Bitter Clevelander

To be or not to be?

2011-11-07T10:14:00.002-05:00

When it comes to existential angst, that is the ultimate question, isn't it? Continue drifting aimlessly or end the pretense? At this point, I'm not particularly bothered by what dreams may come, because I think that, with apologies to both Shakespeare and Raymond Chandler, the end is not really a big sleep but more like sweet oblivion. That notion goes against everything I've been taught and believed until now. Is this what it's like to lose one's sanity / lucidity / faith / whatever? Discuss.

Institutionalized

2011-08-10T09:06:00.005-04:00

It isn't what it's cracked up to be -- pun most definitely intended. Because of my unremitting melancholic depression, I finally had the psychotic episode that had been building for 40+ years and had to be institutionalized. I was so doped up the first couple of days that I have almost no memories of those days. I was admitted into a behavioral center on Saturday, and pretty much slept through the remainder of that day and all of Sunday. My first awareness of my surroundings was on Monday morning. I hate to think of what had to be done to me to make sure my body passed its waste products. [Shudders.]

Being committed is basically like being sentenced to prison, minus the gang rape and shanking episodes. OK, it's not like being sentenced to prison at all, but your freedom is limited. I was internet and phone-free for an entire week, had to share living quarters and bathrooms with occasionally filthy roommates, didn't have access to even basic needs like pens or pencils, which was particularly obnoxious when trying to do the Jumble or crossword puzzles, and was forced to eat, sleep, shower, and socialize at someone else's whimsy because we had a set schedule. As if that weren't annoying enough to a control freak like me, I was forced to eat a lot more food than I can tolerate because the nurses and attendants scored your meals. So if I only ate a piece of mystery meat that was supposedly turkey and left the revolting broccoli and cauliflower poo-poo combo on my plate, my meal was scored as 50 out of 100. In the interest of getting out of there as quickly as possible, I rammed an obscene amount of food down my throat and did more smiling and pleasant chatting over that week than I'd done over the past year or so.

Be that as it may, I have to admit I'm thankful. Yes, in spite of all my obnoxious whining and the fact that I've been diagnosed with a type of depression that reportedly doesn't respond to chemistry nor therapy but may respond to electroshock treatment (!!!), I'm thankful. Being inside a loony bin for a week exposed me to much worse ailments than the one that afflicts me. For example, a gentleman who used to be a schoolteacher had the unfortunate habit of thinking that the people in whatever television program happened to be on in the day room were talking shit to him, and so he would argue with the television while gesticulating wildly. That was, unfortunately, one of the milder cases. A girl who was committed so she could detoxify from alcohol and drugs tried to hang herself with a bath towel and was saved because her roommate happened to need the restroom at that very moment and walked in on her in the process. A particularly unfortunate passive-aggressive patient was beaten twice in the space of two days because he somehow incurred the rage of two violent patients. Another patient had neurotic crying breakdowns pretty much on a daily basis and had to be constantly restrained and sedated.

All things considered, I survived my suicidal tendencies while being institutionalized. What more fitting conclusion, then, than this glorious 80's masterpiece?

Drifting

2011-07-24T12:28:00.003-04:00

That's all I'm doing. Just drifting through life. I get up. I turn on the coffee pot. I go to the restroom. I have my coffee. I think about what could and should have been. I'm inside my own head all the time. I eventually shower. I think about upcoming events or obligations. I try to muster up the willpower to act on those events or obligations. I realize that in the end, nothing makes a difference. Fix the kitchen sink. Work on meaningless graduate education class assignments. Start thinking about the upcoming school year and the classes I'll be teaching. Go to the doctor to see about a possible change in medication. Go to the gym. None of it matters. I'm just drifting from one day to the next. From one week to the next. From one month to the next. I'm just drifting through life until it ends. No meaning, no sense of purpose, no idea why I even bother getting up.

Am I being unrealistic or spoiled in thinking that a person's life should have at least a little bit of happiness? Of purpose? Of meaning? I'll be 43 years old next month. I don't know if I can take another 20 minutes of this, much less years. Not suicidal, not crying out for help -- just completely defeated, hollow, and devoid of all hope. There has to be more to life than this.

3:05

2011-07-14T10:03:00.005-04:00

Apparently, it's the new witching hour. For the past week, I have woken up at 3:05 on the button, for no discernible reason. I have gone to bed at different times. I have had my last meals of the day at different times. I have had different levels of physical activity throughout the days. No matter what the circumstances, I have woken up at 3:05. If this were a horror movie or a nightmare, the lights wouldn't work when I tried to switch them on. Thus far (knock on wood!), the lights have come on when, in my disoriented, frightened and annoyed haze, I flip the switch. Furthermore, no disembodied hand, claw, hoof, or evil appendage of your choice has grabbed my arm when I reach for the light switch. Again, knock on wood! I don't think my home was built on an ancient Indian burial ground, and since I'm the original resident, there's no way a previous tenant was murdered at precisely 3:05. I don't know what the deal is, but I'm not above admitting that I'm seriously creeped out by these quasi-paranormal shenanigans. If this escalates and I should happen to wake up dead or wind up looking like this, please tell my loved ones I said good-bye.

My students rock

2011-05-23T17:35:00.004-04:00

I’m still feeling on the outs, but if there’s one thing I can always take comfort in, it’s my job. Even though it’s a stressful, time-consuming job, it’s one where I’m constantly exercising my mind, and it’s never boring. It is, to put it succinctly, a job I love. I never thought I’d be lucky enough to utter that phrase, but I do love my job. To wit: my Physics students turned in their last reading journals last week, and here are a few of the more humorous / kind / enthusiastic highlights:

I thought this chapter was kind of confusing. Everything I did was plug things in and somehow they were right. I figured out the less I think the better grade I get. So I am just not going to think on the test.

[Drawing of a girl drying her hair] Some chick with a hair dryer.

This chapter was my favorite because it’s the last one… ever.

I am trying and studying my hardest to not fall for your evil tricky problems.

What I don’t like about resistors is how they’re numbered all stupidly with colored bars as if the number is all secretive for only freaky electricians to understand.

Dear Mr. [NAME], I just wanted to say that it was a pleasure to have you as a teacher for 2 years! You’re an awesome teacher & I’m really going to miss you… and sorry for sucking at Physics!

I’m gonna miss you, Mr. [NAME]!! :( You’ve helped me out A LOT in the past two school years.

You are an awesome teacher! :) I can’t wait ‘til AP Physics.

Overall this chapter was an interesting one. Still, I didn’t want it to be the last. 5 more chapters!! Let’s forget about final review and just learn up to Chapter 22!! I can’t wait for AP Physics!!!

I can’t wait either.

Black gives way to blue

2011-04-30T14:30:00.003-04:00

In a really bad funk right now. Work is going very well, but everything else is going very poorly. Too much unpleasantness to deal with all at once, including a surprisingly painful death in the family. Can't sleep. Can't eat. Can't get out of my own head. Can't stop whining. No bueno.

Almost two months

2011-02-12T08:29:00.005-05:00

As hard as it is to believe or even fathom, the Cavs' win last night was their first win in almost two months. And this isn't one of those trick statements, as in, "but those two months were during the off-season; yuk, yuk!" We're talking nearly two months' worth of games lost. Twenty-six losses in a row, to be exact. It is, of course, no wonder the team is so awful. In addition to losing four of their five starters to free-agency or cowardly, pus-dripping treachery, they've had a particularly ghastly streak of injuries, so much so that on any given night during the losing streak, they were starting Jamison, who's a very good player, and four guys whose mothers hadn't even heard of them. I really think that at one point, coach Byron Scott was just trolling the parking lot of Quicken Loans Center and looking for tall homeless guys that he thought might have some athletic ability so he could insert them into the line-up. Painful, painful, painful. Thankfully, Mo Williams, the only remaining starter from last year's team, returned from a prolonged injury last night. Although the team looked far from "good," they were at least competent. We Cavs fans -- the remaining thirteen or so of us -- understand that this is a lost season, pun intended, and that we must remain patient while we rebuild through the draft. Still, losing an astounding twenty-six games in a row is hard to stomach, patience notwithstanding. The "worst record in the league" trophy is practically locked in at this point, so our odds of getting the first pick in the draft aren't going to improve with further losing streaks from hell.

Keep the faith, Cavs fans.

Best of the Best

2010-12-31T11:26:00.004-05:00

No, not that horrible Eric Roberts karate tournament movie. Just a compilation of the best songs from the best five metal albums of 2K10. Considering that old stalwarts like Iron Maiden, Ozzy Osbourne, Rob Zombie, and KoRn released albums this year, the pickings were surprisingly slim, owing mostly to the fact that many of the heavily anticipated albums released this year were very uneven. Soulfly’s “Omen” is a representative example of this problem. The album features three excellent songs (“Bloodbath and Beyond,” “Rise of the Fallen,” and “Off with their Heads”) interspersed amidst a rubble of mediocre efforts. Here’s hoping that Max Cavalera’s next album with Cavalera Conspiracy, scheduled for release in March of 2K11, will not be as patchy.

In chronological order of release, then:

Fear Factory – Mechanize – Christploitation
I’ll confess that I had no idea who Gene Hoglan was until I first heard this album. Well, I know who he is now. Good Lord, the drums on this album are un-fucking-believable. Coupled with the return of Dino Cazares, the current line-up of Fear Factory is, pound for pound, hard to beat. And I mean that literally as well as figuratively. Even including the normal-sized Burton C. Bell, the average weight of each member of Fear Factory has to be upwards of 300 pounds. Nonetheless, “Mechanize” is a fantastic album, quite possibly the best one of the year. It was hard to pick one individual song out of this album, but I settled on “Christploitation” because of the über-creepy piano riff. I won’t ruin the song by trying to describe it, but I will encourage anyone reading this to buy the album. It’s well worth it.

As I Lay Dying – The Powerless Rise – Anodyne Sea
I heard the first two songs off this album on the radio while coming back from a Rays game with my nephews. Oddly enough, the only reason we had gone to said game was the post-game concert, featuring the venerable baddies from Texas, ZZ Top. There’s no over-the-top evolution or shift in this album. It’s just a solid 45 or so minutes of well-polished metalcore. “Anodyne Sea” is a terrific song, and is a good indicator of the band’s consistency.

Black Label Society – Order of the Black – Crazy Horse
This was probably the most pleasant surprise of the year. I’m glad Zakk Wylde took a little time away from his busy beer-drinkin’, deer-killin’, dumb-ass redneckin’ schedule to put out his first decent album since “The Blessed Hellride.” The first song, “Crazy Horse,” is a nice little throwback, although it’s a bit disheartening for an old fart like me to note that Black Label Society’s 2K10 album is much, much better than Ozzy’s new album.

The Sword – Warp Riders – The Chronomancer II - Nemesis
Big, big ups to my niece’s boyfriend Rick for alerting me to the fact that The Sword had released a new album, which he rightly described as “fucking epic.” And as a bonus, it looks like these guys have finally learned to play in more than just one key! Just like their previous two albums, “Warp Riders” is heavy, groovy, and greatly influenced by Black Sabbath. This influence is readily apparent in the album’s best song, “The Chronomancer II – Nemesis.”

Mushroomhead – Beautiful Stories for Ugly Children – Harvest the Garden
There’s no way these guys will ever recapture the magic of their “Superbuick” and “XX” days, especially since J Mann left the band. That having been said, this is still a terrific album, and J Mann’s successor, Waylon, does a fantastic job providing “rap” in addition to clean vocals. The keyboards return to prominence here, something that was oddly missing from the previous album, “Savior Sorrow,” and Mushroomhead appear to have regained their edge. “Harvest the Garden” starts off sounding like Bow Wow Wow’s “I Want Candy,” then turns into a funk-laden, furious five minutes of pure awesomeness.

Joan Sutherland (1916-2010)

2010-10-31T23:06:00.003-04:00

The greatest Australian of all time passed away three weeks ago. For all the obnoxious histrionics surrounding that POS Maria Callas and her disgusting, ululating garbage disposal of a voice, people tend to forget that Joan Sutherland was the greatest soprano of all time. Hell, she may very well be the greatest opera singer of all time, period. I'll let the late, great Sutherland argue her own merits. Rest in peace, Stupenda.

The concert bucket list

2010-09-19T07:59:00.006-04:00

I finally got to see Lamb of God and Metallica in concert last October, and so was able to cross them off my "I've GOT to see these guys before I die" list. The same happened with Hatebreed, Rob Zombie, and KoRn a month ago, as witnessed by this awesome clip of KoRn's "Did my time":

Next month, I'll cross off Anthrax and Megadeth. Great, right? Of course... but bucket lists are problematic because they have a nasty little tendency to grow. I just heard The Sword's latest album, "Warp Riders," and they sound like Black Sabbath (bucket list: check) all hopped up on Texas 'roids. I've GOT to see those guys before I die!

Random thoughts on the 2K10 World Cup

2010-07-29T09:30:00.004-04:00

I'll always remember South Africa 2K10 as the "Finally! A Uruguayan side that played up to its considerable potential, made me immensely proud, and didn't make me want to gouge my eyes out!" World Cup. For a team with such a glorious soccer history, La Celeste had, in my soccer-watching lifetime, been mediocre and unremarkable at best, and sluggish, ultra-defensive, and occasionally flat-out dirty at worst. Their last noteworthy World Cup run was exactly 40 years ago, when I wasn't yet two years old. Well, it was well worth the wait.

After a coma-inducing draw in their first match, this glorious edition of La Celeste found their rhythm in the second match, where they trashed the host nation, and then went on to defeat an obnoxious Mexican side to win their group, all while playing a polished, disciplined, and, shock of all shocks, extremely crowd-pleasing brand of soccer. That success carried over to the round of sixteen, where they defeated a game South Korean side, and to the quarterfinals, where, in an all-time nailbiter, they once again crushed the hopes of the host continent by knocking out Ghana. In the semifinals, some unfortunate defensive lapses cost them dearly against an effective but surprisingly dirty, whiny, flopping Netherlands, and an unbelievable slew of missed goals against Germany consigned them to fourth place. Still, La Celeste were awesome, and striker Diego Forlán was awarded the Golden Ball as the best player in the tournament.

There were many other things to remember about this edition of the World Cup. To wit:

The first match took place during the last day of school. I had programmed my DVR and was wrapping up all of my loose ends and getting my end-of-year checklist completed when my Russian math pal, AK-47, came over and suggested we watch the game at school. Nothing says "teachers are more than ready for the summer break" like having two grown men sitting in a darkened classroom watching soccer on the projector.

Those vuvuzelas... man, they're beyond annoying. I hope that crap doesn't catch on here. It's bad enough having to put up with idiots banging thundersticks and ringing cowbells.

Since none of the Spanish channels broadcast in HD, I watched the tournament on ESPN, and was very pleased with the network's excellent coverage. I just wish those limey announcers would stop adding r's to every word that ends in the letter a. To this day, I don't understand why someone would say Argentinahr, Nigeriahr, Algeriahr, ideahr, etc.

The American broadcasters were excellent, but the Beckham saga must have really damaged Alexi Lalas' psyche. He was a super laid-back player, famous for his surfer dude attitude and good humor, but as a commentator, he's vicious, judgmental, and unforgiving. Yes, he was right to trash goalies for blowing routine saves, referees for carding sissy fouls, and Cristiano Ronaldo for being a foppish fag. But characterizing every mistake or questionable tactic as "a disgrace," "a catastrophe," or "an absolute joke" seems excessive.

The geniuses at FIFA decided to try out a new ball for this tournament in the hopes of increasing scoring. Well, it worked. The addition of panels to the ball's exterior pattern resulted in a knuckleball swerve for just about every shot, cross, and corner kick, as well as several bizarre bounces. It's no surprise, then, that the goalkeeping in this tournament was awful. The US goal against England was the most notorious example. I watched that game with my pal Greg, a fervent supporter of the English squad, and when goalkeeper Robert Green fumbled an innocuous long-range shot into his own goal, Greg's shocked reaction went something like this: "What? OH MY GOD!!! Gaaahhh!!! Whu... GOD! Why... England! Come on!!!! What the... I need a cigarette!" British journalists were equally aghast, coming up with some outstanding descriptors, including "Stars and Tripe," "Red, White, and Green," and my personal fave, "Hand of Clod."

One of the many things to like about ESPN's coverage was their courtesy in broadcasting the pre-game national anthem ceremonies. Some anthems are musically gorgeous (France, Germany), some are exhilarating in their operatic splendor (Italy, Uruguay, Paraguay), some are awful (Mexico, Brazil)... but only one nation is glum enough to have an anthem written in a minor key: Slovakia's lovely, haunting, "Lightning Over The Tatras."

Germany's soccer team consisted of a few Germans, three Poles, two sodomy-loving Turks, a Ghanian, a Brazilian, a Croatian, an Iranian, and a Spaniard. As if that collection of soccer mercenaries wasn't despicable enough, the German coach eats his own boogers, and isn't the least bit shy about it. Is there a more repulsive team?

Maybe not a team, but there's definitely a more repulsive moniker: New Zealand's "The All-Whites." I guess "The Klan" would have been to obvious, and "The Aryan Blunder from Down Under" too clumsy.

The most bizarre storyline in the World Cup: since North Korea did not have a contingent of supporters, FIFA reportedly hired Chinese actors to pose as North Korean fans. You couldn't make that stuff up.

You also couldn't make up some of the great player names, from the clunky weirdness of a Greek player named Sokratis Papastathopoulo, to the sophomoric joys of Serbian goalkeeper Stankovic and Nigerian forward Shittu, and to the great irony of Japanese forward Honda and, my personal fave, a South Korean midfielder named Gook.

And now, the long wait until Brazil 2K14 begins.

My rambling Muse story

2010-06-29T08:44:00.005-04:00

When I'm driving my car, I usually listen to my iPod or books on CD. I do, however, occasionally listen to the radio. This usually happens because the book on CD du jour ends, and I'm so close to my destination that I just leave the radio on until I get there. This was the case a couple of months ago, when I left work and headed to Wal-Mart to buy some odds and ends. My radio was tuned to the hard rock station, where some nondescript Nickelback knock-off was whining about something. That song ended right as I was pulling into Wal-Hell, and without any sort of preamble or DJ set-up, the next song came up. I don't know exactly at what point I started paying close attention to and enjoying the music, but I think it was when I heard a clapping accompaniment to the song's rhythm. Whatever the case, I sat in the car and listened to the entire song, growing to really, really like it. Of course, the next song, another Nickelback-inspired piece of musical garbage, came up without any sort of announcement regarding song titles, so I was left wondering what the song I had enjoyed so much was, let alone who sang it.

As I walked from my car to Wal-Hell, I tried to mentally list the song's salient points so I could look it up when I got home. A catchy beat, the aforementioned clapping, a brooding, keyboard-driven minor-key progression, nifty instrumentation, and a soaring vocal line. The song was a wonderful blend of hard rock and new wave pop, kind of reminiscent of Marilyn Manson but devoid of Manson's needy "Hey! Look at me! I'm weird! I'm different! LOOK AT ME!" rhetoric. I also committed to memory a couple of refrains, no small feat for me, since I couldn't care one whit about lyrics. Alas, by the time I got home, I could only remember the following: I had really liked a song, it reminded me of but was somehow better than Marilyn Manson, featured keyboards and clapping, and... that's about it. I tried the radio station's website to see whether there was a track list available, and since there wasn't, wrote them an admittedly incoherent e-mail inquiring about the song. No luck.

Given my obsessive-compulsive nature, there's no way in Hades that I was going to let this go. The next day, I asked all of my classes about the song. None of my students had any idea what I was talking about, although a few politely expressed reservations about my mental health. I made it a point to listen to the radio in the hopes of hearing the mystery song again, but had to give that up -- there's only so much Nickelback and Red Hot Chili Peppers garbage a man can put up with. I grudgingly resigned myself to the fact that by failing to quickly write down the snippet of lyrics I'd picked up from the song, I had missed any realistic hopes of figuring out what the song was.

And then, a few weeks ago, serendipity struck. I had recently joined a gym, and was in the locker room changing into my ratty work-out clothes when, lo and behold, The Song started playing in the gym's background music radio thingamajiggy. I finished changing quickly, and went looking for either someone who could tell me what the song was, or for something to write with. As luck would have it, I noticed that one of the ubiquitous TV sets in the cardio area was playing a music video that matched the audio. I parked myself in front of the TV, ignoring the weird stares from the gym's other patrons, and watched, in the hopes that the artist and song would be credited at the end of the video -- I do much better at remembering stuff when I see it written out. Huzzah! The much sought-after info scrolled through as the song finished up. Almost three months after first hearing and, not to put too fine a point on it, obsessing over The Song, I finally knew what the hell it was.

This story seems pointless now that I run into The Song constantly, since it's featured in commercials for some idiotic Tom Cruise / Cameron Diaz movie, but whatever. Without further ado, here's "Uprising," by Muse:

An old fave comes to Florida

2010-05-15T08:52:00.003-04:00

Yet another roundabout tale that, I promise, has a point.

Component #1: My nephew Patrick is a car mechanic, and he recently started working at the service department of the new Chevrolet dealership in Estero. As luck would have it, since Saturn went out of business, this Chevy dealership in Estero is now the closest place where I can have my car serviced under the warranty. (I'll rant about the demise of the last American-made cars that were actually made in America at another time, I guess.)

Component #2: My niece's boyfriend Rick works for some pizza joint, and because he has aspirations of some day running a pizza place of his own, actually has an interest in his job and so keeps up on "pizza news."

A few weeks ago, during one of our family gatherings, Patrick mentioned that some pizza delivery car had come in for service, and that he didn't get a very good look at it because he was busy, but thought it said "Geppetto's." Patrick has heard me rave about Geppetto's pizza and barbecue ribs / chicken / whatev enough times, so that car caught his eye, if you will. Rick immediately mentioned that he had also heard of a "new" pizza place named Geppetto's that had opened in two SW Florida locations, and that his understanding was that it was a small chain that was established in Ohio. I thought this sounded way too good to be true, but decided to check it out. A google search confirmed the awesome news: Geppetto's, the award-winning and super-awesome pizza & rib joint from Cleveland, is venturing into geezer-land.

Yesterday, I took my car into the dealership to have some pesky power steering issue repaired. On my way back, I finally had a chance to stop by the still-too-good-to-be-true SW Florida Geppetto's. Large pizza, pepperoni and green peppers. A jar of barbecue sauce. Unbelievably delicious, as always.

Now, all I need for true bliss is:

for Antonio's to open a restaurant here so I can snag their incredible salad dressing -- yes, it's THAT good
for the Cavs to fire Mike Brown and hire a REAL coach, one who won't pander to and kiss LeBron's ass but who will, instead, light a fire under LeBron's underachieving ass
for the Browns to show a little patience for a change and try to make steady year-to-year progress, culminating in a perennial playoff contender
for the Tribe to get out of cheapskate Dolan's stranglehold and stop fielding a quadruple-A team

Let's make it happen, God. Please!

I still haven't seen a live boxing card

2010-04-11T10:52:00.004-04:00

It's not for lack of opportunity. I'm some 75-150 minutes away from several locations that regularly offer boxing cards. Last night, for example, there was an affordable boxing card 90 minutes away from where I live, headlined by two World Championship bouts: Celestino Caballero vs. Daoud Yordan, and Andre Berto vs. Carlos Quintana. As if that weren't enough incentive, part of the take from the gate was tabbed to benefit the victims of the Haiti earthquake. Be that as it may, I'm so miserable with allergies and so unbearably overwhelmed with work that I pussed out and stayed home. I had some regrets about not going, but I was consoled by the fact that I was able to watch the fights on HBO. If the two televised headliners are any indication, I should be glad I didn't make the trip. A one-sided beatdown? Impressive, but boring. An awkward, whiney, foul-filled fight? Yikes.

Caballero looked entirely too relaxed in his fight, but why shouldn't he? Game effort by Yordan notwithstanding, the fight was nothing more than a sparring session. It was extremely one-sided, but not the viciously brutal beating that HBO's announcers would have had you believe. Robinson vs. LaMotta was brutal. Mancini vs. Kim was brutal. This fight? One-sided, but not brutal. When Lampley brought up the Leavander Johnson fight, I almost threw up. Lampley makes me sick. He's like a woman on the rag. Everything is intensified exponentially, and always in favour of the house fighter / favourite. "HOW MUCH MORE OF THIS CAN YORDAN TAKE?" Relax, Lamps. Yordan took punishment, but he was never so much as stunned. People criticize Gus Johnson for his histrionics, but I think Lampley is just as douchey. Or maybe I'm just getting old. Whatever.

