nickelodeon. So are you making a movie for kids? You're advertising to them, and pointing guns at their brains.

The worst part about this film, and the thing that I keep harping on, is that it is not fantasy. It is not a superhero movie. It is a cop drama. The Joker is kind out of control, and Batman wears a suit, but otherwise its just an action movie starring Vin Diesel. "But Pirate Ninja, this is more like the comic books." Well, those comic books suck.

Okay, they may not suck, but if the writers at D.C. have decided to change Batman from a superhero then they have made a grave mistake. The "the comic books" you're talking about started in 1986, but the Batman character dates back to 1939. So you tell me which is a better representation of the character.

I like superhero movies. I do not like cop dramas. I do not like shoot-em-up, blow-em-up action flicks. I feel like I have been duped into spending money on a film that I would not have gone to had it not had a character named Batman.

Through all this panning I do have to say I did enjoy the acting in this film. Christian Bale is alright, Heath Ledger was phenomenal (as all accounts indicate) Aaron Eckhart was great, Maggie Gyllenhaal brought more to her performace as what's her name than Katie Cruise did, and even Morgan Freeman had more to do this time, including a moral choice.

We need to work harder

If we want to be able to retire off of this thing, we've got to do something about this:

My blog is worth $0.00.
How much is your blog worth?

Jesus Christ and the Pitching Wedge

One day in 2003, a salesman came to the golf course. He talked to the guy that runs the clubhouse through a rental agreement with the Golf Course Board. He told the manager that he wanted to sell him a beverage cart. Of course, it was top-of-the-line and beautiful, as far as beverage carts go...and that wasn't even the good part. The salesman told the clubhouse guy that businesses will pay good money to advertise on his cart...in fact, he'd even sell the advertising, send him the ads to put on the cart and then send him a check every month. The clubhouse manager could then pay for the cart out of the advertising revenue and even have a little left over for his trouble. Sure, the cart cost $13,000, but what does that matter? The advertisers are paying for it anyway, right?

The clubhouse guy bought it hook, line and sinker. Despite the fact that he had no authority to do so, he signed a long-term agreement on behalf of the golf course Board. Once he took delivery and the Board saw the cart, they weren't especially happy. Of course, this is Iowa and people generally try their best to be polite and avoid confrontation. Besides, the advertisers were paying for it anyway, right?

The salesman immediately sold the contract to some financing company in Pennsylvania. The ad money actually came in as promised for a few months. The clubhouse manager put the proceeds into his business account (not the golf course's) and pay for the cart with personal checks. Then the ad money stops coming in because, of course, no one is contractually obligated to actually pay. The clubhouse owner feels he has been cheated and stops paying for the cart...that'll teach 'em!

The finance company proceeds to sue the golf course board in the state of Pennsylvania for breech. When served, the golf course board gives the paperwork to the clubhouse manager and tells him, "This is your mess, clean it up." The clubhouse owner claims he has been cheated and convinces the board to give him $500 to secure the services of legal counsel. Said legal counsel attempts to defend the clubhouse manager rather than the golf course board and unsurprisingly, the plaintiff receives a favorable judgment to the tune of $19,000+.

Now today, 5 years after the clubhouse manager took delivery of the stupid cart, the board president comes to me to see if I can stop the judgment in federal court before they put a lien on their clubhouse. This is the first I had even heard of the transaction. If they had done it right 3 years ago, they could have gotten the contract invalidated and had grounds for counterclaim. Now they are proper fucked.

I don't even like golf.

George Carlin dies of Sassiness.

George was the most reverent and ironic comic for the last 40 years and he will be missed. I watched all of his HBO specials. Even though it seemed impossible for him he actually got crankier and more crotchety as he got older.

We're Fine.

An AP story posted on the Drudge Report recites a litany of catastrophes that are currently besetting the world: gas prices, floods, earthquakes, mortgage prices, and so on. Armed with this list, the authors go on to wonder aloud whether “everything is spinning apart” – whether we are witnessing a “great unraveling of some things long taken for granted,” such as our belief that our perseverance and courage will bootstrap us out of our current problems. By writing the article in the first place, the authors remain only one step short of answering their own question, of course.
Lost in the analysis, of course, is any sense for their (and their counterparts’) complicity in creating the grounds for asking the question in the first place. While it might be correct to say that not everything is going exactly as planned these days, it might also be correct to say that not everyone is reporting exactly as things happen, either.
I just returned from a day trip to Kansas City today. Nothing about that trip was any different than it has been in the past. I had a bite to eat at a Ruby Tuesday (I had the Cajun chicken sandwich), I witnessed two people get married (the bride cried throughout the entire ceremony), and I bought gasoline at a price that I’d prefer not to pay (Has anyone ever thanked BP or Exxon for their perfectly reasonable prices?).
In certain parts of the world, people will wake up and fill more sandbags to stop flooding, while others hope their utilities don’t black out. In others, the restaurants will open again, society will see more people wed, and gas might get a little more expensive. And in still other corners of the less-examined globe, people will start what has the potential to be the best day of their lives.
Don’t buy that the world is collapsing. It’s just moving, and we do ourselves no favors by focusing only on the parts we wish would stay still.

Speaking of a Deer in the Headlights...

Last Saturday I got up early to perform a recreational activity where I repeatedly hit a little white ball and chase it around a big park. Most of the time it is about as fun as it sounds, but I keep doing it anyway. Mrs. Brown Walker asked that I drive her car (which is new) because she needed to run some errands and wanted to use the car that gets better gas mileage. It was a seemingly innocuous request that I didn't figure would have any consequence whatsoever.

So, I play my round of golf. Meanwhile Mrs. BW heads towards Independence (the whys are not important). She was driving East on I-70 when she noticed a deer running on the West-bound side of the highway up ahead of her. She thinks: "That thing's going to get blasted." The next thing she knows, the deer bounds over the median and stops - head turned and looking right at her - in the middle of her lane. There is no time to do anything. There is no room to do anything. Her next thought was that she heard somewhere about people getting killed when they hit a deer because the deer thrashes about when it is stuck in their windshield.