As for Berto, he needs to stop his whining. The first-round KD was legitimate. If fighters don't like getting hit in weird places, they should avoid positions in which the only places they can get hit are weirdies. Don't like getting hit in the back of the head? Stop bending over so far and/or stop turning away so far that the back of your head is the only available target. Another thing I dislike about Berto is the way he smothers his own punches by getting too close for adequate punching range. If a half-decent trainer gets a hold of him, the first thing he'd do is grab a meter stick and explain some fundamentals of proper punching distance. Be that as it may, this was an important win over a tough, cagey vet. Berto's handspeed is very impressive, and his character is top-notch. But the division's elite would tear him to pieces, quite easily. I hate to be a repetitive old fogey, but he needs way better handling before he starts so much as thinking about big-time fights.

Regardless, I'm sorry to report I'm still a live boxing virgin. But like any self-respecting virgin, I'll continue to wait for a worthy dance partner. Glad I didn't give up my cherry for last night's snoozefest.

Spring is here

2010-03-29T08:58:00.003-04:00

And with it come a new and an old ritual. The newbie: a much-needed and appreciated week off. I love the new job, and am hoping to get renewed for next year. By all accounts, the first year is the worst owing to an equal mixture of inexperience and overwhelming amounts of preparation work. The latter is particularly true, since I'm teaching three different classes. Be that as it may, I'm happy to finally have a job where I feel like I'm actually doing something meaningful and worthwhile, and where (knock on wood) it doesn't appear I'm going to get royally fucked over.

The old ritual, however, is the subject at hand: spring training! Where hope springs eternal, even for the worst teams. Where a 97-loss debacle of a season is quickly cast aside if the young'uns show signs of progress. Where seasons lost to injuries and the tyranny of subservience to the big-market teams who can afford to rip the talent out of your ball club are, for the moment, forgotten. Thanks to the MLB Network and one of the greatest inventions of my lifetime, the DVR, I've been able to watch a few spring training games, and while I'm nowhere near anointing this year's ball-club as a post-season threat, there are quite a few good signs that the team won't be as atrocious as last year's edition.

Jake Westbrook finally appears to be fully recovered from Tommy John surgery. His sinker has been heavy and quite effective, and his fastball still gets up there with enough speed to keep hitters honest. He looks ready to continue the success that was derailed by injuries. Is he a legit #1 starter? Probably not, but he's tough and gritty, and if his body cooperates, he'll keep the Tribe in games. Fausto Carmona has been absolutely lights out thus far. His stuff is downright electric, and when he locates his pitches, he's practically unhittable. That wasn't the case the last couple of years, but a couple of minor adjustments to his mechanics appear to have set him right again. His last two starts, he went six and seven innings, giving up no runs, walking only two, and getting roughly 75% of his outs on weak grounders. I still remember, quite fondly, how he burst onto the scene in 2007. I don't want to jinx things, but he appears to have regained that form. The rest of the pitching staff is iffy. Lots of young arms with outstanding stuff, lots of inexperience harnessing that stuff on a consistent basis. Masterson and Carrasco, in particular, have awesome velocity, but need to locate their off-speed pitches more consistently. Huff and Talbot have potential. It's hard to believe this, but Huff actually led the staff in wins last year, even though his ERA was an absurd 5.9 something. Let's just move on before I start crying.

The bullpen can't possibly be any worse than last year's craptacular edition. Laffey's been bumped out of the rotation to start the season. It stinks for him, but he's actually better suited for this duty. I really think he'll be the Paul Assenmacher type we've been looking for since, well, my old buddy Paul Assenmacher. Raffy Perez and his wicked slider appear to be back on track now that Raffy's delivery is consistent again. I don't quite know what to make of Smith, Sipp, and Lewis, so keep'em crossed whenever they come on. The Korean reliever (Ching Chang Chung? Bink Bank Benk?) has a very live arm, so I hope he makes the roster. Chris Perez steps into the closer role now that Wood is on DL for the umpteenth time. This could work out for the best. He was brought in as the closer of the future, so why not throw him into that role? He's got the right demeanor and arsenal of pitches, so as long as he doesn't go all Wild Thing on us. Not to be a cynic, but he can't possibly be worse than Wood or Blow-worski. The only problem is that he HAS gone all Wild Thing on us before. I remember a game last year where he walked four guys in a row before Wedgie finally decided to pull him. Let's hope Acta handles him, and the rest of the staff, better.

The everyday line-up looks outstanding, especially now that some of the dead weight has been removed. Signing Branyan is crazy, but his pathetic, underachieving ass is on the DL, so he won't be leaving a small village on base while he strikes out trying to pull outside pitches anytime soon. We didn't sign any Philadelphia cast-off outfielders this year, so the Michaels / Dellucci poo-poo platter is, thankfully, a thing of the past. What we have instead is an awesome combination of young and just-entering-their-prime bad-asses.

Ass-Drivel Cabrera leads off, at least for now. He's an excellent hitter, gets on base, works the pitcher, and is a crafty baserunner. Sizemore moves down to the second spot in the line-up, at least for now. He's completely healthy, and has hit the shit out of the ball this spring. Pika-Choo hits third, and looks to go into the season even hotter than last year, where he hit .300+ with 20 HRs and 80+ RBIs. Colour me skeptical when it comes to Hafner, but he also looks completely healthy, and has hit pretty well thus far. Peralta... well, he's in shape. I just don't know what to expect from Jhonny, except that he starts the season at third base, which is where he SHOULD have started last year. Hopefully the consistency leads to more consistency at the plate. Jhonny can hit if his head is right. LaPorta gets the nod at first now that Don Quijote Branyan is whiffing away on the DL, and this is a very good thing. Thome II is about as dumb as they come, but he's been crushing everything thus far while showing OK discipline. Marson's kind of being lost in the shuffle amidst all the hoopla for catcher-in-waiting Santana, but this kid has awesome potential. I think he's going to surprise quite a few people. Valbuena showed flashes last year, and he's an outstanding fielder -- he and Cabrera have turned some fantastic DPs this spring. Considering the top half of the rotation induces an enormity of grounders, this is a very good thing. Brantley hits in the ninth spot, at least for now. He's way too good, though. I think Acta has him here so as not to pressure him, but soon enough, he'll be moved up to bat lead-off while the rest of the line-up moves down one spot. This is the line-up I can't wait to see. Brantley is a prototypical lead-off guy: average, discipline, and speed. Cabrera is a prototypical second spot guy: average, contact, fantastic bat control. Sizemore is a prototypical third spot guy: average, speed, and huge power. Pika-Choo needs to hit in the clean-up spot, where he'll be enormously productive now that a supposedly healthy Pronk can protect him. And so on.

I like what I've seen from the Tribe thus far when it comes to base-running and situational hitting. Lots of well-executed hit-and-runs, sacrifices, and steals. They actually pulled two double steals in one game! So far, so good. Acta looks like he knows how to get the most potential out of his youngsters, and appears to have infinitely better people skills than his well-meaning but sour-faced predecessor. The pitching is the weak spot here, but there are tons of live arms in the minors. Carrasco, Hagadone, Gomez, and Rondon are all top-notch prospects. There's no shortage of young talent, either: Santana, Donald, Chisenhall, Mills, Brown... these guys could (SHOULD!) spend some time in the majors this year.

So, lots of youth, lots of potential, lots of question marks... and a little bit of hope, which springs eternal.

Go Tribe!!!

Finally done

2010-02-10T15:52:00.003-05:00

And what's best, the losers-that-be actually spelled "conferred" properly this time. I shit you not.

He's a tractor-lovin' gunslinger

2010-01-17T21:16:00.005-05:00

Had to watch yet another Favre game in which the announcers made me sick with their ridiculous, over-the-top fawning praise. Make no mistake about it, Favre is good. Considering the guy's my age, and he's still putting together outstanding clutch performances like he did in today's playoff game, I can't really heap my customary dose o'hatred upon his undeserving shoulders. It's just that I'm tired of the "gunslinger" who's "just havin' a ball" hyperbole. We get it. The guy's good. The guy's apparently very likable. He still enjoys playing the game, even at his advanced age. He still has an alarming propensity for zipping the ball into triple coverage, and he still gets a free pass (pun intended) when those ill-advised passes get picked, because when he gets away with his craziness, exciting things happen. Good. Great. Lovely.

But not so good when the lunacy leads to an unsportsmanlike, in-your-face, running up the score late TD toss when the game was 27-3 with a little more than a minute left in the 4th quarter. Scummy? Unnecessary? Childish? Absolutely. But the TV talking heads loved it. If that had been a non-media darling like Matt Schaub or Aaron Rodgers running up the score for the sake of beefing up his statistics, I'm sure there would have been quite a bit of holier-than-thou outrage. Instead, the announcers were practically high-fiving each other over Favre's hayseed, aw-shucks bullshit. So, it's not necessarily Favre I hate (although I do find him annoying), as much as the way the media fellates him. At any given point in a game, you'll hear countless references to gunslingers, ballplayers, good old boys, tractors, rugged manliness, gunslinging, good old-fashioned fun, having a ball out there, gunslinging, playing the game, enthusiasm, craftiness, and gunslinging. Typical TV talking head soundbite after a 7-yard dumpoff to Adrian Peterson resulted in a first-down and an exuberant display of good ole' boyishness from Favre:

Oh, that gunslinger... he's a gunslingin' son of a gunslung gunslingin' gun that slings gunslung gunslingin' gunslingers. In short, he's a gunslingin' slung-gun gunslinger who slings guns like a gungslingin' son of a gunslung gunslingin' gunslinger. Oh, and he's just havin' a ball out there. 'Cause he's a gunslinger. Gun. Sling. Gunslinger.

Give me a break. I hope he gets his hillbilly ass handed to him next week-end. In a tractor. With a gun. And a sling. Gun. Slinger.

Long live the 80's !!!

2009-12-31T11:13:00.003-05:00

It's hard to believe that yet another decade has come to its unofficial end (unofficial because technically, the new decade won't begin until 2011 -- mind your math, people!). Hard to believe for me, at least, because I'm still stuck in the 80's, aka The Greatest Decade Ever. What have any of the other decades in my lifetime contributed to popular culture? I was barely alive for the very tail end of the 60's, and they're noted for drugs and disgustingly dirty hippies. Thanks, but no thanks. The 70's are remembered for huge sideburns, Vietnam, and utterly heinous fashion. Thanks, but no thanks. The 90's were ridiculously nondescript -- the dingy grunge scene, and that's about it. Lame. And the 00's have been equally bland, apparently engendering tons of nostalgia for decades past from old fogeys like myself. My fave of those decades? The 80's!!! The new wave scene, those ridiculously goofy yet charming hairstyles, the metal scene, the "horny teenager" movies that have been much-imitated but never-duplicated, the over-the-top action flicks, the arcade scene... If you missed the 80's, you really missed out. So no, I can't quite let go of The Greatest Decade Ever, especially when there are still so many unresolved 80's dilemmas:

Music:
A) Who's Eileen, and why do I have to come on her?
B) Who really wants to hurt Boy George? Not me, although I WOULD appreciate him shutting the fuck up.
C) Just why DID she blind Thomas Dolby with science?

Movies:
There were literally thousands of horrible plot devices in 80's movies... which of my personal top three offenders would rank as the worst one?
A) The little kid saying "It was paint!" and, in one fell swoop, leading Danny Glover to realize that the baddie in "Lethal Weapon" was in the same secret batallion as Mel Gibson.
B) María Conchita Alonso magically producing the microfilm with the unedited footage of Arnie's "Butcher Of Bakersfield" shenanigans on "The Running Man." And while we're on that subject, just where DID María Conchita Alonso hide the microfilm? I'm guessing it was inside her conchita. Man, I kill myself.
C) Daniel LaRusso actually defeating Steve McQueen's incredibly scary son. I can believe a one-legged Daniel-san managing to beat Billy Zabka, since he used The Crane, a move Mr. Miyagi described as "no can defend" -- but there's no way Daniel-san got past Dutch. I refuse to believe it.

Best exposure:
A) Joyce Hyser tearing off her tux and revealing her assets in "Just One of the Guys."
B) Jamie Lee Curtis "inadvertently" showing Dan Aykroyd the goodies in "Trading Places."
C) Phoebe Cates telling Judge Reinhold how cute she thinks he is by unleashing the puppies in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High."
D) Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. No, not really. But don't you wish it was true? I know I do.

Signature game:
A) Rubik's Cube. Obnoxious, but addictive. Bonus question: How in the hell were those people on "That's Incredible" able to solve it in mere seconds? Bonus questions II: Who the hell is Rubik?
B) Pac-Man. Still popular today!
C) Donkey Kong. Nowadays, you probably know it as SuperMario or some such crap. But it'll always be Donkey Kong to me.
D) Space Invaders: as quoted roughly a billion times by my pal Greg, "Space invaders... they invade your space. Get it? [Snickers]"

Sports injustice:
A) The Brownies. Don't get me started. I hate John "Horsefucker" Elway.
B) The Cavs. Michael Jordan's an asswipe. Don't even dream of arguing this. He's a piece of shit.
C) France. A very underrated source of sports heartbreak, because they should have won both the 1982 and 1986 World Cups. The semifinal losses against Germany still make me sad, angry, and nauseous. Bonus gripe: Harald Schumacher is a disgusting Nazi thug, and the fucker belongs in prison. Bonus gripe II: Karl-Heinz Rummenigge may kindly burn in hell.

Signature look:
A) The new-wave hairdo, best exemplified by ridiculously long bangs -- aka, the "Flock of Seagulls" look.
B) The feathered bangs.
C) The metal mullet. Just about every wannabe poser in my high school yearbook looks like this, so this one may be my personal fave.

Ah, so many 80's questions, so little time... Happy New Year / New Decade !!!

Sports nicknames

2009-12-26T10:05:00.002-05:00

I love a good sports nickname, but can't help but wish there was a little more originality involved nowadays. I know I'm old, but we've just got to stop recycling nicknames. Kobe Bryant, you're not "The Black Mamba" -- Roger Mayweather is. Sam Peter, you're not "The Nigerian Nightmare" -- that would be Christian Okoye. LaDainian Tomlinson should be called "LDT," not "LT" -- those two initials are the domain of one Lawrence Taylor. And I could go on. We're just getting lazy, complacent, and unimaginative when it comes to nicknames. A few months ago, Toby Mergler penned an excellent column to that effect, which included the following three jewels:

Jose Canseco: "Flea Market" -- Every once in a while, you'll find something useful in what he says, but most of the time he's full of crap.
Tracy McGrady, "The Public Restroom" -- Because he's hard to find when you need him the most.
Dwight "Y-Axis" Howard -- Because his post game is one-dimensional.

Fantastic stuff! So, as the year draws to a close, I thought I'd make my own paltry contribution to this list by "honouring" some of 2009's biggest sports goats.

Braylon Edwards: "Edwards Scissorhands" -- because "Hands of Stone" was already taken by Roberto Durán. Edwards Scissorhands played himself out of town by dropping an inordinate amount of passes, then complained that the Cleveland faithful never liked him because he went to Michicrap. That's not the least bit true. Leroy Hoard went to Michicrap, and we adored him. Of course, Hoard was a productive back, a consummate team player, had a great sense of humour, and his interviews were an absolute joy. Edwards Scissorhands is a me-first, hypocritical, pass-dropping POS. The only consolation for the Cleveland faithful is that he's been equally maddening with the Jets, making ridiculous circus catches for 10 yards only to drop pretty much every perfectly thrown 30-yard rainbow. Loser.

Serena Williams: "Crown Victoria" -- because she has the biggest trunk. I actually like Crown Victoria, but that ridiculous hissy fit she threw because she couldn't handle the fact that she was getting her huge ass handed to her by Kim Clijsters earned her a spot on the list. Besides, I'm absurdly proud of myself for coming up with this hackneyed nickname.

Milton Bradley: "The Water Molecule" -- because he's bipolar. I can't believe this clown keeps getting chances. What's worse, the teams that sign him (and their fans) make the same mistake: namely, thinking that things will be different with them, and that The Water Molecule has turned a new leaf, and he's misunderstood, and he's a really nice guy, blah, blah, blah. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Bradley's crazier than a shithouse rat, and he's proven it time and time again. At this point, it's just a matter of when, not if, he'll go nuts in Seattle. It's a bummer, because after losing the Sonics and watching the Seahawks mail in their season, the Seattle fans deserve better, and are rightly optimistic about the Mariners, especially now that they've added Uncle Cliffy Lee to their already formidable rotation. But The Water Molecule will derail this team. Bank on it.

Donte Stallworth: "Hungover Calculus" -- because you should never drink and derive. But all kidding aside, accidents happen. What people just refuse to understand is that they're MUCH more likely to happen when your reflexes and judgment are impaired, even if slightly. Stallworth flashed his lights at the poor pedestrian he ran over. If you see a guy crossing the street in front of you, don't flash your lights... HIT THE BRAKES!!! Now we're all left to wonder whether Stallworth would have been able to either stop, slow down, or swerve had he been completely sober.

Eldrick "Tomcat" Woods -- too obvious? Sue me.

Merry Christmas, Mr. Bean!

2009-12-20T10:15:00.003-05:00

This past Friday was the last day of school before the Christmas break. My Chemistry and Physics classes were finishing up their exams, but my Physical Science students were done. Not wanting to start a chapter only to have them forget everything over the break -- and trust me, they would -- I decided to cut them a little slack. The new schedule means that, at 49 minutes a class, I wouldn't be able to show them a movie. Luckily, a few years ago I snapped up the complete Mr. Bean series from Costco. The set includes the sublimely hilarious "Merry Christmas, Mr. Bean" holiday episode, which I played for my kids. Man, if only our labs were this much fun!

If your only exposure to Mr. Bean is from the awful movies that the TV show inspired (and this was the case with my students, who were in awe of Mr. Bean after the clips), you're in for a true Christmas treat:

Mystery Science Theater 3000 lives on!

2009-11-30T18:25:00.003-05:00

When the Sci-Fi Channel pulled the plug on Mystery Science Theater 3000 a few years ago, I thought it was the end of an era: the best and funniest television show of the past few decades was no more. But rejoice! The MST3K crew (Mike Nelson, Kevin Murphy, and Bill Corbett) are still ripping movies to pieces, and even better, they're no longer shackled by the Sci-Fi Channel's copyright constraints. Thanks to my boy Martin (aka G-Spot) for not only letting me know about this but hooking me up with two Rifftrax'd Bela Lugosi jewels this past week-end. You can preview and purchase their latest offerings on their website, Rifftrax.com. Enjoy!

That stinking Cold War crap

2009-11-23T20:25:00.003-05:00

Those of us who love opera know perfectly well that back in the 50s, an ignorant bunch of misguided, McCarthy-led idiots wouldn't let the great Boris Christoff sing here because we just couldn't have an opera dude from behind the Iron Curtain set foot on the Metropolitan. Yes, those sneaky Bulgarian bassos might have ended the American way of life with their open-throated craziness! That story has never failed to annoy the shite out of me, and I've often wondered how many more phenomenal singers we / I missed out on because of that idiocy. Surely, a school of singing as accomplished as that of the Soviet Union would have produced more than one great singer during the Cold War years! Over the last few years, thanks to the advent of YouTube, I've been finding more and more relatively unknown Soviet-bloc operatic jewels. Zurab Sotkilava, Muslim Magomaev, Nicolae Herlea, Pavel Lisitsian, Irina Arkhipova... and the latest find: my Armenian brother from another mother, Barseg Tumanyan.

A boxer: blindsided

2009-11-08T09:02:00.002-05:00

The title of this post is a tribute to / blatant rip-off of Harry Sylvester's phenomenal short story, "A Boxer: Old." In this particular case, however, the protagonist is not a likable boxer fighting two relentless opponents: the boxer in front of him, and the ravages of time. The blindsided boxer in this case is a petulant little sanitary napkin named Floyd "Moneyless" Mayweather. A few days ago, he called in a satellite radio show co-hosted by some dude named RA the Rugged Man, probably thinking he'd get tossed a few softball questions and then be showered with lavish praise. Instead, this RA character blindsided "Pretty Broke" Floyd with a ton of tough questions regarding his career, his legacy, and his obnoxious tendency to proclaim himself the greatest of all time while demeaning possible opponents. Mayweather's response was predictable: lots of shouting, lots of empty posturing, lots of references to his wealth, but very little substance. In a way, I felt bad for Moneyless, even though I absolutely despise him, because I thought the instantly confrontational tone of the interview was unfair. Be that as it may, the interviewer, while not the most knowledgeable and articulate person, did know his boxing, and raised some very valid objections to the way Mayweather's career has been handled.

Here is the interview, in two parts:

I'll speak on behalf of the Floyd haters (h8rs), since I genuinely despise Moneyless. Those of us who dislike the man but are still somewhat rational don't judge his on-the-ring performance based on his personality. When Moneyless dismantled Chico Corrales, I was disgusted by the outcome but dazzled by Moneyless' brilliant (and it WAS brilliant) performance. Same thing when he took apart a then-undefeated and highly lauded Hatton. And I, for one, can't blame Moneyless for fighting Baldomir -- Baldomir had beaten Judah for his title, then beaten Gatti. Moneyless fought Judah first (and make no mistake about it, Judah was considered the better fighter even after his loss to Baldomir) and then Baldomir for his title. No complaints there, at least not from me.

My problem with Moneyless stems from his obnoxious, abrasive, not at all funny personality. When people ask him (rightly, in my humble opinion) why he chose not to fight Margarito or Mosley (and he DID make those choice -- even his most staunch supporters cannot deny that), his answer is to discredit those fighters he chose not to fight. "Oh, you mean the Shane Mosley that lost to Forrest? Lost to Cotto? You mean the Margarito that lost to Paul Williams?" So what if they lost some fights? That's not the reason Floyd chose not to fight them. I guess I despise him because he constantly and unremittingly insults mine and all other boxing fans' intelligence with his tiresome rhetoric. Just tell us you were biding your time for better fights or waiting for a better build-up of fight interest, which I, personally, would be inclined to accept. That's what he did with Judah. If memory serves, their fight was hashed out months in advance, and even though Judah, in his inimitable idiocy, muffed things by taking Baldomir lightly and losing a lackluster decision to him, Moneyless followed through on his plans and fought Judah first. Hey, boxing's a business, fighters need to make money. Even the most ardent hater (h8r) can and should understand that. But Mayweather gets on my nerves because he's a liar, and a pretty shitty liar at that, and I just can't stand liars, especially the stupid ones who believe their own lies. Case in point: Pretty Broke Floyd swearing up and down that he didn't owe the IRS millions of $$$, then showing off his impressive mansion on an HBO fight preview show, all while proclaiming, "My shit is paid for... how 'bout yours?" only to immediately turn over roughly half of his winnings from his last fight to the IRS to, you guessed it, settle his million $$$ debt to the government. What a douche bag.

So I guess that's it for me. I just despise Mayweather's boorish, obnoxious, "let me reinvent the truth and then shout it loudly because that'll somehow give my lies legitimacy" spiel. If that makes me a typical old-fogey white h8r, then so be it.

Happy Halloween

2009-10-31T08:20:00.001-04:00

Or, if you prefer, Happy Helloween!!!

Couldn't have written it better myself...

2009-10-22T16:23:00.002-04:00

... so I won't even bother to try.

The hard-luck life of a Cleveland Browns fan, by Geoff LaTulippe. You may also extend this excruciating pain to being a Cleveland Indians and Cleveland Cavaliers fan. Wait 'til next year...

Lamb of God and Metallica

2009-10-10T07:31:00.004-04:00

I was lucky enough to go see Lamb of God and Metallica last week, courtesy of my awesome nephew & godson Patrick, who insisted on buying me a ticket as a birthday gift. Never go against the family! Five of us squeezed into my little Saturn, and off we went to Fort Lauderdale for a slice of heavy metal bliss. A few photo links from the event: the crowd waiting in line to get in; Lamb of God; the obligatory cammo-loving, tee-pee-dragging cracker-ass cracker shot; Metallica's laser show; Metallica performing; Metallica saying their goodbyes.