Impact. Mrs. BW later says that she can't remember if she even had time to hit the brakes. She likely plastered the deer at somewhere north of 70 mph. The deer is launched over the hood and over the roof of the car, landing in a heap in the median.

The car is fucked, although still driveable. The hood is smashed down, the bumper and grill are both destroyed, and the driver's side front quarterpanel is pulled apart. The first thing I noticed when I arrived on the scene was that there was a patch of fur on the bumper. It looked as if it was growing there.

Mrs. BW was damn lucky. At that speed, if the thing had hit the windshield she could have been killed. We were told later that had she been driving her car, which sits much higher than my car does, it would have been more likely that the deer would have hit the windshield. I don't really believe in fate, or cosmic Jewish zombies that save your soul when you eat their flesh, but fuck - that was a narrow miss.

Speaking of Star Wars Prequels.

I just went to the imdb.com page for Star Wars: The Clone Wars because I wanted to confirm that Sam Jackson and Chris Lee are doing the voices for Mace Windu and Count Dooku respectively. When I got there the board was full of negativity. So I had to post this:


Why is everyone being so negative? This is going to be a fun summer cartoon for the whole family, with lightsabers. How is that a bad thing? I'm going to see it, and when I do I'm going to have the same attitude I had when I saw, and enjoyed, the prequel films. These are awesome spectacles with awesome space battles. That's what we loved about Star Wars the first time, but for some reason we feel the need to raise the standard.

Was Return of the Jedi a great movie? Was it on par with Casablanca or The Godfather? Not even close. It had bad acting, muppets, and a rudimentary story. But it is beloved by Star Wars fans because when we were 10, we were enthralled by the cool visuals and the baddest bad guys to ever appear on screen.

I'm going to this film with my whole family and we will have a great time. The rest of you can have fun complaining, it is what you do best.

Sgt. Pepper of the '90s (2008)

I feel about Weezer 2.0 as I feel about the Star Wars prequels. In both cases fans were subject to many years of anticipation, which turned into utter and complete doubt that the project would ever, in fact happen. Then, when The Phantom Menace and the Green Album came out, we had grown older, our tastes had matured, and when they weren't the best things that had ever happened in the history of the world ever, fans rebelled and both the prequels, and Weezer's comeback albums were panned by fans and critics alike.

The plain truth is that both the Star Wars sequels and the new Weezer albums are being compared against themselves, and not their competition. Weezer's albums are better than anything else most rock bands are putting out there. Just like Episodes I, II, and III had to live up to IV, V and VI instead of their contempararies, they had to live up to the Blue Album and Pinkerton. That is a tremendously high and unfair standard.

The Green Album was a bit boring, all the songs sounded alike, but it hung its laurels on two incredible radio tracks, Hash Pipe and Island in the Sun. Maladroit is a forgotten gem. Its singles never soared on the charts but the album is solid. American Gigolo, Dope Nose, Slob and Possibilities would be at home on any Weezer album, pre or post Matt Sharp. Make Believe is an unmitigated disaster, and almost ruined the band for me, but Perfect Situation redeems it. You know how sometimes one of your favorite bands has that one album that totally sucks except for one song? That's Make Believe and Perfect Situation.

For some reason, Weezer is a band that totally speaks to me. Musically they hit the perfect balance between hard hitting rock and beautiful melody. No other band has ever made music that so hits me right where I need to be hit. So, even with the failure that was Make Believe, I still bought the Red Album when it came out.

Finally I feel like Rivers Cuomo and company have exceeded the musical genius that was their first two albums. The album is a sonic marvel that goes to places that no Weezer record has ever gone before. There is much similarity to a certain Beatles album released in 1967. From the funny outfits the quartet wears on the cover to the new palette of sounds they employ, it seems like the Weez are finally ready to break out of their 3 minute pop ditties.

DISCLAIMER: When listening to this album do not focus on the content of the lyrics, Rivers and the other song writers (that's right, every member of Weezer gets at least one credit on this album) aren't making poetry here, the lyrics are trite, and cheezy. Look past it, focus on the sonic aspects of the album and you'll be truly happy.

TROUBLEMAKER: Another Weezer song about not wanting to get a job, this introduces the first new sound right off the bat, rap. This album has a ton of Cuomo melody, but there is also a strangely large amount of one note, pseudo-rap. Don't be afraid, this isn't Fred Durst, its catchy, and good. The chorus kicks in with some classic Weezer.

THE GREATEST MAN THAT EVER LIVED: I don't think that Rivers thinks that he's the greatest man that ever lived, although he has sold millions of records and has many, many degrees from Harvard, so the song could be truthful. This is an opus that starts out like Across the Sea meets A Little Help From My Friends, then goes across the musical spectrum from rock, to blues to funk to soul to jazz to chamber choir to jazz and finally to some classic Weezer, with laughs and cries and entertainment all the while.

PORK AND BEANS: The first single, I take it you've heard it. Pretty straight forward Weezer with a great video featuring internet stars and lightsaber drumsticks!

HEART SONGS: iTunes described this as a "Jack Johson" song. My fiancee called it a "Boy Band" song. It is certainly mellow, and not what you'd expect from W, but I like that he pays tribute to his influences, and it picks up in the grunge part.

EVERYBODY GET DANGEROUS: My favorite track on the album, mostly because of the "Boo Ya!" Its mostly a one trick pony riff with a hooky chorus, until the middle when it breaks down into some pretty sweet lyrical acrobatics and a guitar groove.

DREAMIN': Dreamin' sounds like Why Bother until the middle when it breaks down into some really sweet lyrical play. Its like call and response in the round with expert harmony and unique melodic intervals. This is the kind of stuff I expected from Pinkerton 2. Then it kicks in the rock again because Rivers doesn't want to get with the program!

THOUGHT I KNEW, COLD DARK WORLD, AUTOMATIC: These are the songs that Brian Bell, Scott Schreiner and Pat Wilson wrote. The album loses a lot of steam through this stage, although Automatic is slightly better than the other two. The album would have been better served had they been spread out more.

THE ANGEL AND THE ONE: This song is the A Day in the Life of the Red Album, and puts a fitting end to the package, like the entire album it is classic Weezer, and something brand new all at the same time.

If you bought the deluxe edition you get five bonus tracks, none of which is that memorable. I like Miss Sweeney because of the silly story it tells. It reminds me of a song I'd write (not a far stretch considering Rivers Cuomo is one of my top 2 musical influences.)

I boldly predict this will go down as the best album of the decade, a strong feat for an album that should have been made ten years ago.

I Hate Records!

Ever since the invention of the CD there's been this little underground LP fanclub. A few weeks ago my Fiancee got a record player, and ever since then we've been listening to the same 3 records over and over again. It has made me realize how worthless the big black discs are.

- You can't pause them.
- You can't choose any track without screechy scratchy sounds.
- The sound quality is terrible. (I know what you're going to say, shut up! You are wrong.)
- Scratchy sounds after each side.
- They degrade over time.
- Not compatible with remote control.
- I can fit 10,000 songs on my iPod and take them with me anywhere I go.

It's 2008 people. Instead of spending $12 on a vintage vinyl, spend $7.99 on iTunes and enjoy your music with full, modern functionality.

Go Here Now

Apparently this blog (not "this" as in the one that I'm writing on currently, but "this" as in the one linked in the word "this") will not be up for very much longer. Jeff at the WVSR linked to it from his Suggestaholic blog a few days ago, but I wanted to put a link here, just in case you guys missed it. There is a shit-ton of great music there that you should download before it goes away. That is all.

BA HR RBI W L ERA S

I had a conversation with one of my friends recently. He's one of those baseball "Stat Geeks" who's ruining baseball for us real fans. The conversation started out by us talking about whether Ryan Theriot is a good player. Ryan is the Cub's starting SS, he was a rookie last year and he plays with heart. He is a fan favorite at Wrigley Field and is affectionately known as "The Riot." I thought that the Cubs should trade paycheck collector and power hitting lead-off hitter Alfonso Soriano, lead-off with Reed Johnson and make sure that The Riot bats second, to spray the ball around the field, bunt and hit-and-run with.

This set my stat geek friend into a fit of stat spitting. Apparently, playing with heart and being nitty-gritty is not good enough. Stat Geek started spewing out stats I've never heard of like OBS, OPS, B2M, ABC, BBD and P.F. Changs. Apparently, moving base runners, standing in against runners trying to break up the double play, and generally playing fundamentally sound baseball is for losers. My friend insisted that the Cubs would continue to be a joke until they sent Theriot and his LSU teamate Mike Fontenot to Double A ball and traded for Brian Roberts.

I don't want Brian Roberts on the Cubs (unless they trade Soriano for him). He'll be another Nomar. I despise the holier than thou attitude of most of today's baseball All-Stars. I like players who play for the love of the game and appreciate the fans and give you intangibles. (When I said the word intangibles to my friend he cracked up and giggled like a school-girl.)

I remember a day when the only stats you needed were batting average, home runs, runs batted in, and for pitchers, wins, losses, and saves. And even those stats just gave a general idea of how a player was performing, not the end-all be all of how good of a person the player is.

The ironic thing about the whole conversation is the fact that my friend is a Cardinals fan. The best player on the Cardinals in a generation only batted .262 lifetime. Ozzie Smith played with heart, was fundamentally sound and gave his team multitudes of intangibles.

How quickly we forget.

Valentine surprise

He was born Geranld R. Ford. He was not named after the Thirty Eighth president. He was ten years old when Richard Nixon resigned and Ford became the only president ever not elected. His namesake had affected him. Ford, despite being a star athlete in college, had a few well publicized “clutz” moments, and became the butt of many a comedian’s joke, most notably Chevy Chase on Saturday Night Live. Back in Kansas City, the jokes trickled down to the young boy, who by no fault of his own, shared the same name. Gerald would be made fun of and bullied, and this provided a relatively low level of self-esteem and confidence.

Today, though, the forty four year old had it all figured out. He finally had a woman in his life. Nancy Davis worked part time at the animal shelter. She was as quiet and reserved as Gerald, and he often wondered if she got picked on in school too. Someday he would build up the courage to ask her, but not today. Today was Valentine’s day and everything would be perfect. He had arranged to leave his job at Costco early. He had ran across the street to Linwood Foods, and purchased a giant, white stuffed Teddy Bear. And he had ran down to Troost to make sure he got on the number Twenty Five bus just in time.

Tonight they would dine at the Oriental Feast Chinese Buffet, and he would ask her if she wanted to go steady, but he had to be to her house before she left for work, to make sure she knew he would pick her up from work at seven o’clock. . The Bus pulls up to the Linwood St. bus stop. The number 25 emblazoned on the front. White paint in front, and grey paint in back are set apart by geometrically stunning angles of blue and green lower in front than in back giving the bus a sense of forward movement even when standing still. Stepping into the bus, the driver sits in a throne, straddling the steering wheel, almost three feet in diameter, that is situated parallel to the ground. Behind him, a plexiglass pane forms a wall from the ceiling to the front-left wheel well.

To the driver’s right, is the fare station, a free standing aluminum and plastic tower almost four feet high. On top of it are a place to swipe passes and transfers, a slot for paper money, one for coins, and a slot that distributes change cards and transfers automaticallyGerald swipes his bus pass like a credit card, while the giant white bear is secured by a head lock with his off hand. Gerald turns to his left and begins looking for a seat.