Lamb of God performed a slew of old favourites and a few songs from their outstanding new album, "Wrath." Unfortunately, they had horrible sound issues, so that the only thing that could be heard clearly were the drums, and even that was intermittent. As a result, their set, which should have whipped the crowd into a seething frenzy, seemed oddly subdued and left us all pretty unsatisfied. If you hadn't heard Lamb of God prior to this performance, you'd have been wondering why they weren't named Lamb of Valium. The phenomenal breakdown that takes place halfway through "Ruin"? Inaudible. The inhuman, braying screams at the end of every chorus of "Laid to Rest"? Inaudible. The relentless double bass pedal insanity of "Black Label"? Inaudible. I recorded a videoclip of "Walk with me in Hell" -- yet another phenomenal, driving song, reduced to garbled static and rhythmic pounding by the crappy sound set-up:

Metallica more than made up for the disappointment of Lamb of God by playing two and a half hours of solid metal. It's good to see Metallica finally remembering that they're a heavy metal band, and not some Top 40 radio-oriented shite band. I always felt that the Black Album was a seminal turning point for the band. It was a terrific effort, but it garnered Metallica enormous mainstream success, leading to a proverbial fork in the road: would the band get drunk on the success and keep trying for it, or would they continue to produce high-quality music, and if the success followed, so be it? Load, Reload, the Metallicats, St. Anger, and whatever other garbage they put out following the Black Album is, in my humble opinion, a product of Metallica loving their mainstream acceptability and catering to it. Luckily, they took an extended break and came to their senses. Their new album, Death Magnetic, is outstanding, and is the rightful evolutionary heir to And Justice for All and the Black Album. I think Metallica themselves admit this, because their set consisted of seven songs from Death Magnetic (they are, after all, trying to promote this new album), two from Kill'Em All, one from Ride the Lightning, two from Master of Puppets (including an all-time underrated jewel, "Damage, Inc."), two from And Justice for All, three from the Black Album, and just one from the aforementioned garbage albums. It's great to have "good" Metallica back! I was lucky enough to shoot a videoclip of one of my all-time fave Metallica songs:

Now + here = Nowhere ???

2009-09-26T08:49:00.002-04:00

A friend recently shared a music video with me (love that Facebook feature) that was pretty disturbing: Depeche Mode's "Wrong." That, of course, got me thinking about music videos, and what a huge new thing they were back in the teenage years. You may not believe this, but those were the days when MTV and VH1 did nothing but air music videos, and artists / bands went crazy trying to one-up each other in producing visual images that went with their music. Some videos involved travel to exotic locations (love those mullets!), others just made sure to throw in prominently featured T&A (great song, great band), others simply went for sex and violence (albeit subdued by today's standards), and we even had videos paying tribute to other videos.

But it seems to me that, at least during the 80s and early 90s, videos tried very hard for the macabre angle. Some of the attempts were pretty lame, like this effeminately mulleted post-apocalyptic hodgepodge, or this would-be werewolf lunacy (great song, though!), this wedding gone wrong, or this utterly cheesy elevator ride down to hell. But some videos managed to be truly creepy, like this nightmare of being drowned, buried, and stung by gigantic mosquitoes, this unsettling claymation (and a phenomenal song to boot), and the grand-daddy of all disturbing videos:

Milton Bradley

2009-09-22T18:04:00.002-04:00

It seems like it was only last week / last blog post that I mentioned Milton Bradley's insanity. And that's because it WAS that recent. Well, Milton's tired act just played itself out, again, in yet another city. The Cubs have suspended him for the remainder of the season. Bradley's always been talented, and he can be quite pleasant when he's not crazy. Sadly, those quiet interludes of sanity are becoming less and less frequent in the maelstrom of his craziness.

I remember Milton's tenure in Cleveland very well, and it was a lot like his tenure in every other team he's played for. Loads of potential, initial niceness, and a rapid descent into lunacy. During his breakout season with the Tribe, Milton tried to pick a fight with Travis Fryman because Fryman rightly took Milton to task for not running out a ground ball. Of course, Milton cried racism. When manager Eric Wedge benched Milton for not running out yet another ground ball, Milton accused the entire organization of being racist, sulked, pouted, and effectively ran himself right out of town. The Tribe ended up trading him for about a nickel on the dollar, and yet it was a textbook case of addition by subtraction. Milton subsequently played himself out of favor with the Dodgers (he went after fans in the stands), the Rangers (went after one of the radio broadcasters who criticized him for not running out a ground ball), the A's (tore ligaments on his knees while being restrained by his own coaches as he tried to go after an umpire), and now the Cubs (got into dugout confrontation with his manager, accused entire Chicago fan base of being bigoted, embittered, and stupid).

Where will Milton Bradley go from here? I imagine some desperate team will take a flyer on him next season. The talent is still there, and even though Milton has a Monopoly on bipolar stupidity, some team GM without a Clue will pay him some Easy Money and roll Yahtzee on crazy Milton. Good luck.

The Crown Victoria breaks down

2009-09-13T08:18:00.007-04:00

I didn't get a chance to watch last night's US Open women's semifinals live, because I was watching my beloved Buckeyes lose yet another heart-breaker they should have won. But thanks to the DVR, I was able to catch up and just finished watching Serena "Crown Victoria" Williams lose her match to Kim Clijsters. Down a set and trailing the second set 5-6, Crown Victoria was serving at 15-30, and committed a double-fault for match point because of a somewhat ticky-tacky foot-fault call. At that point, Crown Victoria lost it and went on a paranoid rant that would have made Milton Bradley proud. She spent the next couple of minutes alternatively preparing to serve out match point, then stopping, screaming obscenities at the line judge who called the foot-fault, then preparing to serve again, then stopping and ranting at the line judge yet again. Predictably enough, Crown Victoria's tantrum practically forced the chair umpire to penalize her a point for unsportsmanlike behaviour. Game, set, match. Would Crown Victoria have been able to mount an epoch-making comeback when facing match point against a player who appeared to have her number? Highly improbable, but not impossible. Regrettably, Crown Victoria's antics make the question moot.

I've always supported Crown Victoria, even though she's a textbook example of the "Gracious winner, sore loser" corollary. She heaps effusive praise on opponents after she's defeated them, almost to a fault, but when she loses, she refuses to give opponents credit, instead saying things along the lines of, "She made a lot of lucky shots, and I made lots of errors." Being a somewhat sore loser does not a sports villain make... but even the biggest Crown Victoria apologist might have a tough time defending last night's meltdown. I'm not passing holier-than-thou judgment here. I may not be a professional athlete, but it doesn't take a professional athlete to understand that emotions and frustrations are brutally magnified in the heat of competition, especially when the stakes are high. That having been said, Serena's "Ugly American" moment cost her the match, and possibly a few fans.

One week down, 42 weeks to go

2009-08-30T09:13:00.003-04:00

After a week and a half of excruciating new employee inductions, coma-inducing orientation and staff committee meetings, mind-numbing guideline sessions full of TLAs (three-letter acronyms), and the occasional respite of a school spirit speech, classes finally started this past Monday, and I finally got around to my job: teaching. Well, kind of.

On Monday, first and second periods were shortened owing to a pep rally, so all I did there was take attendance and distribute class syllabi. The remaining periods, I was able to do what I had hoped: namely, to introduce myself at length, and to have all of my students do the same. With some of the classes, this activity quickly de-evolved into a chaos of excited questions about my tattoos. Go figure.

On Tuesday, I went through the tattoo show-and-tell lunacy with my first two periods, then caught up all classes on lab safety. One of my Chemistry students astutely noticed we don't have a fire extinguisher in the room. At least he was awake!

On Wednesday, more flat-out chaos: I marched every one of my classes down to the Library so they could pick up their textbooks. Since all the Science classes were slated to pick up their books that day, the wait took up most of the class period. Upon our return to the classroom during one of my Physical Science classes, I noticed there were still some ten minutes left until the bell, so I asked the students to go ahead and start reading Chapter 1, to which one unfortunate soul replied, in shocked disbelief: "You want us to read? ON OUR OWN?" It's gonna be a long year.

On Thursday, finally! Lecture time. Well, lecture time for the first four periods, since the school photos "grade X students go during period Y" designation left me with only half of my Physics students during sixth period (the juniors left), and only one Physics student during seventh period (the seniors left). At least I was able to help her with her Algebra II homework.

Friday was doubly good: no more administrative garbage or interruptions, and since we have casual Friday at our school, I was able to wear jeans and tennis shoes. The jeans aren't such a big deal, because even my dress pants are comfortable. But the tennis shoes were a gift from God -- I have blisters on my heels from a week of wearing dress shoes. Time to splurge yet more money I don't have to buy a pair of fancy sneaker-dress shoe hybrids.

All in all, the first actual work-week of my new job was: exhausting, because I found myself leaving school and coming straight home to prepare lectures and activities for the next day; frustrating, because I (the whole faculty, really) had to deal with an absurd amount of transferring students, the class sizes are absolutely enormous, and all of our schedules were shifted around the day before classes started -- yes, you read that correctly, and in my case, it was actually the NIGHT before; but also very rewarding, especially when it comes to my Physics students, who are attentive, funny, and understand that once we're on task, I need them to stay focused. It was tough keeping some of my other classes equally focused, especially my non-honours, we-don't-want-to-be-here Physical Science students, but aside from the occasional "QUIET, please!" warnings, I had no disciplinary problems. And if that's all I have to worry about when it comes to discipline, then I'll be thanking God profusely, because that kind of restlessness was to be expected during the first week of school.

May the next 42 weeks be more like Friday -- a nice, relatively stress-free, routine learning / teaching experience.

I just don't get it

2009-08-16T09:41:00.002-04:00

I've tried, repeatedly, but I don't understand the fascination. UFC / Strikeforce / MMA / Affliction / Ultimate Fighting / Whatever just doesn't make it for me. Last night's card was advertised as an epoch-maker, because lots of supposedly spectacular match-ups would be televised, and the headliner was a battle of the best two female MMA / UFC / Whatever fighters. Well, I toughed out the entire card, again, and was disappointed and revolted, again. It isn't a problem of the sport being too barbaric -- even though I understand that all such fighting sports are barbaric -- because I love boxing. It isn't a problem of the sport being too seedy, because it's come a long way from those disturbing clips of that homeless dude fighting weirdos for cash or food; in fact, last night's event was as glitzy and well-produced as any stellar boxing card in recent memory. I can't even say, in good conscience, that it's a problem of a lack of skill, because I'm not well-versed on the finer points of take-down techniques, submission holds, or shoot (chute?) fighting.

For me, the biggest problem is that no matter what happens, MMA either fails to hold my interest or actually disgusts me. Last night was no exception. The four things that I remember the most from the two-hour program are not exactly selling points for the sport:

Prolonged stretches where the fighters just circled one another, followed by a quick takedown by one of the fighters, and said takedown resulting in prolonged stretches where the fighters grappled awkwardly on the floor, until the referee eventually reset them because the crowd would boo the lack of action.

Fighters taking entirely too much punishment. I don't think I'm being a hypocrite here. Boxing gloves are very well-padded, and I've actually experienced what it's like to get punched in the jaw by a gloved opponent. Sure, it doesn't feel too good, but to be honest, I've taken worse lumps playing soccer. I've also experienced what it's like to get pounded with a practically bare fist or get kicked in the thigh, and it's brutal. One complaint about MMA you'll never hear from me is that fights get stopped too quickly. In my opinion, the exact opposite holds true. Last night, some Armenian dude dropped his opponent with a crunching right hook, and there was no pause, mercy, or eight-count. Instead, the Armenian fighter immediately pounced on his helpless and halfway unconscious rival and landed at least five or six vicious blows on his face before the referee finally stepped in to wave off the contest. The bloodied and bruised loser was left to stare up at the lights with a thousand-yard glassy-eyed stare. It was scary and repugnant.

Testing is sorely needed in the sport, and I don't mean the "what multiple learning profile is Fighter X" type of testing. Yesterday's main event pitted Gina Carano, the supposed face of female MMA fighters, against an opponent who goes by the name of "Cyborg" -- I shit you not. Carano is a pretty good-looking girl, so I can see why the promoters would want to showcase her. As a bonus, her name allowed me and a group of equally immature friends to make roughly one million "pounding Gina" moron jokes. This Cyborg person, though... yikes. To quote the Steve Carrell character from "The 40-Year Old Virgin": her hands were as big as Andre The Giant's, and her Adam's apple was almost as big as her balls. She was more of a man than I'll ever be. Predictably enough, the good-looking but not very well-skilled Gina took a hellacious beating from Cyborg. I suppose we should be thankful there wasn't enough time for lots of grappling, or else Cyborg might not have known whether to throw punches or penetrate and thrust. [Shudders.]

There really don't appear to be too many rules. During the girl fight, while Cyborg had Gina pinned against the cage (yes, they fight in a cage -- draw your own conclusions), she was actually scratching Gina's face. I suppose that's pretty convincing evidence that Cyborg's a female after all, but still... that was just insane.

All in all, I was not impressed. Call me a stodgy old fogey, but I think I'll stick to boxing, where people try to punch each other's heads off in a civilized manner.

The fire sale from hell

2009-08-05T11:24:00.005-04:00

To the remaining Tribe fans who haven't deserted the team after Larry Dolan took it over from Dick Jacobs, the current installment of the yearly fire sale does not come as a shock. Nonetheless, all of us are devastated by this latest round of trades. The CC trade last year was incredibly painful but understandable. CC was heading into free agency and had very honestly made it clear he would go to the highest bidder. Hence, getting something in return for CC before the foregone conclusion of his leaving at the end of the season made sense, even to CC's most ardent supporters. But this year's trades of Cliff Lee and Vicky Martinez are not justified by the same parameters. Both players had team options for next year, at roughly the same salary they're making this year. Why, then, not employ the same strategy as last year? That is, start the year with an intact roster, see if the team will contend, and, if things look bad as the trade deadline approaches, deal the marketable players who are heading into free agency for prospects. I like to think that we the Tribe Faithful understand that the salad days of Jacobs actually trying to field a winning team regardless of personal cost are over. We may be chronically afflicted with collective Sisyphus issues, but we're not hopelessly stupid, so we also realize that these are crummy economic times for everyone. But if Dolan hopes to make any money from his ownership stake in the Indians, he needs to field a competitive team.

Cleveland is a football town, and they'll support the Brownies no matter how putridly inept a team / coaching staff / managerial staff is in place. The attendance records for Browns games provides compelling evidence of this unconditional support. Since their return to the league, the Brownies' record of futility has been astounding, and yet they keep selling out game after game after painfully embarrassing blowout loss to the fucking Steelers game. Neither the Cavs nor the Tribe are granted the same luxury of seemingly unlimited support. The pre-LeBron Cavs were probably a few more lousy seasons away from being relocated (you can't convince me otherwise), and team owner Dan Gilbert has done a remarkable job of following previous owner George Gund's lead and investing oodles of money, time, and effort into building a first-class franchise. Sure, the fact that LeBron has blossomed into the league's best player hasn't hurt, but the point is still valid: unless you own the Brownies, you must spend at least some money to make money. The Cavs regularly sell out home games, and the crowd is enthusiastic and rabid, as it should be. The same scenario played out for the Tribe starting in the mid 90's and continuing into the early part of the current century. The new stadium, coupled with a team that actually started winning and became a perennial contender thanks to several shrewd trades AND lucrative player contracts (bears repeating: LUCRATIVE PLAYER CONTRACTS!!!), resulted in an unprecedented era of baseball success in Cleveland, as witnessed by the remarkable sellout streak of 455 consecutive home games.

If Dolan's only strategy for maintaining a positive bottom line is slashing the payroll, which GM Mark Shapiro has confirmed countless times, then the Tribe are in for a nasty free-fall of perennial rebuilding. Dolan would be better off selling the team to someone who actually has the capital to invest in team improvements and wait for those investments to mature, à la Dick Jacobs. Dolan would also be well-advised to sell the team before the average attendance plummets to the triple digits, something that was quite frequent in the 80's and early 90's. I used to work downtown back then, and can still remember walking to old Municipal stadium after work with friends and/or Fiancée No. 2 (she was a trooper), paying $5 for tickets, and, since the stadium would be practically empty, sitting anywhere we wanted -- even the ushers didn't give a shit back then, and with good reason: those teams were abysmal. I'm sure I speak for the remaining Tribe Faithful (all 13 of us) when I say that a return to those conditions would be nothing short of a catastrophe.

The swine flu finds an adequate home

2009-07-26T11:23:00.003-04:00

What better place for the swine flu to strike than a supposedly environmentally conscious institution built upon a wetland and run by unethical sybarites?

Disturbing the priest

2009-07-18T14:21:00.003-04:00

One of the all-time greatest rock songs, from Black Sabbath's sublime "Born Again" album. The indefatigable Ian Gillan does so much screaming and cackling in this song, that it's a miracle he had any voice left after recording it. I never pay attention to lyrics, but this morning, I was reminded of a nice little line from this song: "Watch out for religion when it gets too near."

I was still in my ratty PJs and savouring my last cup of late-morning coffee when someone knocked on my door. I went to have a looksie, and beheld two very well-dressed young men whose appearance and demeanour screamed "Jehova's witness." I usually shoo these types of visitors away, but for some reason, felt a pang of sympathy for these two youngsters who were braving the insufferable heat for the sake of their so-called duty. So, for roughly two minutes, I let them chat me up about Christianity and the Bible -- no use clamming up about my faith, since I loathe lying and my cross tattoos were plainly visible -- before wishing them a good day and advising them to stick to whatever little shade they could find.

As they were leaving, one of the kids turned back and, rooting through his briefcase, told me he had a pamphlet he thought I might find useful. I was going to respectfully decline, but again, felt so bad for these kids toiling away in the dog days of summer in the name of their faith, misguided though it may be in my opinion, that I decided, "let this poor kid hand me his leaflet; if nothing else, it might provide some laughable bathroom reading." Imagine my surprise when I looked at the pamphlet and saw it was entitled, "Depression and Anger." The Jehova young'un proceeded to explain that this pamphlet not only referenced several passages in the Bible dealing with the evils of depression and anger, but also provided several additional references (Biblical or otherwise fanatically Christian, of course) that would help, and I quote, "a Christian who had strayed from the path" overcome the root of these evils. In the immortal words of Jack Slater, "big mistake." I gave Jehova boy the Manson lamps, and asked, "Wouldn't this pamphlet be a more appropriate choice for someone who answered the door while wiping their eyes, or insulted you, or slammed the door in your face? That's the kind of person that might be in need of counseling, anger control, or simple etiquette lessons." The obviously nonplussed Jehova kid tried to rally, and replied, "We like to leave these pamphlets so that good Christians like yourself can use them to stay on the path." "Nice try, but the damage is done," I told Jehova boy. "If staying on the path means making unfavourable snap judgements of people who open their door to your unsolicited Saturday morning visits, I'd rather careen right off your path, for it leads directly to presumption, which, last time I checked, was a sin." Hey, I figured waxing poetic was the way to go. Jehova boy tried to stammer out a reply, but I politely and firmly told him not to bother, and sent him and his pal on their merry way.

And that's how Bible-pounding zealotry transformed a nice Saturday morning coffee session into me standing on my porch in my PJs, looking like a disheveled swarthy hillbilly, and arguing semantics with two suit-clad Jehova's witnesses young enough to be my kids. Watch out for religion when it gets too near, indeed.

Alexis Argüello (1952-2009)

2009-07-03T11:36:00.002-04:00

I've been a boxing fan for as long as I can remember. I guess it was unavoidable, given that my Dad was a boxing fan and, predictably enough, I took most of my behavioural cues from him. But my formative years need some credit here, too. The late 70's and the 80's were strife with boxing greatness. Heck, even the silver screen saw Rocky, a movie about a pug and his struggle for respect, win an Oscar. Unlike today, where the most charismatic champions are robotic Russians or dim-witted obnoxious loudmouths, the great champs of my childhood and adolescence were larger-than-life figures whose only concern was fighting the best, without worrying about sanctioning fees, purse splits, favourable match-ups, "getting my due," or whatever other pathetic excuses today's paper champions use to dodge good opponents. In those days, I liked a lot of fighters, but there were five guys whom I worshiped with an adulation that bordered on the maniacal: Salvador Sánchez, Marvelous Marvin Hagler, Azumah Nelson, Julio César Chávez, and my all-time favourite, Alexis Argüello, by far the greatest boxing champion of my lifetime. Two days ago, Argüello passed away in his native Managua, Nicaragua, after suffering a gunshot wound to the chest. Argüello had been elected mayor of Managua, and although at this time his death has been decreed to be a suicide, the circumstances are decidedly suspicious.

I first saw "El Flaco Explosivo" in a televised bout against Arturo Leon, and during the pre-fight introductions, I remember being more impressed by Leon, a squat, muscular guy with a thick build, and thinking that Argüello was too thin, spindly, unassuming and unimposing to pose much of a threat against Leon or, for that matter, any other boxer. Of course, boxing matches are not won and lost based on appearance, something that became rather obvious when Argüello started following up his surprisingly quick and stiff jab with explosive right crosses. Leon managed to go the distance, mounting a few rallies here and there, but had absolutely no answer to Argüello's well-balanced, non-stop arsenal. As luck would have it, his next championship defense, a rematch against Alfredo Escalera, was also televised in Uruguay. Argüello delivered an even more impressive beatdown, knocking the rugged Escalera down three times en route to a late-round stoppage. Just like that, I was hooked. Here was a guy who was as relentless, ruthless, and unforgiving in the ring as he was decent, sportsmanlike, and gracious outside of it. This may seem hard to believe, considering today's "me me me it's all about me" chest-pounding, trash-talking athletes, but as soon as the refs finished counting out his opponents, Argüello's first move was to help the vanquished foes to their feet. This is not a romanticized exaggeration. No fighter was as universally loved outside the ring, and arguably no fighter was as universally feared inside it.

I was lucky enough to see quite a few of his subsequent fights, especially once we moved to the States, where Argüello was remarkably popular. The fact that he'd learned to speak very good English and even starred in a Lite Beer commercial with Billy Martin (Argüello's over-the-top "I got to meet thees guyyy!" punchline brings a smile to my face even to this day), as well as his crowd-pleasing, take-on-all-comers style, endeared him to an American audience that was, to be honest, just as xenophobic then as they pretend not to be today. For me, the summit of El Flaco's career took place in late 1981, when he took on media darling and tough-as-nails challenger Ray "Boom Boom" Mancini and TKO'd him after methodically pounding him into submission over 14 brutal rounds. Immediately after the stoppage, he went to console the heartbroken Mancini, and promised him he'd be a champ someday. Mancini, a super-nice guy whose life saw plenty of tragedy and adversity, did indeed go on to win a championship, and to this day, credits Argüello with teaching him how to behave like a champ both inside and outside the ring.

Rest in peace, Flaco.

All hail Dr. Ivo

2009-06-29T21:22:00.002-04:00

No one's ever going to accuse me of choosing my sports allegiances wisely. Oh, sure, when you grow up in Cleveland, you root for Cleveland teams... unless you're a pathetic front-runner whose name rhymes with Smebron Smames and decide you like the Yankees, Bulls, and Cowboys instead! But I think this stubborn allegiance to teams that have a preternatural ability to build up your hopes only to crush them in the most painful way imaginable translates into bizarre preferences in other sports. How else to explain my ridiculous current infatuation with unlikely tennis "hero" Ivo Karlović?

Dr. Ivo (GREAT nickname!) is a gangly 6 ft. 10 inch Croatian giant with pretty limited mobility and an all-around game that's mediocre at best... but he's through to the quarterfinals at Wimbledon based on one thing: an absolutely blistering serve. It's not just the speed that kills opponents; the angles and bounce are obscene owing to his height and almost supernatural wingspan, and when his mechanics are on, as they've been over the past few weeks, his accuracy is surgical. I watched his match against Top 10-ranked French player (and uncanny Muhammad Ali lookalike) Jo-Wilfried Tsonga, and Dr. Ivo was actually blasting aces past French Muhammad Ali (FMA) on his second serve. He's that confident in his serve. Playing against Dr. Ivo right now is like playing a game of service chicken: get ready for a tiebreaker and pray you can return a couple of his bombs for a mini-break, or else you're done. That's exactly what happened to poor FMA, who was reduced to guessing which side of the court to cover, like a soccer goalie facing a penalty kick.

What's not to like about Dr. Ivo? He's got a great nickname. His serve is the biggest weapon in all of tennis. He stutters (yes, you read that correctly: he stutters!). He looks even more drawn in and skeletal than Ivan Lendl, one of my all-time faves. And as if all that weren't enough, his post-victory celebration routine is delightful, especially when it's performed in front of thousands of shocked British matrons. Here's the final-set tiebreak against FMA, including Dr. Ivo's little Ron Jeremy victory dance, and with some patriotically biased, exuberant commentary courtesy of the Croatian Sports Network:

Fun with Facebook

2009-06-19T19:02:00.002-04:00

I've been on Facebook for a few months now, thanks to a friend who moved to another state and insisted I sign on so we could stay in touch. At first, I didn't think too much of it and hardly ever checked my profile or inbox, until my niece Sophie advised me that many of my relatives, including some from Uruguay, wanted to become "Friends." Lo and behold, Facebook has turned out to be a pretty convenient way to maintain contact with not just far-off friends and relatives, but also with local yokels. Sure, exchanging Facebook shouts with your officemate as you're literally sitting in the same room is somewhat gay... but still fun, especially when we're discussing our loser boss and how disgustingly pungent his breath and B.O. are, all while he's also in the room!