The first six seats on the bus, three on each side, face sideways from the forward motion of the bus. A sign indicates that these seats are reserved for handicapped riders. Behind these seats are 8 rows or four forward facing seats, two on either row of the center aisle. The seats have a grey plastic backing, with plastic hand-holds above each back rest. The fronts are covered by a grey cloth cushion with black, red, green and orange speckles.

Large tinted windows about 4 feet square run the entire length of either side of the bus. Above the windows is a row of florescent lightbulbs with a clear plastic cover. Above that, advertisement placards for the Kansas City Area Transportation Authority, other civic organizations, and route maps form a crown molding transitioning the vertical plane of the outside wall to the horizontal plane of the ceiling. On either side of the center aisle, brushed aluminum tubing runs parallel to the ceiling an arms length above the shoulder, allowing a hand hold for taller passengers who may have to stand. For shorter riders, canvas straps hang down from the aluminum tube.

Two thirds of the way to the back, on the left hand side, is an alcove set apart by a wall of both painted and transparent plexiglass. Here, a pair of double doors provide an extra exit point for riders. Beyond the rear door a set of 2 steps leads up to the rear area, three more rows of forward facing seats, and where the rear wheel wells cut into the interior, two more sets of three sideways seats. Along the back wall of the bus is a bench seat where up to five riders can sit.

Each row of two seats is half full. No one is sitting next to each other, but Gerald is lucky, he finds two free seats next to each other and sits down next to his big, white pal. There are many interesting characters on the bus. One man is so large he takes up two seats. . His jacket is adorned with a hunting camouflage pattern and his shoulder bag has a matching pattern, is he going hunting, in Kansas City? The man in front of him wears a bus drivers uniform. Gerald wonders if bus drivers get to ride the bus for free. Next to the giant man a strange man with a scraggly beard and a floppy Cubs had scribbles into a notebook.

An aging man with a bald head looks through the window. He turns his head at the neck and peeks across the bus through the opposite window. A man in a tan jacket hollers into his Cricket phone. “They better not give me none”

A tall middle-aged man with an afro fumbles with a Valentine’s package. A plush green bear sits in between the top of a clear plastic bag and some candy goodies inside a pink heart shaped box at the bottom. He reaches his hand into the back and struggles to get past the bear. The situation is complicated by the unlit Kool dangling in his hand. He drops the bear. After leaning down to pick it up, he opens the cardboard box and reaches the sweet treat inside. The candy does not bring a smile to his face. He stares out the window as he chews the candy with great, deliberate mastications.

Gerald’s stop is coming up. Just across Volker, on the east side of the street, are the apartments where Nancy lives. Adrenaline starts to flow as he pulls the rope to ring the bell to tell the bus driver to stop at the next designated location. The bus pulls to a stop and Gerald grabs his bear in another head lock, and inadvertently bumps a few passengers in the head with it on his way out.

Standing in the shadow of the backside of the Stowers Institute for Medical Research, Gerald looks to cross the street. 20 feet to his left, there is a crosswalk and a traffic signal, but Gerald is too exited. He is right across from Nancy’s door and he wants to get there now. He crosses halfway, but has to wait for northbound traffic. He stands on the double yellow line and waits. After this sedan. He crosses. Sprints. He bounds up the curb and up the small staircase to the front door.

He wants to surprise Nancy, so rather than buzz her, he enters the code. 5244. He’ll never forget it. It was the first time a woman had ever given him her digits. The door clicks open and he flings it out of his way, jumps up the stairs two at a time and reaches apartment 2b. He knocks. No answer. He hopes he hasn’t missed her. Knocks again, nothing. He turns the handle. The door is unlocked. Strange. The door creaks open and he enters.

The shades are pulled, the room is dark. He’s never been over during the day before, so he has no idea what she does over here. Sheepishly, he calls out her name. “Nancy?” “Nance?” He heads back into the hallway to her bedroom. Maybe she’s taking a nap. He opens her bedroom door, and his heart hits the floor. There’s Nancy all right, on top of his best friend, Bill Clinton.

A Guns n' Roses Story

Jeff Kay at the West Virginia Surf Report wrote about his craziest concert stories yesterday and it jogged my memory of a great story. Here is a Guns n' Roses story:

Unfortunately the following story did not happen to me. I have no way of verifying that it actually happened, but I believe. This story was told to me by my friend Bill. Bill’s background is very similar to the esteemed Mr. Jeff Kay, right down to the stories about drinking and driving on the back roads of hillbilly country. The only difference is that Bill’s back roads were in Kentucky instead of West Virginia.

The story takes place in Kentucky right about 1990. Bill was living just outside of Lexington at that time and Guns n’ Roses was coming to town. Now Bill didn’t really care too much about GnR – he was more of a classic rock and country music fan – but his brother really wanted to go to the show. By the day of the concert, though, they still didn’t have tickets. They went to the arena anyway, hoping to score some when they arrived and were surprised when the woman at the ticket booth said she could sell them seats. It turns out that because Guns n’ Roses had a reputation for trouble at concerts, the venue held back some of the seats right in front of the stage and then sold them to people that looked like they wouldn’t cause trouble. Since Bill and his brother looked like average college-aged kids and not trouble-making bikers, they got seats right in front of the stage in the third row or so.

During the concert, the floor area in front of the stage was a madhouse. Everyone was standing and screaming and pushing and fighting and generally carrying on like you would expect at a Guns n’ Roses show in 1990. Bill and his brother, being a bit more laid back, sat on the backs of their chairs so that they could see above the fray. Sometime after Guns n’ Roses had been playing for at least an hour, Axl Rose abruptly stopped in the middle of a song and started yelling. At first Bill couldn’t figure out what was going on, and then Axl pointed right at him and yelled “If you are just going to sit there, why don’t you get the fuck out so somebody that cares can have your seat?” Bill was frozen, not knowing what to do. Everything had stopped and everyone was turning and looking at the guys in the third row that were sitting on the backs of their chairs. Luckily (or not), there was a biker sitting next to Bill and his brother who responded: “I paid $100 for this ticket and I’ll sit however I want!”

Bill, who had not paid $100 for his ticket, but the face value of $25 or whatever concert tickets went for back then, was afraid that things were going to get ugly. Instead, Axl disappeared momentarily to the side of the stage and came back with a fist full of money. He handed the cash to an obscenely large member of GnR’s personal security and the crowd parted as the man led a group of bodyguards to where Bill was sitting. The bodyguard asked the biker if he’d take $100 to leave and the biker accepted. Then the bodyguard asked Bill’s brother the same thing. Bill’s brother turned to him and said “What do you think?” Bill replied “Are you fucking crazy? Take the money and let’s get out of here.”

They were escorted from the arena by a group of bodyguards and taken down a back hallway to an exit. Again Bill thought that this was where the trouble would come. When they got to the door the main bodyguard asked for the biker’s ticket. The biker said that he wanted to keep it as a souvenir. The bodyguard then grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the wall and said “That hundred bucks is your souvenir, now gimme your ticket.” Needless to say, Bill and his brother had their tickets out and ready to give to the bodyguard before he even asked.

And that is the story of how my friend Bill was paid $100 by Axl Rose to leave a Guns n’ Roses concert.

I was buying U.B. Funkeys before they were cool!

I saw in today's Kansas City Star that U.B. Funkeys is the new coolest fad. "It's a collectible, It's a game!" Well let me tell you something, I've been buying U.B. Funkeys for my step kid, literally, for years now!

U.B. Funkeys is a video game that you plug into your PC via a USB port. You buy a starter kit that has a base unit with the USB connection and comes with two of the Funkeys peripherals to plug into the base. You can buy more Funkeys and each one opens up different sections of the game. It's genius that's-how-they-get-you marketing.

Last fall my step kid started begging for U.B. Funkeys when he saw the ads on TV. Both my fiancee and I were like "Phhht, no you can't have those!" "That's just an expensive way to play the same games you can play at addictinggames.com!" But, as if he hadn't heard us, he kept on begging.

Then one day, my fiancee and I found ourselves at Target and found out how cheap the U.B. Funkeys are. It is only $20.00 for the starter kit and $5.00 for each Funkey. With no monthly fee for play, this is actually quite a video game bargain.

We quickly snatched up the starter kit and some funkeys and my step kid got a neat birthday surprise. He got more funkeys for Xmas and now he has quite the selection of the little critters. Plus, he plays with them, which is more than I can say for some of the more expensive toys he has.

So as you can see, Funkeys and I go way back. I can't wait to get my (I mean, my step kid's) hands on the new Funkiki Island expansion!

I think I love this woman

I have no idea who she is and I know I'll probably never know. I've been reading her posts for years and there are times when I feel sorry for her. There are times that I wish she would see the forest rather than all the trees. Then I think about how she would be disgusted at the use of that phrase in that place. I often wish that she would just write her life story in continuous prose rather than force me to pick up tidbits among bimonthly posts about yoga. She's clearly a genius and almost always fun to read. Ultimately I think I like our arrangement the way it is, because I am sure that if we ever became friends she would let me down like all the rest by telling how great last night's American Idol was...

I Will

The blue-grey haze of bar smoke fills the air. The Valentine’s Day crowd at Gilhouly’s bar (pronounced, after a few too many as Glilouy’s) seems to carry a certain energy of festiveness. There are no sulking singles here, everyone is with someone and happy about it. The long, thin pub is crowded. At one end, a foursome plays pool. The space is too small for the table, and for the ques, but they play anyway. In tables and booths, couples hold hands, kiss and talk.

The bubbles of my pint of Guiness churn, as do the remnants of the chicken korma in my stomach. Walking from the bar to our booth, I pass a table where a woman, dressed in pink, complete with cupid’s wings, holds a lacy, sparkly bow and suction cup arrows.

I set my Guiness down, my other hand gives a glass of white wine to the woman I love. I sit down across from her. We are out on a date on Valentine’s day even though we both despise the holiday. She tells me that she has been thinking about getting married. This comes as a surprise as the two of us share a general disdain for marriage. We feel that it is an archaic, religious, tradition that has worn out its usefulness in today’s society and discriminates against homosexuals. But, she tells me, from time to time she thinks about marrying me.

“So, you’re telling me that if, someday in the future, I were to ask you to marry me, you might say yes?”

“I don’t know, it’s probably just a phase. I’ll feel different tomorrow.”

Three and a half beers have caught up with my bladder and I excuse myself. The men’s room is tiny, and thank goodness there’s a lock. I hate peeing with someone to talk to, plus I need to be alone with my thoughts. I don’t want you to think that I am the typical man running away from commitment. I have every intention of making every effort to spend the rest of my life with this woman. I have loved her since the moment I first saw her, and grow more and more in love with her each day. No one has ever made me feel so strong, so safe, so loved, so warm, so confident. After all these years I still get butterflies in my stomach when I see her. Each morning when I wake up, she is there, reminding me that it is not all some sweet, euphoric dream.

But marriage? That’s not for me! I’m hip, urban young guy. I don’t do things simply because other people do do them! Marriage is for, you know, traditional people!

When I was a kid, I always wanted to get married. I always wanted to propose in some ultra-romantic, super emotional elaborate surprise movie scene way. The problem was, I never found the woman. A series of short, doomed relationships with the wrong women as a young man left me jaded. For over six years I played the part of the self-proclaimed single and happy guy. I was actually miserable, I just didn’t know it, or wouldn’t admit it. I drowned my sorrow in cheap 30 packs and rock and roll debauchery. Then she walked in my door. Now, I need to devise an elaborate and ultra-romantic movie scene proposal.