There are, of course, several drawbacks to internet social networks. One of my many pet peeves with Facebook is the "like" button. There ought to be a "don't like" button to go with this. Friend X posted a link to his awesome new website? I "like" this. Friend Y posted a photo of his two-year-old daughter clad in a hat and binoculars and nothing else? Since I'm not a Catholic priest, I "don't like" this! Now, if it had been a similar photo of his bra-burning wife... nah, she's like a sister to me, and since I'm not from Kentucky, I still "don't like" this. Here are a few more Facebook "like" and "don't like" shenanigans:

Applications / Games:

Like: I love birthdays but suck at remembering dates, so the Birthday Calendar application is an absolute Godsend. The movie rating app is pretty cool too, especially when you compare your ratings with those of your friends.

Don't Like: Just about everything else. No, I will not join your "family" in Mob Wars. No, I will not buy you a Margarita using Drink Buddies (what the hell is that, anyway???). No, I will not play Pet Society with you. Please go away.

Groups / Causes:

Like: I love to hate Turks. They are a repugnant, greasy, foul-smelling, and amoral breed whose national pastime is forced sodomy. Joining a "Turkey sucks!" group, gleefully bashing the murderous bastards, and then laughing at their pathetically incoherent replies is nothing short of delightful. I also like the sports team groups.

Don't Like: Just about everything else. (I sense a running theme!) No, I will not join the "Britney is the best!" group. No, I will not donate to the "Save the Michael Vick dogs" cause. I don't fucking care. Please go away.

Friends:

Like: Reconnecting with distant family and friends... just too cool for words.

Don't Like: I feel rude for doing this, but if I don't know you, I'm not accepting your friend request. I know it's a social network, and regular rules might not apply, but I can't help being paranoid any more than I can help the fact that my hair is black. If I've never met you, please go away.

Comments / Tags:

Like: In case you couldn't tell, I love a snarky comment, especially when I'm the one firing away. Adding snide, derisive remarks to friends' photos or status updates is one of life's greatest joys. The photo tagging gimmick is also terrific -- I've been tagged as a bathroom sink (I'm a compulsive hand-washer) and as a congregation of worms (still trying to figure that one out). Good times!

Don't Like: Surprisingly, not too many objections here. I may not reply to every comment, or comment on every item, but, thankfully, none of my cronies are needy, so no worries or recriminations here.

Status / What Are You Doing Now?:

Like: I like quick updates along the lines of "Going on vacation" or "Just got engaged!" I also like fun / goofy takes on this. Months ago, a few of us were on a crazy Austrian Death Machine trip, and status updates along the lines of "DD is a war machine" or "JNA just came up with a sweet song title" just added to the hi-jinks.

Don't Like: People using this forum for über-creepy public overshares. "Friend Z is swearing off men forever. I met a great guy at the club last night, and we exchanged numbers, but when I tried to call him, the number was out of service. What is it about me that draws me to these cruel betrayers? I can't take it any more. Aren't there any good guys out there? And to my guy friends, why do you guys act like this? I'm so sick of you all! J/K! But for real, I am pledging a life of celibacy until I find a good guy, and if, in the meantime, my vajeen dries up like a pile of sawdust in the Sahara, then so be it. LOL!" Yikes.

All in all, Facebook has turned out to be a pretty pleasant surprise. Now, if I could just stop people from trying to drag me into other social networks...

A scatological anniversary

2009-06-11T11:31:00.002-04:00

Today (June 11) marks the anniversary of France's greatest contribution to humankind. No, I'm not talking about the constitutional separation of religion and government, nor the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, nor France's myriad philosophical, artistic, gastronomical, nor sartorial gifts to the world. On this day in 1857, Joseph Pujol, aka "Le Pétomane" (translated as fart maniac or "fartiste"), was born in Marseille. This gent was a baker by profession, but he had the remarkable talent of being able to fart at will. He actually developed a stage routine where he played a type of flute with his anus ("La Marseilleise" was, of course, a show-stopper), farted to blow out candles stationed several yards away, and even re-created animal sounds and other assorted noises with his "gift." His act was successful enough to warrant a two-year run at the famous Moulin Rouge, and allowed him to eventually found his own traveling show. He eventually retired to his bakery, but not before establishing a legacy that lives on to this glorious day.

Happy birthday, Monsieur "Poo-hole" !!!!!!

Obsessive-compulsive behaviour

2009-05-31T18:54:00.003-04:00

It's neither funny nor fun, even though that's how it's portrayed in the popular media. Friends who've witnessed my obsessive-compulsive quirks think they're a hoot, and delight in telling me I remind them of that annoying twit Monk, or, even worse, that buffoonish and grotesque Jack Nicholson character in "As Good As It Gets." Well, if OCD is so bloody wonderful and mainstream, why isn't there more help for those of us who are at its mercy? I don't mean better living through chemistry, although Zoloft seems to help, albeit with egregious and oftentimes hilarious side-effects (I once drove halfway to work before I noticed I'd forgotten to wear pants). By help, I mean having products tailored to OCD geeks. For example, those little containers of anti-bacterial gel are fantastic; no matter where I am or what the circumstances, my hands are guaranteed to be germ-free. We need more products like that!!! It seems like it was scant weeks ago that I prepared a new set of socks, although it was almost two years ago. Why aren't there pre-labeled socks out there? Every time I go through the prep routine, I worry that I'm not applying equal marker coverage to each sock, that the numbers are bigger on some pairs than others, that the positioning of the numbers is uneven from pair to pair, etc. NOT GOOD!!!

I'm convinced that there's an enormous amount of money to be made by tailoring to me and my fellow crazies. Some things, like the compulsion to step over every "threshold" (cracks, doorways, first & last stair steps, etc.) with my right foot, or insisting on multiples of 13 for any meaningful transaction involving numbers, just can't be helped by OCD-friendly products. But pre-labeled socks, numbered boxers, colour-separated candies (you wouldn't believe how much more pleasant the candy-eating experience is for me once I've separated my M&Ms, Skittles, Nerds, Jelly Bellies, etc. by colour)... having these would be rapture! And since we have organic stores, why not OCD-friendly stores where the aisles, products, and brands are arranged in alphabetical order? And those are just the tip of the iceberg. But no... instead of putting things in the correct, well-organized order, the happy-go-lucky, slovenly, know-nothing idiot masses not only refuse to share this burden, but actually exacerbate it with their sloppy, uncaring ways. Filthy bastards.

Static-X at Revolution Live

2009-05-19T19:32:00.002-04:00

Last month, I caught the second date of the Sno-Core extravaganza at Revolution Live in Fort Lauderdale. I'm not overly fond of seeing rock concerts in tiny, overcrowded venues -- too many tiny club concert experiences from my teenage years, including one where I got so claustrophobic and nauseated from the stench of weed and/or cloves, that I almost passed out and ended up missing the show -- but I couldn't forgo the chance to see Static-X doing their "Disco from Hell" routine.

The opening band was a local one by the name of Venejer, and they were OK. The most memorable thing about them was the lead singer's Bulletboys-like habit of bugging out his eyes while hitting his high notes. Venejer wasn't supposed to be in the line-up, but had to step in because the singer from Saliva had some sort of emergency surgery (an appendectomy, if memory serves). So, we got Bug-Eyes McGee instead of "Click, click, boom." Sounds like a pretty good trade-off, as I'm not a Saliva fan. I can't say the same for the red-headed cougar who hit on my friend Greg (aka Jamaican Jesus) while expressing her disappointment that Saliva wouldn't be performing that day, because, according to her, she had brought her daughter (!!!) to the show specifically so they could see Saliva. Yikes.

The second band, called The Flood, was an unexpected bonus, in that they were an unapologetic Tool clone. The singer sported what Greg described as "the world's first artificially receded hairline" and wanted to be Maynard James Keenan so badly that I ended up rechristening the band A Perfect Tool. A Perfect Tool might not have won any points for originality, but Tool-worship aside, they were very, very good. I hope they'll find success.

The third band, Burn Halo, tried really hard, but didn't make it for me. If The Flood wanted to be Tool, Burn Halo wanted to be Guns'n'Roses. They brought tons of zeal and energy, but little in the way of musicality. Lots of fancy guitar work and screaming, but a bit boring for my taste. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of sound-checks, falling props, and false starts, Static-X took the stage.

They put on a hell of a show, and their set list was a really well-balanced representation of their body of work. I realize they've been around for 15+ years, but I find it hard to believe... singer Wayne Static does so much screaming, it's a miracle his voice hasn't given out yet. It's also worth noting that Wayne married a former porno movie "star," and she brought the band drinks a few times during the performance, wearing nothing but panties and pasties. I don't know whether it was a combination of the alcohol, the excitement of kicking off a tour in support of their new album, or a very happy mixture of both, but Static-X genuinely seemed to be having as good a time as the appreciative audience, evidenced by the constant goofy banter between Wayne Static and bassist Tony Campos:

Wayne: We're gonna play you a song from our new album!
Tony: Should they guess which song?
Wayne: Sure, why not? Guess which song from our new album we're gonna play?
Drunken audience [knowing perfectly well that it's their new single]: Stingwray!!!!!!!!
Wayne: Wow! These guys know their stuff!
Tony [pointing to some random dude in the audience]: I think this guy was at the show last night and gave everyone the answer!
Wayne: Hah hah hah hah!!!
Tony: Hah hah hah hah!!!
[End goofy banter]

But the funniest moment of the night had to be Wayne's rambling ending address, in which he updated everyone on Saliva's return, thanked The Flood and Burn Halo, and mentioned "the first band" and how he could hear them from backstage and they were really good but he couldn't remember their name. A stagehand kept yelling "Venejer" in Tony's ear, and he'd relay a discombobulated version of it to an increasingly tickled Wayne:

Stagehand: Venejer!
Tony: What? Venison?
Wayne: What's that?
Stagehand: Venejer!
Tony: Vegemite?
Wayne: Huh?
Stagehand: Venejer!
Tony: Vajener?
Wayne: What? Vaginal? Are you fucking kidding?
Tony: Vajener!
Wayne: Well, thanks to Vagina, or whatever the fuck, for stepping in for Saliva!!!
Tony and Wayne: Hah hah hah hah!!!
Venejer [backstage]: We're gonna have to change our fucking name!

Okay, I'm only guessing about Venejer deciding to change their name, but after that hilarious debacle, it wouldn't be a bad idea.

Here's a videoclip of Static-X tearing it up with "Dirthouse" -- 'twas a great show!

The Gang That Couldn't Pitch Straight

2009-05-06T09:20:00.002-04:00

There are many reasons why the Indians find themselves in last place more than one month into the season.

The offense is sporadic and bumbling -- they either strike out or hit homers. The team leader in RBIs (DeRosa) is batting in the low .200s, the leadoff hitter (Sizemore) leads the team in homeruns, our most powerful hitter (Hafner) is on the DL after it looked like he was FINALLY getting back into hitting shape, our second most powerful hitter (Peralta) is in a woeful season-long slump, and the team's overall fundamental approach to hitting is laughable; I can practically guarantee that no other team can match the Tribe's propensity to strand guys who get on second with none out or third with one out or less.

The defense is astoundingly poor, due in no small part to management's insistence on slapping together an alignment eerily reminiscent of a patchwork quilt put together by a blind guy. At any given time, the Tribe will field a catcher at first base, a shortstop at second, a third baseman at short, a DH at third, and a utility infielder in left. It's a miracle they don't throw out the one-armed man from The Fugitive (let's not forget that whole saga was inspired by a real-life murder that took place in Cleveland) in right field.

The starting pitching is similar to the hitting, as epitomized by Lee, Pavano, and even Laffey's outings: they either produce what I call high-quality outings, where they go 7+ innings while giving up two or less runs, or they get shelled early. Carmona's sinker isn't sinking, and Reyes has been a huge disappointment.

The situational managing has also been atrocious. I can't remember the last time the team manufactured a run, executed a successful hit-and-run (and some of the guys on the team can both hit AND run -- wake up, Wedge!), or even called for a timely pitch-out. What about pitching substutions? I'm so glad you asked, since this leads us to...

The Bullpen From Hell. This unit is, by far, the biggest reason for the Tribe's sorry showing thus far. How bad is the current crop of "relievers"? I'm looking back on the days of Ernie Camacho, Dave Otto, and Scott Scudder with something approaching nostalgia. It's hard to believe that the bullpen actually got worse once the team finally got rid of the human grease fire known as Joe Borowski... but they did. After yesterday afternoon's collapse, where The Gang That Couldn't Pitch Straight gave up a hard-fought lead for what seemps like the fiftieth time this year (and this estimate might not be too far off, as they give up leads multiple times a game), the bullpen's collective ERA is a ghastly 6.50, and they lead the league in blown saves by a wide margin. Even with the mediocre starting pitching, the Tribe's hit-or-miss offense has managed to keep them in games and/or give them the lead numerous times, only to have The Bullpen From Hell give it back without recording nary an out. Up until recently, the only decent relievers on the roster were two dudes named "Sipp" and "Chulk," and they both managed to catch the pitching equivalent of the Swine Flu yesterday, combining to produce a seven-run Toronto inning that negated some clutch-hitting heroics that had resulted in the Tribe taking the lead the previous half-inning. Relievers are supposed to put out fires, not set them and then exacerbate them. I don't know whether there are any viable options in our minor league system... but at this point, anyone not named Rafael Perez, Rafael Betancourt, Jensen Lewis, Kerry Wood, "Sipp," or "Chulk" is a viable option.

A bullpen this incendiary deserves a moniker. Here are some options:

Pyroclastic Flow

Arson, Incorporated

Ball Four

The Napalm Gang

The Opposing Hitters' Stimulus Plan

Chemical Accelerant

Hanging Slider

The Molotov Cocktail

Meatball Buffet

Ulcer Catalyst

The Kerosene Klan

Great start

2009-04-26T21:45:00.002-04:00

The Cavs started their 2K9 playoff run by dominating an aging, completely overwhelmed Pistons team, dumping them 4-0 and winning every game by a double-digit margin. With the possible exception of Game 3, in which the Pistons actually played great defense and the Cavs' back-court shot roughly 0.0% from the field, the Cavs were in complete control, so much so that not even their most pessimistic, woe-is-me, just waiting for the other shoe to drop fan (read: yours truly) can find fault with the team's performance. Sure, I'll be on the verge of nervously puking my brains out come the next round, especially if the Heat is our opponent; Wade is a terrific player, and is perfectly capable of single-handedly carrying his woeful supporting cast, not to mention overcoming the inexperience and overall ineptitude of the Heat's Coach Kumar. Still, if the Cavs maintain their focus and continue with their relentless hustle and suffocating defense, I like their chances.

It would be especially sweet to see this current line-up go all the way (PLEASE, GOD!!!), considering not just their talent but also their off-the-charts chemistry and likeability. They've definitely joined the short list of my all-time fave Cleveland teams, right there with the '95 Indians (minus Albert Belle, of course) and '86 Browns (Dixon & Minnifield, who unknonwingly co-created the Dawg Pound by barking at each other after pass break-ups or big tackles, and Bernie's breakout season). Bron-Bron and his choreographed pre-game team poses, the insane Mo Williams and his running floater, which he's christened The Mo-Flo, Big Z and his all-bald coiffure that makes him look like a seven-foot-three Lithuanian Nosferatu, Sideshow Andy, Delonte's gibberish syntax/accent, the return of Joe Smith, Coach Brown's colour-coordinated old-lady glasses... and this awesome spoof commercial to get the team and the fans pumped up for the playoffs:

Go Cavs !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ye Olde Shakespeare Day

2009-04-23T11:31:00.002-04:00

Today, April 23rd, marks the anniversary of Shakespeare's birth (1564, Stratford-upon-Avon) as well as his death (1616, New Place). Why, then, are we still calling for a National Shakespeare Day, not only in the States, but also in the United Kingdom? This day should have been designated to The Bard centuries ago.

There is plenty of debate when it comes to assigning top-dog status to someone in any branch of the humanities. Who was the greatest composer of classical music? Some claim Mozart, others claim Beethoven, still others claim Bach. Who was the greatest composer of opera? Some claim Verdi, others claim Puccini, still others claim Wagner (yuck!). Who was the greatest painter? Rembrandt? Van Gogh? Monet? The same debate can rage in pretty much all areas of the fine arts... except when it comes to English-language literature. There is no greater writer in the English canon than William Shakespeare, regardless of era or genre. I would like to go as far as pronouncing The Bard to be the greatest writer ever, but cannot because of my embarrassingly thorough ignorance of non-Western literature. Nevertheless, I cannot fathom the fact that we have idiotic designations like National Peanut Butter and Jelly Day or Lazy Day, but no Shakespeare Day on April 23rd! Disgraceful.

A few links of interest:

Join the cause and heed the call for a National Shakespeare Day, both in the UK and the US.

Brush up on The Bard's greatness -- here's his complete opus, courtesy of MIT.

Read about The Bard's life, theatre, and conspiracy theories about his authorship.

Browse through this plethora of Shakespeare resources, courtesy of Palomar College.

And, if nothing else, insult a friend, co-worker, or insignificant other, Shakespeare-style!

A short Easter feel-good story

2009-04-11T10:29:00.005-04:00

The place where I work is adjacent to several large, disturbed woodlands that house a homeless camp and myriad birds. We have woodpeckers that have bored their nests right into the overhangs, have seen various cardinals, have had ibises walk right up to our door, and hear pheasants caw-awing in the near-distance every day. Our building's windows have a mild tint and are completely reflective, so much so that the woodpeckers perch on the structure and peck at their reflection. When you combine the reflective windows with the woodlands' proximity, it stands to reason that it would only be a matter of time until a bird slammed right into the windows, and this finally happened a couple of days ago. The bird in question was a tiny indigo bunting, and it was really shaken up by the collision -- when I first went out there to check on it, it was trembling uncontrollably and couldn't even pretend to move away. I continued to check on it periodically, and was enough of an insensitive jerk to take advantage of the bunting's inability to fly away to snap a picture:

Now, when it comes to animals, I've always been a firm believer in the Humans Should Not Interfere doctrine. We have a really idiotic perspective that the cute and fuzzies are worth protecting and nurturing, while the not-so-cute and fuzzies are not. Even worse, we've gotten into the habit of looking at the animal kingdom as a surreal, archetypal western novella: the cute and fuzzies are Good, and the not-so-cute and fuzzies are Evil. I, on the other hand, don't subscribe to this garbage. It may be a byproduct of being a pretty unattractive guy, but with the notable exception of the opposite sex, appearances mean nothing to me. As a result, I do not assign more or less worth to an adorably cute indigo bunting than I would to the nefarious-looking turkey vulture or the creepy colony of ants that would scavenge the adorable bunting's carcass. So, against the pleas of co-workers and customers, I saw to it that the bunting was left alone to live or die. At some point in the day, when one of the co-workers went to check on the bunting, it had recovered enough to hop/fly into the bushes.

The moral of this rambling story: leave the beasties alone, whether the end-result is desirable by our idiotic standards (the bunting recovered and flew away to live happily ever after) or whether the end-result conforms to the savage reality of life (the bunting did not recover, died in the bushes, and was supped on by The Conqueror Worm). So long as we don't interfere, the animal kingdom will benefit.

Happy Easter!

In case you hadn't heard

2009-03-31T23:34:00.000-04:00

I fucking LOVE KoRn!!!

Old age and nostalgia

2009-03-22T23:11:00.003-04:00

Maybe this is a byproduct of advancing geezerdom, but more and more often, ordinary things have acquired the rosy tinge of bittersweet nostalgia. The latest case in point is my would-be alma mater, Cleveland State University. When I first enrolled there waaaay back when, the school's basketball program had just skyrocketed into the national limelight by first reaching the Sweet 16 in the NCAA Tournament and becoming America's underdog sweetheart du jour, only to come crashing down harder and faster than Satan following his expulsion from Heaven (the God of the Old Testament will ALWAYS be the one I cite -- vengeance is mine, bitches!) due to an astounding double-play of ineptitude courtesy of then-coach Kevin Mackey: first, the program was slapped with an almost infinite variety of violations, and scholarships were banned for what seemed like an eternity; and almost immediately thereafter, coach "McCrackey" was arrested just after leaving a notorious Chester Ave. crackhouse and charged with driving drunk, being all hopped up on the crack cocaine, and attempting to perform sodomy on a statue of General Moses Cleavland. OK, I made the last one up, but it was still an acutely embarrassing slap on the face of an embattled city that was still trying to get over the "Mistake by the Lake" moniker that was bestowed upon it thanks to the Cuyahoga River catching fire and the tumultuous reign of Mayor Dennis "I bankrupted the city and furthermore believe in space aliens, and this unfortunate combination somehow makes me worthy of repeatedly running for the US Presidency" Kucinich.

Now, a few hours after Cleveland State's return to the NCAA Tournament after a 23-year absence came to a whimpering end, I found myself yearning for a glimpse of the ugly collection of scattered utilitarian high-rises on the edges of crack city that made up Cleveland State's not-quite-downtown campus, and fell to remembering "the good old days": being there for the inauguration of the Convocation Center, running down dozens of flights of stairs (I hated elevators even back then) to feed the parking meter on 22nd Avenue between classes, waiting for a chance to use the disgusting pay phones on Fenn Tower because the then-fiancée would cut me off for a week if I didn't check in periodically, feeling like I'd wandered into Antarctica whenever I walked the 24th Avenue building wind tunnel from hell in the dead of winter, waiting in line forever at the understaffed computer lab for my hated Pascal class... it was, as they say, the best of times, and the worst of times.

And yet, embarrassing pussy-tickler mustache student ID photo notwithstanding, I now wish my tortuous, long-winding college path had never strayed from Cleveland State. CSU Vikings, welcome back into the fold o'frustration: Wait 'til next year.

Watchmen on IMAX

2009-03-07T16:54:00.006-05:00

Went to see "Watchmen" on IMAX last night. What better way to describe the experience than by rewriting a popular song's lyrics to reflect the goings-on?

Here's KT Tunstall's "Black Horse and the Cherry Tree" -- cue it up and sing along:

Two, three, four...

Woo-hoo, woo-hoo
Woo-hoo, woo-hoo

Well I went to see Watchmen on a Friday night
And it shouldn't have been so traumatic
Woo-hoo, woo-hoo
But Doctor Manhattan was naked throughout
Saw his big blue cock on an IMAX screen
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo

I couldn't stop throwing up in my mouth
I said no more sausage, I can't keep watching
Woo-hoo, woo-hoo
But the big blue cock was shoved in my face
I said hey, film-makers, won't you spare me?
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo

But they said no, no, no, no-no-no
They said no, no, you'll have to stare at dick
No, no, no, no-no-no
They said no, no, look at this big blue dick

Yuuuuuck, boo-hoo

And I thought Kelly Leak was a crappy actor
Yet he did a great job as that Rorschach cat
Woo-hoo, woo-hoo
But Doctor Manhattan dominated the screen-time
Why did Snyder choose to flaunt that blue weenie?
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo

You had Malin Akerman clad in tight leather
Abundant beauty for the world to see
Woo-hoo, woo-hoo
I said hey, film-makers, Carla Gugino
Is as hot as a cauldron, won't you bare her rear?
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo

But they said no, no, no, no-no-no
They said no, no, you'll have to stare at dick
No, no, no, no-no-no
They said no, no, look at this big blue dick

Booooo, boo-hoo
No sausage for me, yeah
Booooo, boo-hoo
I said no, no, no, no, no, no, no
No more blue cock for me
I said no, no, no, no, no, no, no
No more blue cock for me

Big blue cock on an IMAX screen
Would've gouged my eyes out, 'cause that's all there was to see
Big blue cock on an IMAX screen
I'm scarred for life because I've even seen foreskin

On nocturnal fruit harvests and spiders

2009-02-28T17:39:00.003-05:00

The loquat is the most delicious fruit in the world, bar none. It's got tons of tart sweetness, which, along with chocolate, is pretty much my kryptonite. Most of my favourite things are tart but sweet: strawberries, raspberries, concord grapes, sour Skittles, women... so, it's hardly surprising that the Warheads-like loquat would rank pretty high up on my list. What is surprising, at least to me, is the fact that very few Americans know this fruit, much less eat it. The loquat tree is an exotic from China, but it has spread worldwide within its moderate to sub-tropical climate range. We used to have loquat trees in our house in Uruguay, there were plenty of loquat trees in California, and there are plenty of loquat trees here in Florida. The fruit is not only sublimely delicious, but is also chock-full of Vitamin A and fiber, and hence doubly beneficial for those of us who are myopic, plagued by zits (it's the chocolate, but I can't stay away!), and chronically constipated.