Knock, Knock!

Shit, how long have I been in here? “Just a second!” I pee and hustle out of there. My beautiful girlfriend is awaiting me. Her brown hair brushes the shoulders of her white, knit shawl and frames her smiling face. She always smiles when she sees me.

I sit down. She reaches across the table. Left hand takes right. Right hand left. One big ball of hands loving each other’s embrace, feeling each other’s warmth. We belong together, we deserve each other. Eye meets eye. A loving gaze. A long silence. Our silences are often long, but never awkward. Then the silence is broken.

“You know how I am.” She says.

“I know.”

“Sometimes I get these crazy ideas in my head, then I change my mind later.”

“It’s okay!”

“So, I was wondering,” she says, “if maybe you might want to marry me someday?”

“Really? Really? I will! I will! I will!”

I Really Shouldn't Be the Boss

One of my employees just ran past me in the parking lot. She looked at me over her shoulder and said apologetically, "I went to the grocery store and it took forever." I said nothing in response. However, my mind said, "I went to White Castle and I got thrown out..."

Work Ethic

My dad didn't miss work because he was sick unless he could not physically get his ass out of bed. To this point in my career, I have emulated that work ethic - partly because I thought it was a good way to impress the boss and partly because I was raised to think that it was the right thing to do. But fuck all that. For the last two weeks multiple co-workers have been tromping around the office looking like they've contracted the Black Death and coughing like they've been on a three day cigarette and whisky bender in Las Vegas. Tomorrow I am leaving to go to Florida for a week's worth of vacation and about a half an hour ago I started feeling dizzy and "flu-ish".

Please people, do us all a favor and stay the fuck home if you don't feel good. If my whole vacation is spent with the Black Death I am going to take a dump on my co-workers' desks.

Roughriders on the Storm

Hot August night. 1993. Ames, Iowa. The Theodore Roosevelt Rough Riders from Des Moines, IA exit the bus. Navy blue pants, jerseys and helmets get lost in the dark night. Only white stripes, jersey numbers and the word Riders contrast the Navy of the rest of the uniforms. This is the first football game of my last season of high school football, and it is going to be a tough one. The Ames High School Little Cyclones were last year’s state runners-up. Last year we made great strides in improving from 2-7 to 4-5, but blew a chance at the playoffs by losing our last three games in the fourth quarter. No one gives us a chance to win tonight.

The Rough Riders line up in fours and march to the stadium. Ames’ stadium seems to be in the middle of nowhere. In Des Moines, the two stadiums, which are shared by five public high schools, are in urban areas. There are streetlights, cars, usually police sirens, and skyscrapers in the background. Here, on the edge of Ames, we are surrounded only by fields. The light towers look like a tall crop towering over the corn and soybeans. As we march into the stadium, the home half of the bleachers boos. They are full to the rafters and bustle with activity. Cheerleaders are thrown into the air, children run around in groups, and people of all ages look intently to the field as Ames’ players warm up on the field. I never understood Ames’ school colors. A maroon that is more brown than red, and the dullest ugly yellowish gold. Iowa State, Ames’ hometown University uses bright red and shiny gold. I believe that Ames High School wants to emulate them, but their colors are so dull it puts you to sleep.

In the visitors’ stands, two small bubbles of fans sit apart from each other. To the south, about a dozen students dance and laugh and sing. To the north, about twenty parents sit and watch. Inner city public schools don’t send their marching bands or cheerleaders on road games, but my friend Cade, the lead trumpeter in the high school band is there. As we enter the stadium he begins The TRHS Fight Song. A lone trumpet can’t compete with an entire marching band and Cade’s solo is soon drowned out by "Ames High Aims High."

After group calisthenics the Rough Riders break up by position to warm up. The offensive line groups up in the north end zone. I take the opportunity to pluck some “Touchdown Grass” and slip it in my sock, a tradition I’d followed since freshman year. I go through our drills with exact precision, showing our o-line coach Mr. Nickerson that his decision to switch me from left tackle to left guard was going to prove to be a grave mistake. After running a drill, Nickerson grabs me by the face mask. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d better be.”

A few minutes before kickoff our team gathers together around captain linebacker D.J. Moore. Moore barks and we chant back.

“Riders!”

“Huah”

“Riders!”

“Huah!”

We place our hands together in the center of the circle. “One, Two, Three!”
“Together!” The next few minutes consist of typical motivational rhetoric being spewed from the mouths of seniors and coaches. “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for!” “Get your game faces on!” If Bill Parcels were here, he’s surely tell us that “This is why [we] lift all those god damned weights.” Hands slap heads, butts and other hands. Then the attention turns to the field as the coin toss goes down.

The Referee doesn’t have a microphone like in the NFL so we have to rely on watching his motions. He taps an Ames player on the shoulder, then waves his hands across his chest. They deferred. The Ref the taps our player on the shoulder, and makes a catching motion with his arms. We’ll be getting the ball first. That means I have to be on kickoff return. This is something I’ve never done before.

Prior to this year, starters didn’t have to play on special teams. I don’t know if we just had less talented bench warmers, or if I had done something wrong, but myself and left tackle T.J. Genzen were both in the front five. We hustled onto the field and huddled up. Return man and starting tailback Matt Casebolt checked the signals from the sidelines, then turned to the huddle and told us “Return Left, Return Left.” We broke the huddle in unison with a “Break” and lined up to receive the kick.