My neighbours had a beautiful loquat tree that yielded a copious bounty right around this time every year, but it was, alas, struck down last year by one of our tropical storms. We rescued a viable branch and planted it in our backyard, and although the results thus far are encouraging, it'll be a while before the branch grows into a fruit-bearing tree. There are, luckily, quite a few loquat trees in our neighbourhood, and a few weeks ago I talked to one of the loquat homeowners about, ahem, picking her fruit. I got her permission, as well as an oddly fearful vibe from her. I'm either crazier-looking than ever in my old age, or the "Hey, I live a few houses down the street, and was wondering whether you eat the fruits from this tree. You don't? That's a shame, they're delicious. Oh, you didn't know they were edible? I assure you, they are. You won't try them? Again, that's a shame. Would you then mind if I came back to harvest these when they're ripe? Excellent, thanks! I've got two lemon trees that yield hundreds of grapefruit-sized lemons practically year-round, and I'll gladly bring you some as a gesture of appreciation" exchange somehow led her to believe her life was in jeopardy. Whatev.

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed that the fruits were ripe for the picking, and made a mental note to stop on my way home and snag a handful. In my scatterbrained craziness (I guess the loquat lady might have had good reason to look at me as though she were seeing the ghost of Dahmer), I finally remembered that it was loquat-pickin' time as I was coming home from the gym. Since I'm a glutton, I didn't stop to consider that climbing a tree in someone else's backyard at roughly ten o'clock in the evening might result in a call to the police or, even worse, in some overzealous "I don't call 9-1-1" gun-totin' cracker putting a few bullets in my ass and asking questions later -- those epiphanies only occurred to me after a friend pointed out that I was lucky neither of those scenarios took place.

I, however, beg to differ, since roughly a minute into the picking, I brushed a spiderweb and felt something crawling on my forearm. I HATE spiders and am absolutely terrified of their eight-legged alien ways. It being a very dark night, my imagination sprung into arachnophobic overdrive, so I jumped off the tree and stamped around the yard like a crazed wino while slapping hordes of imaginary spiders off my body. I eventually collected myself, grabbed my very meager harvest and went home, where I found that about half the fruit I'd picked was not yet ripe (damn you, colour blindness!), and that I'd actually been bitten in the forearm. That's the sixth time I've suffered a spider bite -- what are the fucking odds? I'm a city slicker, for crying out loud! No matter, because the loquats were absolutely delicious, as always.

I'm going in again tomorrow... spideys, beware.

Armeniageddon strikes again

2009-02-08T21:24:00.002-05:00

Super flyweight / junior bantamweight champion Vic Darchinyan refers to himself as "The Raging Bull," but I'm old-school and refuse to acknowledge recycled nicknames. There's only one Raging Bull, and that's Jake LaMotta, so I've taken it upon myself to rechristen my fellow swarthy, shrimpy Armenian pal Vic as "Armeniageddon" -- catchy, no? Also very fitting, because Darchinyan has cut a swath of pain and brutal destruction throughout boxing's lower weight divisions, knocking contenders and pretenders out with his unorthodox, lunging punches and, even more notably, with his vicious but hilarious pre-fight salvoes. Last night's victim was rugged and much-ballyhooed Mexican champion / tough guy / sideshow freak Jorge "Travieso" Arce, a huge celebrity in Mexico who considers himself a character and usually rides to the ring in a horse, wears a cowboy hat, and sucks on a lollipop until the opening bell. No, I didn't make any of that up. Mexican fighters have always struck me as no-nonsense, old-school tough guys, but the ones named Jorge (Páez, and now Arce) appear to have some predisposition towards buffoonery and some sort of latent homosexuality... but I guess Arce's fans eat that stupid garbage up.

No such gimmicks for the Australian-based Armeniageddon, whose entire shtick appears to be based on the "Sure, I'll be the bad guy -- you'll hate me even more after I kick your idol's ass all over the ring while smirking the whole time" routine taken to extreme levels. There isn't a better trash-talker in all of sports than this short, smirking, manic Armenian with the almost incomprehensible accent but articulate flair. No "come on gorilla, we in Manila" Poetry for 'Tards 101 in Vic's arsenal. Witness these jewels, which got progressively better / nastier as the fight date approached:

When the fight was finally announced, after Armeniageddon had reportedly been chasing Arce for a fight for 3+ years: "On February 7th you won't be able to hide behind a phone or your manager's skirt, it will only be you and me. It's taken three years for you to have the balls to face me, maybe your manager wants one last payday from you. Enjoy your last fight!" Manager's skirt! Vic even got in a free shot at the manager. Just classic.

When told that Arce wanted to avenge his countryman Mijares' defeat at the hands of Darchinyan: "I can't get enough of Mexican fighters. They bounce real good off the canvas when I hit them. Let's see, I've stopped Mijares, Victor Burgos and Luis Maldonado over the past two years. Unlike Arce, those three fighters were very tough hombres. Defeating Arce won't take much training. It won't even be a fight for me. More like pest control."

After Arce made a comment about wanting Vic to go toe-to-toe with him: "If Arce thinks he has a snowball's chance in hell of beating me, then he's a bigger sucker than those lollipops he chews on. Arce shouldn't be worrying about me running for the hills. He should worry about me running him out of boxing."

Once the venue for the fight was set: "If I were Arce's team, I'd MapQuest the quickest routes from the Honda Center to John Wayne Airport so he can get out of town fast. Unlike Mosley I am not waiting until the ninth round for the knockout. I am going to stop Farce quickly so he can take his black eyes on the red-eye out that same night. Whether Mexico allows him back in, well that is another issue." Black eyes on the red-eye AND a pun based on the guy's last name? Admit it, you're laughing right now. Hell, even Arce's parents would probably laugh, if they spoke English...

This next one's probably my fave; it's almost Ionescan (is that a word?) in its mean-spirited absurdity: "I'm going to swat that Spanish Fly. How do you take a guy like Arce seriously? He sucks on lollipops and wears a cowboy hat from a toy store. He looks like "Woody" from the movie "Toy Story." I can picture him running around his house on a broom pretending he's riding a horse. He's a regular Schlepalong Cassidy. When I finally meet him at the press conference do I say "Hola Jorge" or "Howdy, Doody?" Arce is going to be my human piñata. Our fight will be like a Chihuahua against a bull... a raging bull!"

After Arce was a no-show at the pre-fight press conference: "I was looking forward to facing him last Saturday at our press conference in Los Angeles, but he did not show. As my promoter Gary Shaw said, they decided to serve 'Chicken a la Arce' two weeks early. What a shock. Mexicans are great fighters. Arce is a disgrace to all of them. He is a clown. He should change his ring name from 'Travieso' to 'Travesty' because that's what he is. I promise that I will demolish him just like I demolished Mijares. I will let him be a coward for the first two rounds where he can run around the ring. He can even wear his stupid cowboy hat. But after that, I am going to be on him like a mongoose on a cobra. He does not stand a chance. Interim Champion is the perfect description of his so-called title reign."

And a last one right before the weigh-in: "It's the 'Year of the Ox,' how appropriate that I'm fighting Jorge Arce, who is as dumb as one. I'm going to blow him away like a Santa Ana wind. On Feb. 7, I'm going to teach Arce just how interim his title really is. What's black and blue and red all over? Jorge Arce by Round 3 --assuming he lasts that long." OK, I lied. THIS one is my fave. Year of the Ox? Santa Ana wind? A rhetorical riddle? Vic's comments are transcendental comedy.

Luckily for all involved, or, at least, for yours truly, Armeniageddon absolutely crushed Arce, battering him around the ring for 11 brutally one-sided rounds before the doctors mercifully stopped the fight. Poor Arce wasn't black and blue, as Vic predicted, but he was red all over. I think he was even bleeding from both ears, and although I'm all for rewarding game fighters and allowing them to finish fights on their feet, I'm glad the ring doctor, ref, and even Arce's corner agreed to call the bout to a halt. Vic really came through on his "human piñata" prediction, and Arce had to be taken to the hospital immediately following the fight. Thankfully, he's OK. As for Armeniageddon, well, he was very "gracious" in congratulating Arce for almost going the distance with him. At least, I think he was gracious... it was tough to tell, what with his hyper zeal, crazy Armenio-Australian accent, and repeated exhortations that "I said I would destroy him, and I always keeping my promise" lunacy. I can't wait for his next fight, but even more so, I REALLY can't wait for his next press conference.

From a legal standpoint, it IS a big deal

2009-02-01T20:17:00.003-05:00

Without getting into a meaningless discussion on whether it is or isn't morally OK to smoke weed: here in the United States, possession of marijuana, under twenty grams, is a first-degree misdemeanor. So are domestic violence, spousal abuse, assault and battery, shoplifting, theft, and drunk driving. You might think smoking a J is harmless and/or downright cool, but the law thinks it's about as acceptably cool as smacking your wife around. Our perception of the supposed harmlessness of weed is irrelevant. Hence, from a purely legal perspective, being caught smoking pot IS a big deal. Those who don't like it must either live with it or move to fucking Amsterdam.

Michael Phelps, wave bye-bye to millions of dollars' worth of endorsements. Loser.

Random thoughts on the NBA League Pass Free Preview

2009-01-25T20:14:00.002-05:00

This past week, I caught three bonus Cav games, thanks to the NBA League Pass free preview. Considering what a great season it's been for the Cavs so far, injuries and all, I was thankful for the bonus TV coverage.

Some things I didn't like:

No HD coverage. Yes, I've become a spoiled little beeotch with this HD thing. Sue me! But it's addictive, and once you've seen Mike Brown's little old lady glasses in HD, a lower resolution is simply not acceptable.

Corporate sponsorship is wildly out of control. Quicken Loans Arena is tough enough to swallow, but things are so sponsor-crazy right now that random replays and/or keys to the game lists are fodder for sales spam. Among the many such abominations: the Cleveland Clinic Heartfelt Moment (Bron-Bron's game-winning buzzer-beater at Golden State), the SafeAuto Drive to the Bucket (Bron-Bron's ridiculous posterization of that cheap-shot POS Matt Harpring), the First Merit Bank Reality Check (the sublimely hilarious Mike Brown insisting that even the FSN Ohio announcers buy into his "No Excuses" mantra). At this point, I'm fully expecting to see the Cavs' coaching staff wearing NASCAR-like advertisements on their suits / foreheads.

Finding out that Carlos Coozer was still out with an "injury," and thereby being deprived of the opportunity to curse at the TV whenever Coozer was on-screen. I did get to curse at his Turkish sodomite teammate Ohkur, so it wasn't a total loss. Furthermore, now that Utah Jazz owner Larry Miller has had both legs amputated because of severe complications from diabetes, Carlos Coozer has a chance at a rare double-double: he screwed over a blind owner in Cleveland, and now has a chance to screw over a crippled owner in Utah.

Wally Sczerbiak's defense, which is downright offensive. He can still shoot, but he cripples the team with his cement feet and overall white clumsiness. Luckily, his expiring contract has enormous trade value. I hate to see him go, as he's a likeable, decent chap who plays hard and is loved by his teammates and coaches, but on the defensive end of the floor, opposing players abuse him like the proverbial rented mule. If the Cavs want to make a deep run in the playoffs, I don't think they can afford to have a guy on the court who basically invites the opposing team to score against him at will, nice guy or not.

Some of the many things I really, really liked:

The FSN Ohio broadcast team of play-by-play man Fred McLeod and colour commentator (and former Cavs great) Austin Carr. In my opinion, having an enthusiastically goofy homer and an equally goofy former local player do the announcing is a guaranteed winning formula. McLeod and Carr are cut from the same great mold as some other great Cleveland duos like the Tribe's Tom Hamilton and Mike Hegan (and before, with the late, great Herb Score), the Brownies' Jim Donovan and Chris Spielman, or the Channel 19 local Cavs broadcast team of Joe Tait (WHAM! With two hands!) and Jim Chones. McLeod has an absurd fondness for puns based on the other teams' players' names / cities / arena names -- during the Utah game, played at the Energy Solutions Center (more corporate whoredom!), he threw out so many hilarious and, at times, downright ridiculous energy references ("Cavs synergy at the Energy Solutions Center!" was my fave), that I'm surprised and quite disappointed that he left out the First Law of Thermodynamics. As for Carr, his malapropisms are astounding. Following a hellacious pick set by Ben Wallace, where poor Deron Williams was left woozy, Carr described it as a "mastoid-rattling hit" (!!!!!) then went on to explain the term by describing the internal workings of the human ear and their ties to balance for McLeod. Of course, McLeod ate up the mastoid reference and dusted it off every chance he got while Carr chuckled goofily. Man, they are a delightfully dorky pair.

Rookie J.J. Hickson, who plays hard and fast, and obviously relishes the opportunity to get meaningful minutes on a juggernaut team. He's got some nice post-up moves, rebounds like a fiend, and is earning the trust of his teammates, who, at least on this particular set of games, repeatedly fed him the ball in the post, with excellent results. That monster rebound dunk he threw down following a Bron-Bron miss was spectacular, as was the little 18-foot jumper he nailed off a Bron-Bron desperation assist. I don't think I'm alone in loving this kid's zeal -- every time he came through with a big play, the whole Cavs bench erupted in joy. I'm very excited at the prospect of watching J.J. throw down alley oops for the Cavs in the years to come.

Shooting guard / emergency point guard Mo Williams, whose high-energy, always-positive attitude, instant sharp-shooting offense, and sure-handed ball-handling skills have basically turned him into the anti-Larry Hughes. Where Hughes was a lackadaisical sap who seemed more worried about putting up stats than helping the team win, Mo is all about winning, and his post-game interviews where he looks and behaves like a crazed kid at a candy store are just phenomenal. During the Portland, Golden State, and Utah games, Mo's first-half shooting was pretty poor, but he kept hustling on defense, penetrating and kicking out the ball, throwing perfect alley-oop assists, and doing his "I'm all hopped up on the crack cocaine!" jumping chest-bumps, without showing even the slightest sulking trace of the "when am I gonna get mine?" attitude that has permeated the entire league -- hell, the entire sports world. Of course, karma (and a great shooting touch) rewards those who try hard regardless of results, and Mo absolutely lit it up during the second half of all the games, hitting some huge clutch 3-pointers and basically proving that when the team's hitting on all cylinders, even missing two of the five starters isn't that much of a problem.

The Cavs offense, which, up until this year, used to consist of a formation I like to call "One on Five" (one guy holding the ball for 20+ seconds while the other four watched passively, followed by a desperation fadeaway), is now a dynamic, pick 'n' roll, give-and-go, fast-break delight. Even the set plays that are run to get Ben Wallace the obligatory couple of mercy hoops are a thing of beauty. Sure, having the best passing forward (Bron-Bron) and center (Big Z) in the league helps, but it's not like these talents were used properly over the past few years. Kudos to coach Mike Brown, old lady glasses and all, for implementing a fun, disciplined offense while still managing to have the team play tenacious, suffocating defense.

Andy Varejao, or, as McLeod likes to call him, "The Mop-Haired One," has suddenly become a reliable option on offense. He's setting picks, he's hitting open jumpers, he's executing the pick 'n' roll with Bron-Bron to absolute perfection, he's finishing off drives with acrobatic, twisting lay-ups... verily, Sideshow Andy has blossomed into a very valuable cog, on both ends of the floor.

And last, but certainly not least: Bron-Bron's ascent to "Best Player on the Planet" status. It's not even remotely debatable at this point. He's shored up his weaknesses by improving his outside jumper and free-throw shooting, and has become a lights-out defender, generating turnover after turnover and relentlessly contesting and blocking pretty much every shot in his vicinity. As if that weren't enough, he's driving to the hoop with much more regularity and authority than before. One night after his cool and collected game-winning buzzer-beater at Golden State, during the game against Utah, Bron-Bron got the ball from Andy at the top of the 3-point arc, immediately got double-teamed, drove left & stopped on a dime, and when the two defenders bumped into one another for a nanosecond while trying to switch, Bron-Bron just exploded past / through them (there's no other word to describe his initial burst of speed -- he explodes into motion), barreled through the two guys who came over to help, and laid it in off the glass while the great Jerry Sloan was almost reduced to tears of frustration. I've seen this move over and over, and it never ceases to amaze me. No one that big has taken it to the hoop with such force and quickness; maybe James Worthy comes close, but Big Game James [Worthy] could be thwarted by collapsing defenders, whereas Bron-Bron has passed it to wide-open teammates for bunny jumpers over and over. I'm convinced that the only reason he doesn't lead the league in assists is because he's such a forceful finisher that he doesn't need to pass out of penetration the way Magic Johnson or John Stockton did. He literally can't be stopped when he's on. Throw in his fierce rebounding craze (I don't know where it came from, but I'd gush about it for another three paragraphs if I weren't so lazy), and Bron-Bron's a threat to throw out a 30-10-10-5 every time he takes the floor. He always had the potential, but this year some sort of intensity switch went on, and he's fulfilling that potential, in spades.

All in all, it was a very satisfying week. I can't remember even the great 80's Cavs teams going 3-1 on a murderous West Coast swing when nearly half of their starting line-up was on the DL. Keep'em crossed and avoid the jinxes, because this team looks really, really good!

New Year in Vincent and Darlene Home

2009-01-10T18:26:00.004-05:00

My second or third New Year's Eve in the United States, way back in the early 80's, was celebrated at my Uncle Vasken's home. It was a boring and unremarkable affair, with two exceptions: my Uncle Julian, visiting from Uruguay, had just purchased a VCR that he was going to take back home; and, as luck would have it, my Uncle Vasken had just purchased a videotape recorder. At my Dad's behest, Uncle Vasken set the recorder up to film the family dinner so we could ship the tape off to Uruguay and have all the relatives who presumably missed us terribly catch a live-action glimpse of our opulent and happy existence in the country we now called home. All this would have been well and good had it not been for the fact that the camera was set up on a tripod, aimed at the dinner table, and God only knows why, not moved for the remainder of the evening.

The resulting video was an excruciatingly boring two-hour extravaganza where we all ate, then remained at the table carrying on isolated conversations that were practically inaudible until the tape finally ran out. Uncle Vasken slapped on a label, wrote "New Year in Vasken Home" on it and handed it to Uncle Julian as my Dad beamed with pride. Once Uncle Julian made it back to Uruguay and bribed some customs POS to not appropriate his VCR, the tape became required viewing for any family member who happened to visit Uncle Julian & Aunt Wilma. Hell, I think even their unsuspecting neighbours were subjected to the torture of watching two hours of people acting weird because they were being filmed for the first time in their collective lives. How bad was Uncle Julian's "come see the family video" compulsion? My cousin Dide once told me that she'd been force-fed the now-legendary "New Year in Vasken Home" tape some twenty times, and her then-husband Carlos argued that it was more like thirty times.

Why do I bring this up? Because up until a couple of weeks ago, that was my most remarkable New Year's Eve/Day ever... and then came "New Year in Vincent and Darlene Home." The highlights:

When I showed up at Lee's so we could carpool to Vince & Darlene's (they live on the East Coast), his smoke detector was beeping loud and insistently, with nary a spare battery in sight. We left it that way, and Karma would pay us back later that evening.

Once of Vincent's co-workers (his name escapes me, since I really suck with names) was kind enough to invite the whole gang, including Darlene's super-cool Frenchie parents, over to their place for an open-bar New Year's Rockin' Eve party. Bad idea! Even Tee-totaler Bitter Clevelander slammed down a dozen or so Margarita / Diaquiri concoctions.

The heavy drinking led to a few bizarre moments, including a graphic and very loud group conversation among the FuckGCU crowd on the merits of masturbating in one's office as opposed to in one's home, which I capped off by stating that I'd rather be caught jerking my gherkin by my girlfriend / wife / whatev than by Lupe the Cleaning Lady. I think Vincent's co-worker & his friends are still traumatized.

Our hosts were extremely gracious, welcoming, and made even my anti-social arse feel right at home. However, they have not one, not two, but THREE filthy dogs, and excepting yours truly, pretty much everybody and their mommas spent the night oohing and aahing and touching the flea-ridden buggers, then walking around and dipping their dog-hands all over the food and drinks. Dis-fuckin-gusting. As if that weren't bad enough, the restroom had no soap, so in addition to dog-hands, I can guarantee that there were plenty of pee-, shit-, and cock-and-ball-hands flying around the joint. I always carry liquid soap (and situations like this one ALWAYS vindicate this precaution), but that did nothing for my peace of mind over everyone else's filth, so I eventually took matters into my own hands and rudely ransacked the house, hunted down some soap, and triumphantly placed it on the bathroom sink. I hope they used it. Ugh.

One of the dogs is a frisky puppy that basically tried to start fights with the other two dogs at all times. This led to quite a few yelping, snarling, barking, and vicious biting incidents that were pooh-poohed until I yelled something about New Year's Eve at Michael Vick's rape stand. That earned me a few dirty looks from Vincent's friend's friends, but it also put a stop to the dog shenanigans -- they were banished to the backyard. Good riddance.

Our hosts' friends included the host's brother, who was really nice and very funny, some wannabe surfer dude who was a real douchebag, and two or three other couples. One of these couples included some cop dude and his skanky red-headed girlfriend, who made a lot of noise about women being great drinkers and offering to down a huge Erlenmeyer flask of beer only to puss out after four sips, thereby discrediting her whole gender. The host's cool brother finished off the flask and didn't brag or rub it in her face -- did I mention he was really nice?

We watched the New Year countdown on whatever network Dick Clark was on. Shockingly enough, not only is Dick Clark still around, but he's finally aged, and all at once. He looks like a cadaver that's being moved around by practical jokers, kind of like Weekend at Bernie's, and sounds like Lawrence Tierney on Valium. Still, it's always reassuring to see Dick Clark doing the New Year countdown. I guess I have no point.

When the cop and "Skanky Red" left and said their good-byes, Skanky Red proved to have a vice-like, crushing handshake. I kinda pity the cop, her grip was bruising -- I shit you not. As they were walking out the door, they invited Darlene's dad Bernard to go with them, promising him authentic Cuban cigars as enticement. I can't even begin to explain how surreal and creepy the vibe was; I almost expected them to bring out the sex swing, a mechanical dildo, and even "the gimp." As it turns out, the cop lived right across the street and had heard that Bernard loved cigars, so the gesture was a kind one. Still, I felt palpable relief when a grinning Bernard returned with a few Fidelitos in tow.

We ended up making it back to Vincent & Darlene's at around 3:00, where we woke up Darlene's mom, who'd stayed home with the flu. She exacted vengeance an hour or so later by waking us all up with a violent vomiting session. It figures that the only person who didn't drink him / herself into a stupor was the one who ended up puking into the wee hours. Poor thing.

Roughly an hour later, I awoke to the sound of shrill beeping. I thought I was dreaming about Lee's smoke detector, then realized it was an alarm. It took me a while to figure out that it was probably Lee's cell phone. I debated whether to get up off the air mattress and shut it off, or whether I should pick the phone up and throw it at Lee as hard as I could (he was on the couch), or whether Lee actually meant to get up at five f*cking thirty in the morning on New Year's Day. I was still in a grumpy, cursing, indecisive, sleepy haze when Lee finally turned the piece of crap off.

On the ride back to the West Coast, Lee and I both lamented the dearth of hotties at the New Year's Eve shindig (Darleenie-Weenie doesn't count, even though she's adorable & cute as a button, 'cause she's like a sister). I confessed that towards the end of the soirée, I'd actually started stealing glances at Skanky Red Ballcrusher, and wondering if her knockers were real... exactly the kind of "thinking" sequence that leads to one going to bed at 2 with a 10 and waking up at 10 with a 2. But Lee assured me that thanks to all the other women there, he himself found that Skanky Red's looks improved as the night wore on and the alcohol piled up, and that by the time we were all leaving she was, and I quote, "looking pretty fucking spectacular."

Ah, the New Year is off to a rocking start already. May we meet plenty of other drunken skanks over the next twelve months!

The dawg that couldn't hunt

2008-12-27T17:18:00.002-05:00

More of a hippo than a dawg, really... then again, to compare Romeo Eatwell to a hippo is to unfairly malign an entire group of mammals, and I don't mean grossly overweight, incompetent head coaches. As Eatwell's tenure as head coach of the Browns comes to its merciful end, I can't help but wonder how he could have convinced the team's brass to hire him. Sure, he seems like an even-keeled and extremely decent fellow, and although fiery, driven personalities tend to fit the stereotype of coaching success (Lombardi, Ditka, Parcells, etc.), plenty of low-key, players' coaches have won and won big (Landry, Gibbs, Dungy, etc.). Eatwell's problem isn't his temperament so much as the fact that he's completely clueless. The Eatwell regime has been characterized by some unfortunate constants that provide a damning indictment of his failings as a head coach:

A lack of on-the-field discipline, as the Browns consistently ranked at or near the top of the league in penalties, and surely led in the unofficial statistic of egregiously stupid penalties.

The team's performance was inconsistent at best, coming prepared to play on some weeks, and barely showing up on others. Last season's catastrophic and inexcusable loss at Cincinnati with a playoff spot on the line is a perfect example of the team NOT being prepared for a crucial game. Ugh.

An unforgivable disregard for fundamentals. No team misses more tackles, blows more coverage and blocking assignments, drops more passes, misses wide open receivers with errant passes, or forces the ball into quadruple coverage than Eatwell's Browns. Maybe in any given year one or two teams might have surpassed even our collective inadequacy (2K8 Lions, anyone???)... but over the duration of Eatwell's tenure, we stand alone at the nadir of incompetence.

Piss-poor clock management and atrocious situational coaching. If you're down by three touchdowns late in the 4th quarter, kicking a field goal on fourth and short is NOT a f*cking option!!!

No off-the-field discipline. Oh, to choose from so many examples! From Kellen Idiot Jr.'s crotch-rocket, staph-ridden "I'm just a piece of meat" stupidity, to Braylon Edwards developing a bad case of concrete hands then having the balls to deride the fans for supposedly not liking him because he attended Michicrap (Braylon, we don't like you because you drop passes like a bad habit and are a high-priced bust -- we loved Leroy Hoard, and HE went to Michicrap!), to having Jamal Lewis the convicted cocaine dealer not only question the other players' resolve, but actually be quite right in doing so, to the QB and pretty-boy face of the franchise getting into a fistfight with a trash-talking defensive tackle... every possible bit of repulsive strife is present in the locker room. GM Phil Savage also gets a dishonourable mention here for getting into a profanity-laced internet forum battle of the witless with some fair-weather douchebag "fan"... but that'll be discussed in a future post.

A blatant disregard for and inexplicable lack of urgency regarding divisional match-ups. The team is well below .500 within the division during Eatwell's tenure and, even less excusable, is an atrocious 0-7 (soon to be 0-8) against the hated Steelers. If you don't win in your division, you're not going anywhere. If you lose every single rivalry game, your a$$ is getting run out of town. If you adopt an "aw-shucks, we'll hopefully get'em next time" attitude about losing every rivalry game, your a$$ is getting run out of town with extreme prejudice. It's that simple.

A failure to implement a system based on the team's personnel. Yes, Eatwell loves his 3-4 defense almost as much as he loves an all-you-can-eat buffet. Too bad the team lacks the players to run this system. A good coach tailors his schemes to match his personnel. A stupid coach stubbornly insists on running a 3-4 defense with three undersized, no-tackling nitwits and a slow, crippled Methuselah at the linebacker position.

And yet, this is the man who, according to management, "blew them away" during his job interview. Here's how I envision the interview, with actual quotes and/or actions from Eatwell as his answers:

Lerner & Savage: How would you define success as the coach of the Cleveland Browns?

Eatwell: "Going into this season there was some talk that we might be able to beat Pittsburgh and I don't think there has been that kind of talk around before. This year we ended up taking a step back, but going forward, as we build, I think we will have a chance to be much more competitive against them."

Lerner & Savage: Um... OK... so the mere possibility of deluded people thinking the Browns might actually beat Pittsburgh is, in your opinion, success?

Eatwell: "I haven't been able to beat Pittsburgh and that's discouraging to everybody, myself included. It is somewhat of a mountain to climb, but it is a mountain to climb because they are a good football team along with the other things that are involved with it."

Lerner & Savage: What "other things that are involved with it" are you talking about?

Eatwell: "Progress. I think that we have some progress here. This year we ended up taking a step back, but going forward, as we build, I think we will have a chance to be much more competitive against them."

Lerner & Savage: That kind of makes no sense... do you think "being competitive" is enough? Do you take comfort in losing a close game as opposed to a blowout?

Eatwell: "It seems like we play them close one game and get killed the next game. That's one of my fears going down this time, [that] we played them a close game this year."

Lerner & Savage: Holy sh... Er, let's move on to personnel. How would you decide on a starting quarterback during an open training camp competition? That is to say, what parameters would you use to measure the pros and cons of each player as a starter, and do said parameters include only physical ability and measurable benchmarks, or will they also include intangibles and leadership skills?

Eatwell: "That's a tough one... I guess I'd just flip a coin to decide on a starting quarterback."

Lerner & Savage: Wow. Your ineptitude has really blown us away.

Eatwell: "Great. Can you pay my salary in chicken-fried steaks, lard, and biscuits'n'gravy?"

OK, I made that last one up. Be that as it may, after tomorrow, we'll bid a not-so-fond farewell to Romeo Eatwell. Nice guy, well-liked by his players, and a terrific defensive coordinator... but as head coach of the Cleveland Browns, an unmitigated disaster. Wait 'til next year...

Urine big trouble now

2008-12-16T22:11:00.004-05:00

This is a true story, and I haven't even changed the names to protect the innocent, 'cause none of us are. This morning, I arrived at work an hour or so late owing to a frustrating visit to the dentist, only to find out that our restrooms were out of order. Initially, I wanted to blame Lulu (aka The Cheeburglar) for this calamity, but since he's gone on his cheeseburger-only diet, his BMs have been of the human-scale variety; the fact that the entire building's gag reflex is no longer triggered roughly thirty minutes after lunch bears witness to this improvement. As it turns out, the problem was sewer related, as evidenced by the pungently aromatic bubbling brook o'sewage right outside the building's back door:

Now, even though I don't like it, especially during mosquito / no see-um season, I've urinated outdoors, and there are some lovely, dark, and deep woods just beyond our building... but that would hardly help my Graphics Department crony Anna G, since she's a firm believer in the old adage that "a lady reveals nothing." And that's basically the what, why, when, where, and who of The Great December 2K8 Quest For A Mid-Morning Pee Venue. Since the building where we work is in the middle of an industrial / warehouse street in Nowheresville, USA, we actually had to hop in a car and drive around. Luckily, there's a Mercedes dealership right at the Airport Road intersection. As we pulled in, an obsequious salesman magically materialized beside us to ask whether he could help us. Once he realized we weren't in the market for a Mercedes, he suddenly remembered that the dealership's bathroom was being remodeled and sent us packing. So, if any of my faithful readers is/are ever in the market for a Mercedes, do yourself(ves) a favour and avoid Mercedes-Benz of Naples like the plague, because they f*cking suck, big time.

Ah, but fortune favours the bold and the beautiful -- luckily for me, I tagged along with Anna G! She had a stroke of inspiration: the Naples Airport. This may seem like an odd choice, especially considering that I bore an even surlier-than-normal expression thanks to the dentist and my bladder, was dressed like a hobo (as usual), and had a two-day stubble; in short, I looked like a destitute terrorist, and it wouldn't do to get arrested by some overzealous wannabe-hero hilljack airport rent-a-pig the week before Christmas. Fortunately, the Naples Airport is actually McDonald's-sized, with plenty of free parking, and possessing the sleepy charm of a Midwestern Greyhound bus depot. So, we peed (nice, clean restrooms, by the way -- way to go, Naples Airport!) and made our triumphant return to Sewage Central, where we were informed by the world's most obnoxiously smug plumber that he couldn't fix the toilets. Why he was so happy about this, I'll never know. Luckily, his ignorance was our salvation, because we were somehow back in business less than an hour later. It's a good thing, too, because I don't think the Naples Airport could have withstood one of The Cheeburglar's, ahem, special deliveries. Here's hoping we never have to find out.

Giving thanks

2008-11-27T10:46:00.002-05:00

Thanksgiving is a super-cool holiday, what with the four-day week-end, football games, built-in excuse to pig out and all, but it's also hypocritical, given the eventual demise -- nay, barbaric near-obliteration -- of Native Americans. When late November approaches, the people who know I was not only born but also spent the first 12+ years of my life in Uruguay ask me whether Thanksgiving is celebrated there. It isn't. As I'm overly fond of saying, we also drove our natives to extinction, but didn't make them cook us dinner first. The Uruguayan Charrúa Indians signed no treaties, as they were apparently smart enough not to trust Whitey, but their refusal to yield to the intruders resulted in their being ruthlessly hunted down, massacred, and literally wiped out of existence. As if that weren't enough, the last few remaining living Charrúas were sold to France as living museum exhibits -- I shit you not. And yet we continue to think of ourselves as superior and the true natives as savages!

Regardless, since I've been living in the US for so long, I've come to appreciate Thanksgiving as a time to give thanks, as well as a time to reflect on the execrable treatment received by the three Americas' indigenous peoples at the hands of their European "enlighteners." (Sorry, I just can't let it go. It's part of my obsessive-compulsive nature.) Because I'm very sports-geeky, I always associate Thanksgiving with football, and since The Game -- Ohio State vs. Michicrap -- usually takes place shortly before Thanksgiving, I'm going to take the time to express my thanks, yet again, to The Sweater Vest. After last Saturday's dismantling of Bitch Rodriguez's crew, Tressel's mark against the hated wolverqueers is now 7-1, including an unprecedented five wins in a row. And haters (or h8rs, if you will) can harp on the two championship game losses, but I, for one, am still basking in the glory of the 2002 National Championship. Let me reiterate that for the idiotic haters (h8rs) with short-term, selective memory: 2002 NATIONAL CHAMPIONS!!! And now that Michicrap has pretty much hit rock-bottom thanks to their forcing out the classiest, most decent coach their garbage program has ever had in favour of a backstabbing, unethical, greedy scumbag, my beloved Buckeyes are comfortably ensconced in the proverbial catbird seat. Thank you, God!

I'll let The Best Damn Tribute Band In The Land close this diatribe. Happy Thanksgiving, all!

A great time was had by all

2008-11-16T18:01:00.002-05:00

This line is a running joke at work, thanks to one of the newsletters we used to typeset before our mind-numbingly incompetent boss managed to single-handedly lose a rather lucrative account (a sailing and yacht club that shall remain nameless). When recapping every special event or party for this club's newsletter, the editor would always close the recap by stating that "a great time was had by all." In a way, it's a variation of the running joke we used to have at Val-Pak over the "Pointing Santa" and "Santa Hat" clip art overload during the Christmas rush, or the running joke we used to have at FGCU about the most important job qualification there being, "Is currently fucking one of the faculty members." Oh, wait... that last one isn't a joke but an all-too-real, sad reflection of the FGCU crony-system cocksuckery. My bad!

Anyhoo, after a considerable amount of planning and an enormous amount of help from a wonderful Sarasota Opera rep named Maureen, a few of us attended the opening-night performance of Rossini's "The Barber Of Seville." Some highlights:

Because I refuse to waste water by dirtying more than one set of clothes, I wore my "opera outfit" to work, wherein my manager Weejgay, who fancies himself a sartorial wizard and could be an honorary member of the "Queer Eye" guys (albeit a gimpy, fugly, Cuban member), proceeded to rake me over the coals for not wearing my suit, and referred to my outfit as "Dickies" with a shirt and tie. Even though I wore a nice pair of Dockers, not Dickies, Weejgay put together a pretty funny rant -- he never disappoints.

A member of our party was actually fulfilling a dream: ever since she'd seen "Pretty Woman," she'd wanted to enjoy an evening at the opera. In the interests of full disclosure, I shattered her dream by reminding her that the repulsively schmaltzy opera scene in "Pretty Woman" included roughly fifteen seconds of opera music, and was in no way representative of whether she'd be able to tolerate some 3+ hours of fat people caterwauling in Italian. I also built up a pretty good head of Puritanical steam while describing "Pretty Woman" as a movie about a greedy scumbag and his dirty hooker girlfriend. Hey, I go out of my way to never disappoint, either.

The drive to Sarasota was roughly two hours, and so the manly men required a urine stop. Of course, the girlies took this as an opportunity to try to belittle the superior sex and our teeny bladders. I'm embarrassed to admit I didn't help matters by taking one of my customary five-minute pees -- I have an inguinal hernia, and it takes me forever to get going. Sue me.

Pee delays notwithstanding, we managed to sneak in a quick but delicious dinner at Arosa, right next door to the opera house. Beautiful setting (an old brothel -- I kid you not!), great food, and an awesome waitress who understood we were running a little late and rushed our orders through.

The Sarasota Opera House turned out to be a magnificent venue. The theatre is beautiful, and although it's smallish in size (bonus: outstanding acoustics!), had very comfortable, roomy seating (kind of a big deal for me and my crummy bad back). Since Maureen the Sarasota Opera angel scored us fifth-row seats at rush ticket prices, even though I bought the seats a week and a half before the performance, our vantage point was nothing short of spectacular. Rosina's cleavage never looked so plentiful!

The performance itself did not disappoint. Sure, the orchestra was a bit sloppy during the overture, and the singers weren't exactly of Bechi / De Los Angeles / Monti caliber... but the cast of young, up-and-coming no-names did a terrific job, the mise-en-scène was clever, and the audience, God bless them, actually didn't disrupt things the way the Naples Philharmonic audience of octogenarian idiots always does. Two salient points, aside from Rosina's Himalayan mountain range of a chest: 1) The Basilio was Korean, a first for me; and 2) The girl who sang Berta is a studio artist, and was therefore a no-name among the cast of no-names -- she was simply awesome, and worlds better than many a Scala and Met Berta I've had the misfortune of hearing. Her name's Maria D'Amato, and I hope she makes it big.

All in all, it was a very enjoyable evening. Kudos to Maureen the Sarasota Opera angel, and here's hoping she'll be able to take care of another group o'losers -- Donizetti's "L'elisir d'amore" beckons!

Once a fraidy-cat...

2008-10-30T22:42:00.004-04:00

... always a fraidy-cat. In honour of Halloween: seemingly ordinary things that scare the bejeezus out of me.

Closet doors that are slightly ajar -- thanks a lot, Stephen King.

The creepy, smiling ladies on the Kashi Good Friends cereal box. Can't you just picture them emerging from a dark hallway and advancing upon you with those Stepford smiles stamped on their faces? (Shudders.)

Having the air conditioning or heating vent air flow rustle the bath-tub curtain, thus giving the uneasy impression that something may be lurking behind it.

Dripping faucets -- thanks a lot, Mario Bava.

Those Kit-Cat clocks that were very popular during the 80's. You know, the kind where the cat's eyes moved back and forth to mark the seconds? I always wondered whether one of them was suddenly going to turn its eyes upon me. For some reason, the prospect of that happening terrifies me.

Store mannequins -- see Kit-Cat clocks above for reason. Inanimate objects suddenly becoming aware and turning their knowing eyes upon me are a fear I can't shake, even as a grown man.

Feather pillows, and, by extension, any sort of downy product that invites me to recline my head upon it -- thanks a lot, Horacio Quiroga.

If I may quote the lovely and never-forgotten Elvira, Mistress of the Dark: Unpleasant dreams...

Five great rock albums you’ve never heard of

2008-10-19T09:47:00.008-04:00

And by rock, I mean just that. I have neither the musical knowledge nor the attention span to quantify these into sub-genres like “punk-rock nü-metal with a reggae-ska kick.” The rules:

The albums must be easily accessible – I could bring up Battery’s “Till The Day We Die,” but no one outside of myself and the Cleveland band’s family would be able to come up with a recording (and I’m not even sure about the band’s family).
The albums must be full-length efforts – EPs need not apply. Too bad for 1000 Homo DJs’ “Supernaut.”
The albums must be somewhat obscure, not just relatively obscure for a particular artist. For example, “Christ Illusion” is the most egregiously underappreciated of Slayer’s albums, but it still gets plenty of love.
The albums must have been released over the past twenty years. Otherwise, I’d dust off jewels like Gamma’s “Gamma 2” and nobody under the age of 35 would know what the hell I was talking about… and I can’t penalize you for not being a geezer.

And while we’re on the subject of geezers…

G/Z/R – Plastic Planet (1995)

G/Z/R was founded by legendary Black Sabbath bassist Geezer Butler. If I may paraphrase an old saying, you can take the Geezer out of Black Sabbath, but you can’t take the Black Sabbath out of the Geezer. The trademark eerie minor-chord progressions abound, and every single song in the album is terrific. If I were hard-pressed to pick my fave songs, I’d go with “Catatonic Eclipse,” the title track, “Giving Up The Ghost,” and “Séance Fiction,” but as I said, the album is solid from beginning to end. As a bonus, I’d rank this among one of the most unrelentingly heavy albums I’ve ever had the pleasure of listening to. Who knew Geezer had it in him? A great deal of the credit must also be given to vocalist Burton C. Bell of Fear Factory. G/Z/R is much more melodic and infinitely more refined than Fear Factory’s best efforts, but Bell’s influence is easily discernible, especially if one listens to Geezer Butler’s Bell-less follow-up, “Black Science,” which is wildly inconsistent and, at times, idiotically bizarre (“Unspeakable Elvis” may be the worst rock song of the past ten years). Anyhoo, Bell is a mediocre singer who sometimes appears to lose track of the correct pitch, albeit possibly on purpose; I don’t know how else to explain the fact the he’s flat on the last sung note of just about every line… but his signature combination of growling and singing really punches up the album’s insistent aggressiveness.

And while we’re on the subject of growling and singing…

Kittie – Oracle (2001)

This album also features plenty of singing and growling, but with a twist: this all-girlie band incorporates instances of simultaneous growling and singing. Guitarist Morgan Lander does the singing (unlike Bell, she’s terrific) and growls like an absolute fiend. Combined with a very heavy sound and plenty of melodic inventiveness, the effect is remarkable, particularly on “Mouthful of Poison” and “Severed.” It’s a shame that the simultaneous sing/growl gimmick is kind of lost during live shows. I’ve never been a big fan of Pink Floyd (I guess all that stoner stupidity is always going to bias me against psychedelic garbage), but Kittie’s cover of “Run Like Hell” is phenomenal, especially in the chorus – Lander sings it in very mellow fashion, then delivers the line “you better ruuuuuuuuuuuun LIKE HELL!” with remarkable ferocity. Delightful.

And while we’re on the subject of covers…

Type O Negative – Bloody Kisses (1994)

No, I wasn’t referring to the actual album cover, although it may very well be the most suggestive cover I’ve ever seen (possible exception: Montrose’s “Jump on It”). I was referring to one of my favourite remakes of all time: Seals & Croft’s beautiful, mellow fluff piece, “Summer Breeze.” In the hands of Type O Negative, it becomes a crunching, menacing, utterly creepy masterpiece. Be that as it may, “Summer Breeze” isn’t even the album’s best track. That honour goes to “Christian Woman,” the closest thing to a hit Type O Negative has ever had (I think I heard it on the radio once – oh, wait, what I meant was I once heard a Christian woman on the radio; no radio station has enough balls to play Type O!). “Black No. 1” and “Blood and Fire” are also solid. Some of the songs can be a bit overdrawn, and vocalist Peter Steele’s remarkably deep voice and brooding delivery add to the theatrics. The result is a solid album that can sometimes be overwhelmingly depressing, so be sure to take your Prozac prior to playing it.

And while we’re on the subject of depressing…

The Sisters of Mercy – Floodland (1990)

I don’t know what it is about The Sisters of Mercy that makes me want to chug a Drano cocktail. Maybe it’s singer / songwriter Andrew Eldritch’s whispery delivery, maybe it’s the fact that he’s apparently unaware of the major scales, or maybe it’s because of his monothematic obsession with unrequited / unfulfilled / flawed love. Whatever the reason, the band (and by “band,” I mean Andrew Eldritch, the woman who does the background vocals, and whatever assorted collection of studio musicians he assembled for any given album) has always been way too angst-ridden to achieve mainstream success. It’s a shame, because they’ve always been top-notch, and “Floodland” is their most musically accomplished effort. I can remember a shortened, radio-friendly version of “This Corrosion” getting quite a bit of airtime, and the now-defunct “Night Flight” video show that used to air at 2:00 in the morning on the USA Network once aired not just one, but two videos from this album… but that’s about all the love “Floodland” ever got. Maybe if Eldritch had varied his tune and theme, things would have been different. Then again, this is one of my all-time favourite albums, so I suppose I can’t complain.

And while we’re on the subject of picking a theme and sticking with it…

Manowar – Fighting The World (1988)

Ah, Manowar… I remember the first time I saw / heard this monothematic bunch. I was watching “Headbanger’s Ball” on MTV, and on this particular evening, the great Blackie Lawless was the host. At one point in the show, Lawless brought in these two goofy dudes, one all snickers, the other crazy and intense. The relaxed chuckler was Manowar singer Eric Adams, and the overwrought tool was Manowar bassist and songwriter Joey DeMayo. Lawless apparently thought highly of the band, because he gave DeMayo free rein to rant and rave about “poseurs” and “false metal” while Adams cackled hysterically. DeMayo capped off his diatribe by ripping the shirt off his chest and yelling incoherently at the camera, and then their video for “Blow your speakers” came on. Although I was amused by DeMayo’s crazy antics, I didn’t expect the music to be good – after all, if the music’s good, do you REALLY need to be that crazy? Apparently so… “Blow your speakers” is a wonderful song, and I loved it in spite / because of the tacky video and nature of the lyrics. Make no mistake about it, Manowar are cast from the same mold as many other 80s-90s metal bands: long hair, leather, cheesy lyrics, and even fur codpieces, but they have a few attributes that set them apart from the rest. I imagine their most remarkable such attribute is the fact that they are in the Guinness World Book of Records as the loudest rock band in the planet.

Loudness aside, this band has a lot going for it. Adams has a very high-pitched but oddly raspy voice, so his two octaves above the staff screeches are metal bliss. Bassist Joey DeMayo is phenomenal, as evidenced by his occasional instrumental solo efforts, although none are included in this particular album. They also have a fondness for including classical music and opera in their songs, although, again, no classical/opera tracks are included in this album, making me wonder why I brought them up! No, “Fighting The World” is all about their specialty, which a wag much cleverer than myself once dubbed Sturm und Cheese. In a nutshell, the songs are a hodgepodge of “we’re the only band playing true metal” and “somehow, we’re tying this true metal-ness to war, battle quests, and scantily clad, voluptuous women.” Hell, they even got Orson Welles to record a spoken intro to “Defender,” and his ominous, melodramatic delivery manages to transcend the cheesiness of the material. Cheese, cheese, and, oh-by-the-way, more cheese. But as far as cheese goes, this album is French Camembert: stinky as hell, but absolutely glorious!

"You have to have FAITH!"

2008-09-28T21:33:00.005-04:00

A line immortalized by Chris Sarandon in "Fright Night," a sublime 1980's horror cheese-fest movie. The late, great Roddy McDowall, playing Peter Vincent, Vampire Killer, was trying to ward off Sarandon's character, a suave, night-club hopping, prostitute-loving vampire named "Jerry" (I shit you not) with a crucifix. Jerry the vampire laughingly pooh-pooh'd McDowall's efforts by reminding him that the gesture was meaningless without faith.

Why do I bring this up? Because faith is all that keeps the Cleveland faithful (pun intended) from swallowing the business end of a .44 Magnum and pulling the f*cking trigger until it goes "click."

Predicted by many to win the World Series, the Tribe just wrapped up a disappointing season that saw them finish with something of a flourish just to reach .500. In the process, they wasted a ludicrous, Cy Young winning season by Uncle Cliffy Lee.

Predicted by many to unseat Piggsburgh in the AFC North, the Brownies finally squeaked out their first win today to climb out of the AFC North cellar, but with a less-than-stellar 1-3 record and an offense that's downright offensive, this team's going nowhere this year... well, nowhere good, at least.

The Cavs had those b*tches from Bawl-ston on the ropes, but couldn't muster a single f*cking road win, and ended up bowing out and missing out on what was probably their best chance to win a championship. As if that weren't enough, the entire sports media keeps harping on the fact that Bron-Bron's pretty much on his way out of town even though he's under contract until 2010!

The Buckeyes came into the season ranked in the Top 3, lost Beanie Wells to injury during their first game, and fell apart like a cheap suit in their game against USC, getting their a$$es kicked with such a flourish, that they could win out their remaining schedule and STILL not get back into the Top 10.

Ah, fellow Clevelanders... long-suffering, loyal fans of The Holy Quaternity... hopeless Sisyphus of the sports universe... endeavour to persevere, and, above all, remember the words of Jerry the Suave Vampire: "You have to have FAITH!"

Don't tread on me !!!