I line up between T.J. and backup center Troy Ferring on the 45 yard line. Ten yards ahead of us, eleven Ames Little Cyclones stand ready to charge. Two our left several thousand voices holler out in unison “Hooooooooe.” The marching band drum rolls and a thousand sets of house keys jingle to create quite a wall of sound attacking our ears and psyche. Number forty-five raises his hand. The kicker begins running up. Boot! The ball sails over my head. I turn around and sprint backwards towards Casebolt, who is deep to receive the kick. “Case” is a junior and this is his first varsity game, time for him to show us what he’s made of. “Case” catches the ball and myself and the other blockers turn around to face the onslaught. A tall, slender player is right in front of me. I plow into him. As we struggle with each other, footsteps rush past me and I hear cheering from our sidelines. I try to disengage from my blockee and get to where the action is, but the whistles start blowing before I can.

“Kick returned my Matt Casebolt to the forty four yard line. A thirty three yard gain. First and ten, Roosevelt”

God’s voice comes down from the P.A. letting me know what happened while I was blocking. Awesome “Case” that’s what I’m talking about! I run to him, pat him on the ass and hustle to the huddle.

I take my place between T.J. and starting center Nelson Armbrester, and grab each of their hands. Oh my God I’m out of breath! Gasp! What happened? Had I slagged off during practice? I did all my wind sprints! Gasp! This is horrible. I hope I can play! Gasp! The hot air sears the inside of my lungs. Gasp! My air sacs are being ripped apart! I must have thought I was hot shit because I am a senior and not gotten myself in football shape!

Miles Curnes, our starting hand-offer comes to the huddle. “I right, 26 trap on one, on one.” He tells us the play and we break the huddle with a unified “break!” I gasp up to the line and take my stance. 26 trap is an easy play for me, I double team the nose guard and the other guard pulls across the center and tries to catch the defensive tackle off guard. We always open up the game with this play, and if Ames has watched our film, they know this. Fullback Bob Annextad will ram straight into my ass. He is a great blocker, but dumb as an ox with the ball in his hands.

“Down! Set! Hut!”

Nelson and I slam into the nose guard and push him five yards. This domination gives me opportunity not only to avoid an ass slam by Bob, but to slide off and clip the backside linebacker. Footsteps rush past me and the whistle blows. I gasp for breath, try to put on a tough face and get ready to go back to the huddle.

“Bob Annextad the ball carrier. An eleven yard gain. First and ten Roosevelt!”

Holy shit, eleven yards? Nice one Bob! He’s never done that before. As he comes back to the huddle, I slap him on the helmet. Miles comes to the huddle. “I right 36 Iso on one, on one.” Another double team, thank god. I can’t breathe. Can’t let Ames or Coach “Nick” know. Gasp.

“Break!” Run up to the line. Take my stance.

“Down! Set! Hut!”

Footsteps rush past me before I can even block the nose guard. God damn “Case” is a fast mother fucker!”

“Matt Casebolt for 13 yards. First and ten Roosevelt.”

What the hell is going on? We’re slaughtering them! The excitement has made it to my adrenal glands and I’m able to breathe better. I even holler out “Whoo!”

Another huddle. Miles says “I right, 60 pass on one on one.”

“What? Its first down! We’re running all over them! Why pass?”

Miles had been the quarterback on every football team I’d been on since Pop Warner and he sucked. He was the first kid to hit puberty and was an incredible athlete. He couldn’t throw, though, and his passes either hit the ground, or where caught, by the other team. I could only hope that this 60 pass would end up the former, and not the latter, so we could go back to running all over them on the ground.

“Down! Set! Hut!”

No one was lined up against me so I looked to help “Nelly” or T.J. T.J’s man beat him to the inside but ran straight into the impenetrable wall of #50, Matt Mitchell. After I knocked the Little Cyclone on his rear, I heard cheers. Fuck! Another interception. Wait! Those cheers were from our sidelines. What the hell happened while I was blocking? I tried to look downfield but I couldn’t see.

“Touchdown Roosevelt. #80 Robbie Bogguss from Miles Curnes for a twenty yard gain!”

“Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”

I had no trouble breathing as I ran to the end-zone faster than I’d ever run before, looking for the sophomore tight end who’d just turned around my football career! Seven other riders were already ganging up on him, so I found Miles. I grabbed him by the neck and almost popped his head clean off.

Back on the sidelines the offense grouped up while the extra point went through. Robbie took his helmet off and I slapped him on top of the head thirteen times while screaming “Superstar” over and over again. This had happened once before. Sophomore year we got out ahead of Dowling, the local Catholic school who seems to win a state title at least twice a year. We ran a reverse and scored on a fluke to take a 7-0 lead. It didn’t last long and we lost 42-7. I expected Ames to score quickly and take the lead, but that didn’t happen.

We barely had time to breathe before Ames was forced to punt. Our defense was hard. These guys were from the streets, the streets of Des Moines yes, but still from the streets. They had an intimidating presence, especially to white bread small town teams like Ames.

The punt went out of bounds and we were back on the field. A couple of runs went no where and a pass hit the ground. We had to punt. The rest of the first half was like this. Three and outs for both sides. Time seemed to lose its meaning. We were holding this lead. We went in to halftime with a 7-0 lead.

I don’t even remember halftime, or the third quarter. It was like a dream. Everyone kept punting, I know this for a fact. Then, in the fourth quarter, something funny started to happen. Ames started to move the ball. They had this weird play where the quarterback would move down the line , find a hole, and bust up the field. It was like an option, but in slow motion, and he never pitched. After getting creamed all game, the play started to work. Once in a while, he wouldn’t bust up the field, but drop back and hit a wide open tight end for a first down. It was cheap, ludicrous and barely football, but it finally started to work.

On our sidelines things got hectic. Coaches tried to get their words to the players by yelling.

“Watch the screen, watch the draw!”

“That’s too much on first down!”

“God Damn it Tice get your ass back there in cover two!”

Ames made it down to the 2 yard line, first and goal. From my spot on the sidelines, the goal line seemed a million miles away. First down, they run that stupid quarterback play. No gain! Second down, same play. No gain! Third down, they run it again, no he’s dropping back. Shit! Tight end’s open. Tie ballgame.