2008-09-10T23:51:00.003-04:00

In the immortal words of Borat Sagdiyev:

"Can I say first, we support your war of terror! May we show our support to our boys in Iraq! May U.S. and A. kill every single terrorist! May George Bush drink the blood of every single man, woman and child of Iraq! May you destroy their country so that for the next thousand years not even a single lizard will survive in their desert!"

The Soviet invasion

2008-08-24T10:26:00.003-04:00

Here's a pretty circuitous way to get onto the subject of the first two professional boxing champions from the former Soviet Union: the other day, I was making fun of one of my friends because he had too many of his shirt buttons undone, and his grossly hirsute chest was repugnantly exposed. He looked like a reject from the Tom Jones 1970's über-gay collection. Of course, that blatant display of mean-sweaterism merited a crack or two, and I went with, "Nice pelt! Who shot the bear?" and "Hey, Nikolai Valuev called... he wants his furry chest back!" All-too-predictably, our exchange of insults turned into a conversation about the preponderance of "Soviet" boxers, especially in the heavyweight division, and eventually evolved into a listing of our favourite fighters from the former Soviet bloc. Hey, we're guys in our late 30's / early 40's -- talking sports is pretty much all we have left at this point.

Aside from the obligatory Armenian Honour Roll (and who would have thought tiny Armenia was a hotbed of boxing bad-asses? Abraham, Darchinyan, Martirosyan, and the too-soon-forgotten Abelyan, to name but a few), my two faves happen to be the first two professional champs from the Soviet bloc: Yuri Arbachakov and Orzubek Nazarov. I first read about these guys while leafing through a boxing mag at the Convenient Food Mart on the corner of East 98th and Granger; Garfield Heights inna moddafukkin' hizzay !!! Anyhoo, the mag in question featured both fighters on its cover, posing with their backs to one another but facing the reader. Arbachakov, an orthodox flyweight from Russia, had a pseudo-mullet and a frighteningly intense glare. Nazarov, a southpaw lightweight from Kyrgyzstan (I had to look up the spelling -- buy a fucking vowel already!), had a very impressive fu-manchu, and one of the friendliest grins I've ever seen on a boxer.

Physical differences notwithstanding, both fighters exhibited features that would prove to be a constant among Soviet fighters, or at least those of the non-heavyweight variety: a thorough understanding of the boxing fundamentals. Their defense was unspectacular (no Pretty Bitch Floyd Gayweather bob & duck here) but very solid. Their combinations were crisp, varied, and well-leveraged. They ALWAYS remembered to throw body shots. Their footwork and balance were exceptional. Their preparation and conditioning were, invariably, top-notch. They both had rock-solid chins and redoubtable mental toughness. They were both signed by Japanese promoters, and as such would become ultimate road warriors -- neither fighter ever fought in the Soviet Union, and most of their championship fights took place in the opponents' backyards.

Arbachakov was a high-powered, sped-up version of the prototypical "Russian automaton." He was preternaturally composed and methodical, and was one of the slickest counter-punchers I've ever seen, having an uncanny knack for timing his punches so that his opponents' forward movement would supply much of the power. He won the bantamweight world championship in only his tenth or eleven pro fight, and defended it successfully over the next few years until being forced to give it up due to inactivity caused by a serious right-hand injury. He never fully recovered, but tried to regain his championship before retiring. He lost a close decision to Chatchai Sasakul, a terrific Thai brawler Arbachakov had easily defeated in one of his previous defenses. Arbachakov announced his retirement immediately after the fight, his only career loss.

Here's a clip of the last three rounds of Arbachakov's textbook demolition of tough-as-nails Thai challenger and ex-champ Muangchai Kittikasem. The fight was staged in Thailand, and it's pretty funny to hear the crowd ooh and aah at every gutsy lunge by Kitti, only to be immediately silenced by Arbachakov viciously snapping Kitti's head back with well-timed counters. Note, as well, that Arbachakov never really goes after Kitti until he decides Kitti's hurt enough that he won't continue to come forward. The second knockdown in the ninth round is a thing of beauty. Arbachakov nails Kitti with a right and sends him flying backwards into the ropes, follows up with a left hook that whistles past Kitti's head as Kitti's starting to bounce off the ropes, then hesitates for just a split second, measuring Kitti perfectly and absolutely crushing him with a devastating right cross as Kitti's forward inertia drives him into Arbachakov's fist. Again, just a methodical masterpiece of ass-kickery:

Nazarov was an aggressive, lanky, long-armed, heavy-handed fighter who was as ruthless in the ring as he, by all accounts, was affable outside it. He threw punches in bunches and overwhelmed his opponents by applying constant pressure -- sort of a swarthy, left-handed precursor to Antonio Margarito. He won the lightweight championship by beating up South African champion Dingaan Thobela over twelve one-sided rounds, then defended it over the next four years in venues ranging from Maine and Florida to Johannesburg and Paris. Alas, much like Arbachakov, his career was derailed by an injury: Nazarov developed serious eye problems, and by the time he lost his title to Jean-Baptiste Mendy by decision in a somewhat listless but close fight, he was legally blind in one eye. Like Arbachakov, Nazarov was forced to retire after the Mendy fight, his only career loss.

Here's a clip of Nazarov's destruction of then-unbeaten challenger and media darling Joey Gamache. The fight was staged in Gamache's hometown of Portland, Maine, and poor Gamache got every bit of help imaginable from the wicked re-tah-ded hometown ref, who allowed him to repeatedly hold and hit, throw rabbit punches, and shamelessly grab and hold when in trouble. Still, this was nowhere near enough to dissuade or even slow down Nazarov, who simply cut off the ring, cornered Gamache, and pummeled him into submission in less than two rounds. The final knockout sequence is a thing of beauty, and something every prospective fighter who wants to develop finishing skills should study religiously: Nazarov walks the rapidly fading Gamache into the ropes and starts to whale on him. Gamache grabs Nazarov and tries to hang on for dear life, but Nazarov frees his left arm and throws a half-dozen vicious left hooks to Gamache's ribcage. When Gamache tries to step back from the barrage and lowers his arm to protect his ribs, KA-BOOM!!! Nazarov lays him out with a brutal uppercut & left hook combo. In the immortal words of Smokin' Joe Frazier: "Kill the body, and the head will die."

The big 4-0 !!!!!!!!!

2008-08-11T00:13:00.002-04:00

Funny, but I don't feel older / wiser / significantly enlightened. I guess once you get past 18, all subsequent birthdays lose their landmark feel. It's been a pretty crummy few years, though... let's hope years 40-49 aren't quite as taxing as the previous decade or two (or three).

A check on the to-do list:

Career -- just about ready to pick up my second college degree, still working a dead-end loser job, zero decent work prospects in sight, still haven't gotten over the f*cking over by the douche-bags @ F*ckGCU. Not good.

Finances -- still living paycheck to paycheck. See "Career" for further details.

Relationships -- still the biggest relationship train-wreck around. I'm nothing if not consistent.

Health -- I'm alive. I guess that's enough. CHECK!

Hmmmm... one out of four ain't bad, I guess. On the bright side, I at least have a job, can afford to pay my bills, am not stuck in some crummy loveless marriage, and can keep food down on a semi-regular basis. You've gotta be thankful for what you have!

Mayhem Festival

2008-07-31T18:39:00.005-04:00

The verdict is in: I'll never grow too old to attend a kick-ass metal concert. After last year's phenomenal Slayer / Marilyn Manson show, I vowed to try to see at least one rock concert per year. This year, the dubious honour of being the concert o'choice went to the Mayhem Festival. To tell the truth, I wasn't even aware of this terrific day-long event until my nephew Damian mentioned it a few weeks ago -- well done, my young metal apprentice!

Heavy metal crowds get a bad rap, at least in my opinion. Aside from the inexplicable stupidity of the mosh pit, we're a pretty mellow bunch. We scream a lot, and bang our heads along with the music (my neck's still sore from the concert even though it's been two days -- I guess I am too old for some aspects of metal mania), but other than that, we're harmless. Sure, there's always the obligatory stench of booze and weed, as well as a few schmucks that equate puking and/or passing out with having a good time, but that malaise is hardly limited to the heavy metal crowds.

This woman was unconscious for pretty much the entire show.
She should have just stayed home.

This Guido, on the other hand, was doing OK during most of the show (he was sitting two rows ahead of us), but lost it all of a sudden, and had to be dragged out to the lawn by his loyal trooper of a girlfriend.

That having been said, I can't stand the mosh pit. During the early part of the festival, I went to see a couple of the bands that were playing in the secondary stages. One of these bands, Suicide Silence, generated a ton of mosh pit lunacy by repeatedly yelling "Circle pit!" or some other unintelligible exhortation. I tried to stay away from the action, but since the secondary stages didn't have seats, the random chaos of the mosh pit continuously spilled over into the rest of the crowd, and I ended up having to push bare-chested, sweaty, drunk and/or stoned losers away numerous times. I'll live, but it was pretty fucking disgusting. A shame, because Suicide Silence were actually quite good.

The first band to play on the main stage was Mastodon. I had heard good things about these guys, but they were extremely disappointing. They were loud, played fast, and screamed their heads off, but somehow managed to be about as boring as boring can be. I actually almost nodded off during their set, and I wasn't the only one. Right after their set mercifully ended, we ran to one of the secondary stages to catch Machine Head, and they were awesome. Quite frankly, Mastodon should have been relegated to the second-fiddle section of the festival, and Machine Head should have been one of the headlining bands. The fact that this wasn't so sucked doubly because we had to leave right in the middle of Machine Head's terrific set so we could see DragonForce, the second headlining band.

Mastodon -- a huge disappointment.

DragonForce is a throwback to the golden days of metal, when bands played fast, sang without growling, and produced melodic, epic songs with soaring vocal lines, extended guitar solos, and ridiculously cheesy lyrics. It goes without saying that, being an old-school metal-dork, I adore these guys. Unfortunately, because their songs are so long, they were only able to play five numbers (five!!!) because of the short time allotted. Such are the hazards of playing a festival with numerous other acts. Be that as it may, DragonForce were phenomenal.

DragonForce -- a return to the glory days.

Disturbed followed, and they were also great. I have to admit that I had some reservations about their place in this festival, especially considering their enormous popularity and the fact that they were the only participating band that gets consistent radio play. Those stupid fears were proven to be unfounded drivel. I could have done without Disturbed's surprisingly lame remake of Genesis' "Land of confusion," but aside from that faux pas, they really put on a hell of a show.

Disturbed singer David Draiman enters the stage à la Hannibal Lecter.

Slipknot had the privilege of closing out this great event, and they were more than up to the task, displaying a sophisticated level of musicianship even I, a huge fan, had never expected. Something else I'd never expected: their appearance up-close and in person is kind of comical / buffoonish. It's hard to believe that this would be the case, as they look intensely creepy and threatening in photos. But the masks and jumpsuits lose all their macabre caché when you see it's just a group of metal nerds jumping around and acting silly. Still, Slipknot were nothing short of phenomenal. By the time they closed their set with "Duality" and "[SIC]," I had screamed along with Corey Taylor (#8) so much that I had no voice left.

Slipknot tears it up.

All in all, the first-ever Mayhem Festival was a resounding success. According to the official website, the festival is scheduled to be a yearly event. I can only hope the organizers continue to put together shows of this high caliber. I'll close by posting this out-of-focus but clear-sounding video of DragonForce closing their set with their seven-and-a-half minute masterpiece, "Through the fire and the flames."

You CAN go home again

2008-07-16T18:42:00.006-04:00

Or, as I've been repeating throughout the week, almost to the point of attrition: Tom Wolfe was full of shite. Here are a few highlights from my wonderful week-and-a-half vacation trip to ye olde hometown.

The lush, rolling hills of Ohio... I still miss them.

I donated blood on Independence Day -- I thought it'd be a nice, patriotic gesture, and a useful one, since I'm type O-negative. Unfortunately, I not only went in on a completely empty stomach, but I also had the brilliant idea of squeezing my fist strenuously in an effort to accelerate the process so I could get to the 4th of July parade. I almost passed out, and I ended up having to wait an extra half-hour before the staff let me leave. I think I really scared the crap out of them.

Darrel and Lisa have been the highlight of the Hiram parade for the last few years, and this year was no exception. The theme:

Saluting Ohio's small farmers (yes, that's a rooster in a wheelbarrow!)...

... and breeders! As popular as the rooster-in-a-barrow was, Ella and Serena really scored the most oohs! and aahs! from the crowd, and rightly so. They're adorable.

Got a chance to see The Best Damn Band In The Land at Blossom, performing Carmina Burana, the Polovtsian Dances, and the 1812 Overture, complete with cannons and a killer fireworks show.

Glacial Grooves State Memorial in Kelleys Island. My friends know me well, we took a four-hour detour just so I could satisfy my geo-geekiness.

Reason no. 1469 why pothead douchebags should be executed on sight. Fucking asswipes!

On the ferry ride back from Kelleys Island, Ella struck up a conversation / candy-mooching mission with some random family. The nice gent wearing the baseball cap then asked me if I worked with troubled Polish kids, explaining that he, too, ran a volunteer parents camp for at-risk Polish kids. It took me roughly five seconds to catch on to the fact that he'd seen my T-shirt. Too bizarre to make up.

The centerpiece of the Sabathia trade, Matt LaPorta, was scheduled to make his Akron Aeros debut on Tuesday, July 8, but that game was rained out. As a result, we got to see his first games in the Indians organization when we attended the twinbill the following night. LaPorta (center) went a combined 3-6 on the night, showing pretty good plate discipline and a quick, powerful bat. Keep those fingers crossed!

We went to see the Tribe on Friday. Darrel shamefully and shamelessly snuck in his MD 20/20 fix in a double-layer of ziploc bags hidden in Baby Serena's diaper-changing mat. He even had the gall to claim that the rubber insulation in the mat preserved the wine's slightly chilled temperature perfectly. He's truly a monster.

Uncle Cliffy! I had never seen him pitch in person before, and was not disappointed: 6 IP, 0 runs, 7 SO. He laboured a bit, but was absolutely dominant when he needed to make pitches. The Tribe beat the Rays 5-0, and Uncle Cliffy picked up his 12th win of the season.

The beginning of a bizarre post-game fireworks and music celebration that included a gospel choir and a disconcerting hodge-podge of Motown, rock, pop, country, and Tibetan throat-singing music. (All right, I made that last one up.)

Considering what a miserable season the Tribe have put together this year, it's kind of remarkable that the town's still showing the team lots of love. The attendance was roughly 40,000, and quite a few people honked when this bus drove past.

This quick recap would not be complete without a heartfelt thanks to the best friends a guy could ever wish for. Darrel, Lisa, Baby Ella, Baby Serena... thanks a million!

At this rate, I'm NEVER going to get anything done

2008-06-07T08:26:00.005-04:00

On tap for this week-end:

Laundry
Work on loathsome thesis
Update CV
Write two cover letters
Re-format Mac & re-install Creative Suite

Reasons I won't get past Laundry:

Euro Cup 2K8 -- Czech Republic vs. Switzerland and Portugal vs. Turkey (aka smelly murderous sodomites) today, Austria vs. Croatia and Germany vs. Poland (insert joke here) tomorrow
Boxing -- Quintana vs. Williams and Forrest vs. Mora on Showtime, López vs. Ponce de León and Lockett vs. Pavlik on HBO
Fat Land -- started this last night, don't know that I'll be able to put it down between sporting events

It sucks to be lazy.

An ugly admission

2008-05-29T22:51:00.012-04:00

I'm prejudiced. I don't know if I'm a full-fledged bigot, but I'm definitely prejudiced. I often wonder how it's possible for people to instantly dislike me just because I'm dark-haired, dark-skinned, and swarthy. They should get to know me, THEN dislike me. At least that way, they'll have a legitimate reason! The truth is, I'm just as superficial when it comes to passing judgment on a group of people. Without so much as knowing even the slightest detail about the following individuals, I already hate their guts:

Redneck 'tards:

The South lost. The Confederacy is dead. The slaves have been freed.
Deal with it, you inbred hillbillies.

Stoner 'tards:
Desperate for your pot fix? Move to fucking Amsterdam.

Hippie 'tards:
Growing up and actually getting a job are GOOD things, people.
So are shampoo and soap. Ugh.

Guido 'tards:
And speaking of growing up...
Come on, I don't even have a snarky comment here.

Slutty 'tards:
Might as well just wear a sign that says,
"I'll fuck you. You don't even have to buy me a drink first."

Bra-burning 'tards:
"Sexism is a handicap," according to one of the signs.
So's being a whiny twat.
Check out the orange sign in the background...
I wonder if that guy got out of there alive!

Huntin' 'tards:
Absolutely sickening. Guys like these should be locked in a cage, naked and unarmed, to do battle with their "prey" on equal terms.
They're not even going to eat their kill, for crying out loud!
They're just killing for the fun. Cocksuckers.

Boston / New England 'tards:
Why does the entire sports universe loathe you?
It's because you're a bunch of douche-bags.

Spring Classical: the good, the bad, and the ugly

2008-05-11T21:29:00.004-04:00

The Bella Terra Mafia and I hit the season's last concert at the Naples Philharmonic on Friday night, for a performance of Tchaikovsky's polonnaise from "Eugene Onegin," Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto, and Dvorák's "New World" Symphony. The performance was a mixed bag, as always, hence the mini-tribute to one of my all-time favourite Westerns.

The Good: Pianist Joyce Yang, a twenty-two year old Korean waif, who tackled Tchaikovsky's demanding concerto with remarkable aplomb. Although the tempo tended to be rushed at times, unnecessarily raising the concerto's severe degree of difficulty, she never once botched the notation, and she attacked the loud tutti passages with more than enough ferocity to not get drowned out by the orchestra. She was also kind enough to pose for a few photos after the performance.

The Bad: The Philharmonic's brass section. Gotta give them points for being consistent, as they continue to earn their "bane of my existence" status by consistently sucking. I counted at least seven botched duck snorts, one of them so unfortunate that I thought for a second someone had farted. At least the Cor Anglais did a nice job during the second movement of the New World Symphony.

The Ugly: The crowd. Halted the piano concerto by idiotically applauding at the end of the first movement, and were up to their usual tricks of waiting until the performance started before noisily rooting through purses for tissue, glasses, candy, whatev, talking during the music, blowing their noses, snoring, and, in what was a first even for my jaded arse, audibly humming the lovely first theme of the piano concerto's second movement. No matter, I'm still thankful these ignorant dolts contribute heavily to the Philharmonic. Considering how small our little town is, having a pretty good orchestra with enough caché to present a full season's worth of performances and lure excellent soloists is a privilege.

Recommended performances: Dvorák's "New World" Symphony is a very popular work, so there are many excellent recordings of this masterpiece, including top-notch versions by Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic, George Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra, and the grossly underrated performance by Rafael Kubelik and the Berlin Philharmonic... but none of these can touch Christoph von Dohnányi and the Cleveland Orchestra's fiery rendition. I actually had the privilege of seeing Chrissy VD and the Clevelanders perform this at Severance Hall, and I still haven't caught my breath from the exhilaration.

Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto is also a staple of the classical repertoire, so, again, many outstanding versions of it are available. Some of my faves include Emil Gilels with the New York Philharmonic, conducted by Zubin Mehta, Artur Rubinstein with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Erich Leinsdorf, and Sviatoslav Richter with the Vienna Philharmonic, conducted by Herbert von Karajan. Perhaps the best recording, but definitely the most famous, is Van Cliburn's towering performance, accompanied by the RCA Victor Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Kiril Kondrashin. Be that as it may, Richter's rendition of Tchaikovsky's piano concerto is particularly noteworthy because it inspired one of the best-ever Monty Python skits:

Ode to DeShawn Stevenson

2008-04-27T22:18:00.002-04:00

In iambic pentameter:

DeShawn, DeShawn, you're such a piece of crap,
I wish you'd learn to shut your fucking trap.
Your hand-in-front-of-face routine is gay,
Your beard looks like a shit-stained pile of hay.

You tried to cheap-shot James into a fight,
But King LeBron was way too smart to bite.
You went all crazy hoisting myriad bricks,
Should stick to your day job sucking pig dicks.

The ugly stick came down hard on your Wizards,
Butler, Blatch and Antawn look like dead lizards.
Your dirty-tactics-loving, whiny coach,
Reminds me of garbage-dwelling roach.

Your pal Arenas tried to be the hero,
Instead he showed the world why he's a zero.
Playing the Cavs was tops amongst his wishes,
And now he'll soon be home, doing the dishes.

Your idiot fans continued what you started,
They showed themselves to be downright retarded.
Another first-round exit you'll enjoy,
Lots of free time to brokeback Soulja Boy.

Anna G's shotgun weddin'

2008-04-20T11:42:00.011-04:00

After weeks of obsessing about music, cakes, venues, permits, music, speeches, and the weather, Anna G's shotgun weddin' went off without a hitch. It had gotten to the point where even I was religiously checking weather.com to see whether the forecast for Fort Myers Beach called for rain... but then again, that's what little sinners get for not getting married in the house of God! Ah, but I kid. The biggest weddin' etiquette gaffe actually came courtesy of yours truly, and was a byproduct of procrastination. I waited until the last minute to get the weddin' present, and it turned out to be too large for the kind folks at Bed, Bath & Beyond to wrap... so a cute little Spanish cashier and I kind of fashioned a huge satin bow, slapped it on the present, and that was that.

A few images from the shotgun weddin':

Anna G & Mike were kind enough to set up transportation from Crust Bistro, the reception venue, to Fort Myers Beach, the weddin' venue. It's painfully obvious that the bride & groom know their friends well, because the buses were properly equipped for the crowd.

The best part of the busing journey: the school bus drivers actually put on the STOP sign & flashers so we could all cross the street. Sweetness...

An admirably relaxed Mike awaits Anna G.

Anna G & her father make their way to the altar.

The weddin' ceremony.

Mr. & Mrs. Smith's triumphant exit.

Best-named store EVER, directly across the street from Crust Bistro.

Anna G and Mike's first dance, to some cheesy Sinatra number. Should have gone with this.

And so, congrats to my best gal Anna G and her hubby Mike. May you both always be happy, and God bless.

Piggsburgh: the cradle of misogyny

2008-03-29T16:52:00.002-04:00

After yet another home playoff defeat in which the sore-loser Piggsburgh Steelers insisted they were the better team, a wag much cleverer than myself wrote that denial must be one of the Three Rivers. That philosophy was in display this past week, when the Steelers took a tough stance against fringe WR Cedrick Wilson, all the while conveniently playing the "to err is human, to forgive divine" card on star LB James Harrison. Both players face domestic abuse and battery charges. Wilson sucker-punched an ex-girlfriend who had threatened to shoot him, and Harrison slapped an ex-girlfriend so hard that he sent her glasses flying and left an imprint of his hand on her face that was still visible hours later. Harrison, who has previously undergone various bouts of anger and violence counseling, has team owner Dan Rooney's unconditional support. Wilson, on the other hand, was sent packing without so much as a fare-thee-well. So why was Harrison forgiven, if not for the obvious reason that the Steelers don't give a shit about contemptible behaviour (Harrison not only hit a woman, he hit a woman with glasses!) so long as the players produce on the field? Fasten your moral ambiguity seatbelts, for here comes Dan Rooney's explanation of the shenanigans.

"What Jimmy Harrison was doing and how the incident occurred, what he was trying to do was really well worth it," Rooney told reporters about Harrison's intent. "He was doing something that was good, wanted to take his son to get baptized where he lived and things like that. She said she didn't want to do it." In other words, she had it coming... right, Danny boy? But after Wilson performed his equally disgusting act of domestic abuse, Rooney uttered an even more befuddling jewel of doublespeak: "To clarify the comments made earlier regarding the conduct of our players, in no way do we condone domestic violence of any kind," read his statement. "Each incident must be considered on a case-by-case basis. In the situation with James Harrison, he contacted us immediately after his incident and has taken responsibility for his actions. In today's decision with Cedrick Wilson, we determined the situation was severe enough to warrant the player being released immediately. We trust that today's roster move will indicate our intentions and send a message that we will not tolerate this type of conduct."

Rooney's obviously taking advantage of the fact that the average IQ of Steelers fans is a negative integer, because even though his "Harrison's heart was in the right place" drivel is being rightfully excoriated throughout the nation, the denizens of Piggsburgh continue to defend their misogynistic prophet. The basic message here is that glorified taxi-squad Steeler scabs better not do anything to sully the "glorious" Steeler code of ethics. Important starters, on the other hand, have carte blanche to do as they please. Rooney, in fact, is already hard at work fabricating pathetic excuses in case any more of his employees decide to enact their own peculiar version of noblesse oblige:

Quarterback Ben Roethlisberger: "Benny Rottenburger's a biker, and they're kind of a rough-and-tumble breed. His heart was in the right place."

Wide Receiver / Cheshire Cat impersonator Hines Ward: "Hiney's half Korean, you know, and his defense, in Asian cultures, women rank below dogs, cats, rats, and even cockroaches on the respect scale. So it's an international thing. Let's not be xenophobic here."

Running Back Najeh "The Dump Truck" Davenport: "Well, at least Naj didn't dump a five-pound load of Mars bars in her laundry basket afterwards."

Special teams ace Allen Rossum: "She wasn't really hurt by Allen. I think she was just playing Rossum."

Linebacker James Farrior: "Look, this is all a letters thing. JF could stand for Justifiable Force. Plus, if you change the "F" in Farrior for a "W," it becomes Warrior. Not only that, you go from Failure to Winning... and that's what the Steelers are all about."

Safety Troy Polamalu: "He wasn't trying to hurt anyone. He was just trying to wave his long, luxurious hair out of his God-like Polynesian visage, and he misjudged his prodigious reach. It could have happened to anyone."

Defensive Tackle Casey Hampton: "Casey could not possibly have been at the bat in this instance. The man's so fat, he can barely lift his jiggly arms. He may have tried to eat her, but he wouldn't physically abuse her."

Punter Daniel Sepulveda: "Sepultura's the punter! How hard could he have hit her? Come on, people..."

Coach Mike Tomlin: "There are only so many times a man can take being confused with Omar Epps. Coach Malik, I mean, Coach Tomlin is a good man, but everyone, even Coach Juice, I mean, coach Tomlin, has a breaking point."

Ah, deluded Piggsburgh Steeler fans... Keep waving your little yellow arse-wipes while conveniently draping yourselves in the shallow comfort of abject denial. The rest of us know your organization for what it really is: a den of whiny, cowardly hypocrisy.

Happy Easter!

2008-03-20T22:36:00.004-04:00

On this, the most important and sacred of all Christian holidays, I want to wish everyone, regardless of creed or lack thereof, a very happy Easter weekend. Spend some time with loved ones, donate to a charity, volunteer your time to help those less fortunate... take the time to make this wretched world a better place than we found it. No action is too small, and no good deed is insignificant.

If I take the wings of the morning,

and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;
Even there shall thy hand lead me,
and thy right hand shall hold me.

Psalms 139:9-10

Leap day

2008-02-28T22:19:00.004-05:00

Oh, how I wish I'd been born some five months and change earlier... I could have been a Leapling! Chalk it up to my weird, numbers-loving dorkiness, but Leap Days are pretty much my faves, so much so that I convinced the first ex-fiancée to push her preferred wedding date of January 29 (apparently, that had been her parents' wedding anniversary -- like I gave a shit!) back a month so we could get married on Leap Day. Hard to believe sixteen years have already passed since my first narrow escape! But why use this once-every-four-years bonus day to reminisce about my failed engagements? Better to commemorate the greatest Leapling I know of: the late, great Gioacchino Rossini, who would have celebrated his 54th birthday today.

Even those whose only exposure to classical music comes from the occasional movie or TV show soundtrack are familiar with Rossini's music. The famous "Figaro, Figaro" aria? From Rossini's most popular opera, "Il Barbiere Di Siviglia." The fanfare music of The Lone Ranger? From Rossini's "Guillaume Tell" overture. The incongruously chippy music during the gang fight scene in "A Clockwork Orange"? From Rossini's "La Gazza Ladra" overture. Rossini's music is characterized by very upbeat, catchy melodies, and extremely clever orchestration. Rossini almost single-handedly popularized the conspicuous but always tasteful use of every conceivable orchestral bell & whistle to score his exhilarating overtures. That, along with his penchant for not-so-subtle dynamic increases, earned him the wonderful nickname, "Monsieur Crescendo."

A quirky man with an even quirkier sense of humour, Rossini enjoyed a friendly rivalry with Giacomo Meyerbeer, a fellow opera composer who also resided in Paris. There are many a wonderful anecdote depicting the various pranks and practical jokes Rossini played on Meyerbeer, but my favourite Rossini/Meyerbeer story took place during Meyerbeer's funeral. Rossini, of course, was in attendance to honour his friend. Meyerbeer's nephew, who fancied himself a composer, wrote a funeral march for the occasion. Once the funeral ended, the unfortunate nephew sought out Rossini to ask him how he'd liked the composition. The maestro's reply: "It's perfectly competent. But I wonder if it wouldn't have been more delightful if you had died and your uncle had written the march."

That rather wicked sense of humour permeates pretty much all of Rossini's music. The lovely overture to his long-forgotten opera "Il Signor Bruschino," for example, actually calls for the second violinists to tap on their music stand with their bows! The effect is hilarious but also oddly enjoyable, and rather than distract or detract from the music, actually complements it. Such was the genius of the birthday boy, Monsieur Crescendo.

The Ryan Express

2008-02-09T10:43:00.000-05:00

This past Thursday, the Texas Rangers, apparently tired of decades of futility, tabbed Nolan Ryan to be their new Team President. Personally, if I cared any less about the Rangers, I wouldn't care at all. The occasion, however, was newsworthy to me, since Nolan Ryan is pretty much my favourite baseball player of all time. In revisiting Ryan with myriad fellow sports geeks, I was, and still am, astounded at how quickly Ryan's been forgotten. True, he's not a self-serving media whore (Cal Ripken) or a money-grubbing loser who'll hawk pretty much anything for a buck (Pete Rose), but still... in this inflated numbers, steroid- and HGH-ridden era, it's important to remember the accomplishments of clean players, especially when those clean players dominated the competition and set records that, God willing, will never be broken by today's pathetic little bitches. Just as Cal Ripken was the most durable player of his era, and Pete Rose was the best pure hitter of his era, Nolan Ryan was easily the best pitcher of his era. In fact, Ryan is the best pitcher of my lifetime, bar none.

Whenever people discuss relatively recent dominant pitching stretches, Orel Hershiser's scoreless innings steak and Dwight Gooden's phenomenal 1985 season are immediately brought up, and rightly so. But in my opinion, Nolan Ryan's entire career should be considered a dominant pitching stretch. To put it plainly, Ryan was a no-hitter waiting to happen every single time he stepped on the mound. In addition to his MLB record seven (seven!!!) career no-hitters, Ryan also threw a dozen one-hitters, and countless two-hitters. He lost bids for no-hit games in the ninth inning at least four times that I can remember. Hitters didn't have a lot of luck making contact against Ryan -- his .204 lifetime batting-against average is, again, an MLB record. The best chance to get on base against Ryan was to choke up on the bat and hope his persistent bouts of wildness would result in a walk or HBP -- Ryan is the all-time walks, hit batsmen, and wild pitches leader. Some more Ryan records: 5700+ strikeouts (no other player even comes close to sniffing 5000); six seasons with 300+ strikeouts; fifteen seasons with 200+ strikeouts; 26 games with 15+ strikeouts; 215 games with 10+ strikeouts; struck out the side 331 times; and, to the best of my admittedly limited knowledge, he's the only player to strike out the side in nine pitches at least twice.

Considering that the classy, decent, and honourable Hank Aaron had to watch that POS Baroid Bonds surpass his lifetime homerun record, it's comforting to know that at least Ryan's records will not be beaten anytime soon. No current pitcher can even get a whiff of Ryan's consistent excellence. It actually makes me want to puke when so-called pundits refer to Roidger Clemens or Faggo Martínez as the best right-handers they've ever seen. Are you f*cking kidding me? Clemens is a roided up jack-ass whose gonads magically shrank every time the postseason came around; hell, he even managed to get himself thrown out of a game so he wouldn't lose to Dave Stewart for the umpteenth time. As for Martínez, he's a pathetic little bitch who was more concerned about preserving a potential no-hitter than protecting his teammates during that infamous game when he hit the first batter he faced, only to have the Devil Rays send out stiff after stiff to bean Red Sox batters in retaliation. Rather than protect his teammates by retaliating in kind, Faggo Fagtínez kept on playing it straight because he didn't want to lose his no-hit bid. It goes without saying that I cheered myself hoarse when John Flaherty broke up the no-hitter in the ninth inning. It's only fitting that both of those arsewipes are in the public limelight this week along with Ryan, as it provides a wonderful parallel:

Ryan makes news upon being named Rangers Team President.
Clemens makes news upon allegations that he insisted Brian McNamee inject Clemens' own wife with HGH prior to a swimsuit photo shoot;
Fagtínez makes news when a YouTube clip shows him delightedly taking part in a series of cockfights -- I guess toting a midget around as a good luck charm wasn't enough bad karma.

The point I'm labouring to make here is that Ryan was not only a durable, hard-throwing phenom, but that he also epitomized class, sportsmanship, and competitiveness. I can't imagine Ryan letting teammates get drilled over and over without retaliating for fear of getting ejected during a game in which he had not yet allowed a hit. My God, Ryan routinely hit guys when they had to balls to try to crowd the plate on him! I can guarantee that if that little bitch Pedroia went up against Ryan, he'd either stop diving over the plate or be black & blue with assorted bruises. I can also guarantee that if Baroid Bonds confidently crowded the plate with his protective Darth Vader gear, Ryan would raise so many welts on his ass that Baroid would have a tough time finding a spot in which to inject himself. And while we're on that subject, I also can't imagine Ryan pumping himself full of steroids and hormones in the hopes of gaining an unfair competitive edge. In fact, towards the tail end of his stellar career, Ryan struggled with various injuries, as would befit a normal, well-conditioned 40-something year-old man who routinely threw as hard as he could. In fact, Ryan made light of his nagging injuries in a series of Advil commercials where he groaned after playing catch with his son, then recommended Advil by drawling, "It relieves the pain without being tough on m'stomach!"

The 1993 season was Ryan's last, and it was doubly memorable for me. During the dog days of August, White Sox third baseman Robing Ventura crowded the plate against Ryan and homered. Predictably enough, the next time he came up to bat, Ventura crowded the plate again, and Ryan plunked him. I'll never understand why Ventura took offense and charged the mound, but I guess that's not important. What is important is that 46-year old Ryan calmly waited for 26-year old Ventura, then put that petulant little arsewipe in a headlock and proceeded to pummel his arrogant face repeatedly. I only wish he'd had a chance to put him over his knee!

Two weeks later, the Rangers played a weekend series in Cleveland. My then-fiancée scored tickets to the Ryan game and presented them to me for my birthday -- I should have married her for that Herculean feat alone... but I digress. And so, on Sunday, August 15, 1993, I finally saw Nolan Ryan pitch in person, for the first and only time. Even though Ryan's arm and shoulder were finally betraying him, he was on his game that day, throwing seven innings of sharp, two-hit ball. The final score was Texas 4 - Cleveland 1. As it turns out, that was Nolan Ryan's final career victory. It's the only time in my long, rabid, and infamously fanatic sports "life" that I wasn't upset at seeing my team lose.

I doubt very much that we'll ever see the likes of Ryan again. Sure, there have been a few pitchers that threw as consistently hard as Ryan -- Buffalo Colón, Kyle Farnsworth, and Joel Zumaya come to mind -- but none that did so with such remarkable consistency and downright miraculous longevity. Nolan Ryan threw his seventh no-hitter on May 1, 1991, at the ripe old age of 44. It's fitting that the last out he recorded on that game was a strikeout, and even more fitting that his victim, the great Robby Alomar, ended up on his knees while flailing awkwardly at the greatness that was The Ryan Express.

Random goings-on

2008-01-12T11:05:00.000-05:00

Newly mowed grass = ibis heaven.

Garage attraction, part I: toad.

Garage attraction, part II: pygmy rattler.

Plaid the Wonder Dog takes it to Monkeyshines while Peeping M&M looks on. Work can be very fun sometimes.

I've gotten into the unfortunate habit of climbing onto chairs, tables, etc., dropping my pants, and striking an "Hey, look at me!" pose. So far, this has only happened at work or while visiting friends... we'll see what happens in the future. That's my manager, Lou (aka Weejgay) looking utterly defeated by my antics and his inability to curtail them. Did I mention that my job provides countless hours of mirth?

First dive during certification process: Devil's Den. Super-cool setting, freezing-cold water. Gotta buy a 7mm or more full-body wetsuit, lest the Clevelander bloodline comes to a shivering, whimpering end.

Dinner with friends while sporting my latest facial hair fetish: the Bela Lugosi inspired "White Zombie" look. Gotta figure out a way to shave the middle portion of the chin beard for better symmetry, but don't trust myself to do it properly...

My ten fave Christmas albums

2007-12-25T19:51:00.000-05:00

Christmas is by far my favourite time of the year. Oh, sure, there are no white Christmases for me now that I live in Southwest Florida. And yes, Christmas happens to be only the third-most important Christian religious day of observance (Easter and Epiphany are first and second, respectively)... but everyone loves a birthday party, especially when everyone BUT the birthday boy gets gifts! And so, every year, for as long as I can remember, the family and I go crazy with Christmas music from Christmas Eve until Epiphany. Throughout the years, I've ended up with quite a few personal favourites. In honour of Christmas, then, here are my "Top Ten Christmas Albums."

The only rule: the albums must be easily available, so that if the fancy strikes you, you're not stuck special-ordering a long-lost import from Poland for upwards of $75 like I did for Mozart's last 6 symphonies with Chrissy VD and the Cleveland Orchestra (well worth it, by the way). And since the spirit o'Christmas dictates that I not be my usual lazy, uncaring self, I've added amazon.com links for each of the albums.

Boogie Woogie Christmas (The Brian Setzer Orchestra)
A very tough choice over Setzer's other groovy Christmas album, Dig That Crazy Christmas, but I went with "Boogie Woogie" solely on the strength of Setzer's phenomenal, infectiously snappy version of "Jingle Bells."

Christmas Spirit (Donna Summer)
Yes, Disco Donna. Never mind the crappy days of disco and their inevitable downfall -- Summer could always sing, and she really shines in this selection of Christmas songs. I can still remember watching her belt out "O Holy Night" live on an old 80's music show called "Solid Gold." Just awe-inspiring.

Jesus Christ Superstar: The Original Motion Picture Soundtrack Album (Andrew Lloyd Webber, composer)
I went to see this movie at the theatre when I was a little kid, I've owned LP, cassette, CD, and DVD versions of it, and was lucky enough to see a live revival with the original motion picture cast at the Blossom Music Festival back in the early 90's. The only goal left for me to accomplish with this musical is to actually take part in some local production of it. I know this bad boy by heart from start to finish, so any measly part will do...

Little Drummer Boy: Christmas Favourites by the World Renowned Vienna Boys' Choir
Very solid selection of songs, beautifully sung by Michael Jackson's fave musical act.

Messiah (George Frideric Handel, composer) -- Battle, Quivar, Aler, Ramey, soloists; The Toronto Symphony, Andrew Davis, conductor
This is but one of many excellent versions of Handel's Messiah. What sets it apart is Samuel Ramey's phenomenal rendition of "The Trumpet Shall Sound."

Rejoice, O Indestructible Fortress and Stronghold of Orthodoxy
A plethora of lovely Russian sacred songs... and the best album title ever.

Donadzar: New Year's and Christmas Songs in Armenian for Children and their Families (Nvair Kadian Beylerian)
And so, we segue from an imposing, regal album title to an awkward, goofy album title that's eerily reminiscent of Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan. But to hell with the Russkies. The Armenian Orthodox Apostolic Religion has the distinction of being the first nationally accepted and instituted Christian religion (301 AD -- read it and weep, bitches). As for the music in this album, it's a charming mix of traditional Armenian and Western European Christmas songs.

Classical Christmas (The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra)
Wonderful orchestral arrangements of many well-known Christmas classics, as well as some truly classical and grossly overlooked compositions, including my personal fave, Mozart's indescribably joyful "Sleigh Ride."

O Holy Night (Luciano Pavarotti)
Christmas 1981 was a memorable affair for me, and not because it was my first Christmas in the States, but because it was the first time I saw Luciano Pavarotti's epoch-making Christmas concert from the Notre Dame Cathedral (thank you, PBS!!!). Although no audio recordings of that live performance exist, at least to the best of my admittedly limited knowledge, Decca did get studio recordings of most of those Christmas and Sacred Oratorio songs, as well as some bizarre out-of-place selections ("Chè farò senza Euridice," while an absolutely wonderful aria, has absolutely zero bearing on Christmas). The album is solid from start to finish, and was thankfully recorded during Pavarotti's prime. In my humble opinion, no one has ever sung Schubert's "Ave Maria" and "Mille cherubini in coro" as well as the late Luciano. The requiem pieces are also noteworthy: Verdi's "Ingemisco" showcases Pavarotti's resplendent upper register, and Rossini's "Cujus animam" is capped off by a ringing high D. But for me, the highlight of the program is Pavarotti's sublime rendition of Alessandro Stradella's beautiful "Pietà, Signore."

Joy to the World (Joan Sutherland)
As phenomenal as Pavarotti's "O Holy Night" is, it comes in second to La Stupenda's astounding "Joy to the World." I haven't superlatives enough to describe this album, so I won't bother. The only negative, at least for me, is the fact that, as was the case throughout her entire singing career, Sutherland didn't exactly go to great lengths to enunciate every word clearly... but who gives a tin shit about diction when, with all apologies to Handel, the bright seraphim blows its loud, uplifted trumpet?

Merry Christmas, all !!!

It's been an up and down week

2007-12-05T20:55:00.000-05:00

More like down, then up.

I finally gave up on the old washer and dryer, because it had gotten to the point where it took literally over four hours just to wash my customary two loads a week. Money, of course, is as tight as a nun's, er, habit, so this was an unwelcome expense. Bummer. Luckily, though, one of my friends had a practically new washer and dryer set that he wasn't using, and he was kind enough to sell it to me for a very low price. Nice.

While trying to unload the washer and dryer from the rampless U-Haul pick-up truck I ended up stuck with, I dislocated my left shoulder for the fourth time in ten years. Bummer. I guess the ligaments there are pretty loose by now, though, because it only took me one try to pop that sucker back in. Nice.

I was vacuuming the house last Saturday, when my gazillion-year old Hoover blew up. Bummer. That same afternoon, my AT&T rebate card arrived, giving me a much-needed scarole infusion that allowed me to purchase a replacement vacuum cleaner. Nice.

A series of events too bizarre and long-winded to recount here made it painfully clear to me that my career is going absolutely nowhere, and that all the sacrifices I made over the past three years while wrestling with graduate school will have ultimately been pointless. Bummer. Then again, I finally received my Certified Diver card, so I can at least benefit from my extensive but useless knowledge of marine geobiology when I go on my first open water dive. Nice.

On Disney, Scratch & Dent World, and tipping etiquette

2007-11-24T16:31:00.000-05:00

My friend D-Wright still works at the same northeast Ohio technical translation company where we met some twelve years ago – at this rate, he’s only a couple of years away from tattooing a permanent “L” on his forehead. If it’s any consolation, I got my own “L” a few months ago when I realized I might as well have majored in Elizabethan poetry, for all the good my stellar college education is doing towards my train-wreck of a career… but I digress. Last month, the company sent him down to Orlando for a military gadgets and weaponry conference in the hopes of drumming up some translating business. The war-mongers conference, as D-Wright christened it, was held smack down in the middle of DisneyTown, or whatever the hell it’s called. I guess if I was a war profiteer looking for a good place to hold a weapons conference, I’d pick the Magic Kingdom, too!!!

Disney and weapons of mass destruction – a match made in Hades.

Since I’ve got a handful of vacation days left and have zero travel plans because I’ve resolved to finish my thesis before it goes into its fourth year of ineptitude and procrastination, I took a little time off from work and drove up to DisneyTown to hang out with D-Wright Warbucks. Getting up to Orlando wasn’t a problem, since I’ve driven up there quite a few times. Once in DisneyTown, however, finding my way was an absolute nightmare. I had detailed Mapquest instructions, but they were absolutely useless. Mapquest lists the streets by their supposed name (East 160^th, etc.), but DisneyTown ignores this and lists the streets with colourful but idiotic names like “Parking Lot 2: where the magic happens!” or “The Wild Kingdom.” After driving a complete circuit around DisneyTown, I finally did the unthinkable and stopped at a Hess gas station to ask for directions. The attendant there was kind enough to translate the Mapquest street names into DisneyTown lingo, and I was then able to find the hotel easily.

The hotel in question is The Coronado Resort, an utterly ridiculous hodgepodge of Conquistador/Mayan/Aztec décor and nomenclature. The buildings, for example, were referred to as “Casitas” and “Cabañas,” while the convention center was termed “El Centro.” Why Disney chose to glorify western Europe’s exploitation and subsequent near-annihilation of indigenous Americans is beyond me. Then again, I shouldn’t be overly critical, since I have a Chief Wahoo logo tattooed on my shoulder. I guess I have no point.

The pseudo-Aztec hotel room mirror – I would have checked to see whether it was real copper, but I didn’t have my Mohs hardness kit handy.

Disney did, thankfully, stick to native plants when landscaping the grounds. Here’s a beautiful flowering cluster of Sagittaria lancifolia bordering one of the ponds (yes, the college education can come in handy every now and then):

While channel-surfing in the hopes of finding TBS (the hotel didn’t have a channel guide – I guess since neither the Conquistadores nor the Aztecs had a channel guide, the powers-that-be decided hotel guests don’t need one either) so we could watch the Cavs, we came across a repeating loop of ads for something called Scratch & Dent World, featuring a trailer-trash spokeswoman with a plaid dress, a knee brace, a mullet, and an overly exuberant disposition. It’s difficult to describe the lunacy of these ads. Luckily, someone was kind enough to post a YouTube clip of the same ads for the Daytona branch:

As mesmerizing and inexplicably enjoyable as the Scratch & Dent World ads were (admit it: you want to watch them again!), the highlight of my two-day stay in DisneyTown was a Tarantinoesque discussion D-Wright and I had regarding the propriety of tipping a hotel chambermaid. We spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure this out – we really needed D-Wright’s better half to help us, but she was back in Hiram burning her bras. For me, the tipping issue is pretty simple. If the person providing whatever service is paid commensurately with the value of the service, no tip is needed. This is why, for example, tipping 20% when going to a restaurant here in the States is not only common but actually expected – if I get a $50 check after a meal, very little of that money goes to the waiters and waitresses that work at the restaurant, because their wages are laughable. In Europe and South America, on the other hand, tipping a waiter 20% is unheard of, because their wages are actually quite good. I use this criterion whenever I try to figure out whether to tip someone. Waiters and waitresses = yes; girl who cuts my hair = yes; nurse who fondles my bean bag while asking me to cough = no (she should pay ME for the “privilege”). My problem with the chambermaid tipping issue is that I have no idea how much chambermaids are paid. I explained this reasoning to D-Wright, and he promptly settled the problem by surmising that chambermaids made horrible wages because of, and I quote, “their highly probable non-legal immigrant status.” Man, I’m still laughing over that description. Oh-by-the-way, I ended up leaving a $10 tip.

Happy Thanksgiving, all!

All hail The Sweater Vest

2007-11-17T17:05:00.000-05:00

As one who lived through the all-too-painful John Cooper years, I haven't the words to describe my delight. Since The Sweater Vest took over the coaching reins at THE Ohio State University, we've won a National Championship (an outright championship, might I add, and not some pathetic, mythical, "shared" championship) and dominated The Greatest Rivalry In American Sports by going 6-1 versus the hated Michigan Wolverines. The Sweater Vest's run of success is nothing short of a-maize-ing, and next year's team promises to be ridiculously loaded. Michigan, on the other hand, can be thankful that neither Mike "I'll come back my senior year because I promise to beat the Buckeyes" Hart nor Chad "11-for-34 passing" Henne will be with the team next year.

Here's a little celebratory ditty by my fave Columbus band:

O...H...I...O !!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thirteen random things I've learned from watching the NFL

2007-11-04T14:34:00.000-05:00

Puffing cheeba is infinitely more rewarding than making millions of dollars for playing a game.

Overweight coaching candidates need not bother applying for jobs.

The Reid household is a den of drug-frenzied iniquity.

The league's best coach is a homeless derelict.

God loves Jon Kitna...

... and Turdell Owens.

Motivational tactics involving heavy, sharp objects may backfire.

Drowning and electrocuting dogs ain't no big thang...

... and neither is murder...

... but taping the opposing team's signals from a location different than the one prescribed by the rules is dastardly and inexcusable.

A looming money laundering scandal could stink up the league...

... but letting Najeh Davenport anywhere near your laundry stinks infinitely worse.

Public restrooms are nature's most powerful lesbian aphrodisiac.