You’d have thought that they just won the Superbowl. The crowd erupted. "Ames High Aims High" went off again. Time regained its meaning, literally. Five minutes left in the fourth quarter. Plenty of time if we could recapture the magic of that first drive. Another Kickoff return. Surely “Case” would break one like he did before. They didn’t even kick it to him. The squib kick bounced along the ground and Chris Crawford picked it up. Chris Crawford? He’s on the field?

The huddle, 26 trap, no gain. Another huddle ,36 Iso, a few yards, not enough. 60 pass on third down. Our play calling was certainly unimaginative. I ran off the field in favor of the punt team. David Reed booted another decent kick. He’d kept us in this one, that’s for sure. Three and a half minutes were left. Too much time.

Ames’ last drive was a mirror image of the one prior. That God Damned quarterback play got them down to the goal line . The quarterback took the snap on first down, went down the line and stuffed his way into all the linemen. From the sidelines we couldn’t see. Whistles blew. The Head Linesman came rushing in. He dived into the pile. It was a scrum. Thirty six seconds were left on the clock, not enough time for us with our shitty quarterback. If Ames scored it was over.

The official came out of the pile. We watched from the sidelines with baited breath. Two arms in the air. Touchdown. Bullshit! It probably wasn’t bullshit. Ames had beat us. We’d go 4-5 again that season, but without the improvement that is a shitty record. My football glory days were behind me the second that shitty Ames quarterback scored on that shitty Ames quarterback play. Luckily I had a few more glory days ahead of me.

Usually, making fun of tornado victims would be taboo

This article on CNN.com raises a couple of interesting issues: first, what was Mr. Kruger wearing before he put on his sweatpants?

Second, what the hell is President Bush trying to say with this quote: "the American people hold those who suffered up in prayer." Is he saying that the prayers of the nation are holding these people up? Wouldn't that really be for the sufferers to decide? If one of the sufferers said something like "Well, life sucks, but knowing that so many people are wishing me well and praying for me makes it more bearable", then fine, I guess. But what Bush seems to be saying is "trust me, you ain't feeling bad right now - American's are prayin' fer ya. Stop that crying, whining and bitching right now or I'll decide not to send disaster relief - but I'll keep prayin' fer ya."

Now, as for drinking a quick shot of whisky just before the tornado hit - that seems like a good idea.

Hear This Now

Back in the early days of his first show on MTV I announced that Ben Stiller was one of the five funniest people alive and predicted that he would one day be regarded as a genius millionaire. I was wrong about all of that shit except the millionaire part and am now embarrassed that I even thought such a thing, even moreso that I chose to verbalize it to other humanoids. I swore that I would never make such a prediction again.

Having said that, Brad Neely is one of the five funniest people on Earth and will one day be regarded as a millionaire genius. Please look at everything he has done and then purchase what can be purchased. Infact, watch this right now



You may now go watch the rest and come back and thank me...Thank you, come again.

Superman

I know that everybody has a bit on Superman: Seinfeld was obsessed with him, Tarantino has the bit at the end of Kill Bill 2 (which is brilliant - the bit, not the movie - the movie was just ok), and every other hack comic that has ever been on stage had some shtick with Superman (usually some lame and obvious observation about telephone booths being made of glass or something).

All that being said, I'm still going to write a bit about Superman. I never read comic books all that much - I guess I had a few as a kid, but I never collected or obsessed over them (like I did with baseball cards). But for some reason I have always loved superheros, especially Superman. The cartoons were always the best, but I'll watch any live action superhero movie that comes out, no matter how awful, and enjoy them (the lone exception off the top of my head: the Spiderman movies - I loved Spiderman cartoons and comics, but the first movie was so cheesy and terrible that I haven't even tried the others).

So anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, Superman. I loved the Superman movies with Christopher Reeves when I was a kid, although I suspect that Superman 3 was a giant turd (all I really remember was something about Richard Pryor making kyrptonite with tar in it because he read the ingredients off of a cigarette package). So when the most recent Superman came out (Superman Returns) I was excited. And it was great, filled with logical fallacies, but fuck it - it's Superman!

But here's my bit with Superman: why does he have a thing for Lois Lane? She's good looking (especially the new one), but he gets to see first hand that she is a total bitch. She is basically self-centered and constantly rude to Clark and Jimmy Olson. For someone that is all about truth, justice and the American way and is humble as apple pie, I would think that a self-aggrandizing headline grabber like Lois Lane would be a big turn off. Then in the new movie she has moved on to be with Richard, the nephew of her boss (how convenient for her career). She has also won a Pulitzer for a bitchy article about the world not needing Superman, just because he took off for a while. It's like an ex-girlfriend/boyfriend posting horrible pictures of you on the internet - except in a respected publication. Anyway, she was pissed that Superman left, but now he's back and she's clearly conflicted about whether to jump him almost immediately.

Now, Superman is Superman and he can probably get any piece of ass that he wants, so why would he stay obsessed with Lois Lane? She's got tons of baggage with Richard, her job, her attitude, etc., not to mention her penchant for turning into the psycho ex-girlfriend at the drop of a hat. I don't get it.

Also, come on, no one noticed that Clark Kent is absent the whole time Superman is in the hospital? I mean, Jesus, telephone booths are made of glass!

Suggestion Box

Aren't there four of us with passwords to this thing? Why is it only Brown Walker and I talking to hear our heads rattle? Also, I think we should all pick a photo or special font for quick author identification. I can't tell you how many times I have unneccesarily read the first paragraph of something only to find out that Pirate Ninja wrote it. For example, when Pirate Ninja posts, he should always include a picture of Vladimir Lenin partying at Woodstock while reading Stephen Nathanson...I suppose I would go to some proctology website and get a picture of a big fat asshole...