Sunday, August 31, 2008
Rookie Mistake IV
If you are building a bar in New York City, and are designing the walls that will separate the bathroom from the general drinking area, fish tanks aren't really an appropriate material to use, since you can pretty much see through them and then have to depend entirely on the position of the fish to effectively hide your, um, thunder.
Friday, August 29, 2008
How to Lose Friends and Alienate People
It really speaks to how much people at work hate you when you quit and your newspaper uses your departure to try and sell more papers.
Isn't that terrific? Jay Mariotti, perhaps the most hated man in sports, quits his job, and the next day, the paper runs a huge banner advertising his departure and exhorting people to subscribe because of it. The very next day, your paper's most famous name leaks an open letter to Mariotti with an emphatic and scathing thumbs down.
If you compare this to a baseball team, it's as if A-Rod had opted out of his contract last year and the Yankees had run a campaign asking people to come back to Yankee Stadium because there would be no more errors at third and weak grounders to short in clutch situations.
Incidentally, there's nothing better than watching a baseball game with a Yankee fan and having A-Rod come to bat with the bases loaded in a close-and-late situation. You try to bet the Yankee fan that A-Rod will ground into a double play. No Yankee fan in his right mind, of course, will take that bet. But the look on their face when the inevitable happens and the ball starts rolling weakly to the shortstop is almost as good as the money. Almost.
Isn't that terrific? Jay Mariotti, perhaps the most hated man in sports, quits his job, and the next day, the paper runs a huge banner advertising his departure and exhorting people to subscribe because of it. The very next day, your paper's most famous name leaks an open letter to Mariotti with an emphatic and scathing thumbs down.
If you compare this to a baseball team, it's as if A-Rod had opted out of his contract last year and the Yankees had run a campaign asking people to come back to Yankee Stadium because there would be no more errors at third and weak grounders to short in clutch situations.
Incidentally, there's nothing better than watching a baseball game with a Yankee fan and having A-Rod come to bat with the bases loaded in a close-and-late situation. You try to bet the Yankee fan that A-Rod will ground into a double play. No Yankee fan in his right mind, of course, will take that bet. But the look on their face when the inevitable happens and the ball starts rolling weakly to the shortstop is almost as good as the money. Almost.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Interview Update
So Interviews are going well. I mean, the interviewers are nice and polite and they smile a lot. Today, I even got a hug from an interviewer! Granted, it was because I started crying during the interview. She asked me if I was a tree, what kind of tree I would like to be. I answered honestly and said, a weeping willow. She was bewildered, so I explained that I cried a lot. Then it was awkward. So I tried to fill the void by saying I would probably cry right after the interview.
I guess I overestimated myself.
Still, I think a hug is a good sign, so I'm optimistic.
I guess I overestimated myself.
Still, I think a hug is a good sign, so I'm optimistic.
Quote of the Day VIII
If someone gives you 1,000-1 odds, take it. If John Mellencamp ever wins an Oscar, I'm going to be one rich dude.
--Kevin
Monday, August 25, 2008
Maddux Would Sink Every Cup
Fanhouse is reporting that a bunch of guys at a bar engaged Joba and Giambi in a game of beer pong. As always, the Yankees lost.
Usually, when I imagine playing beer pong against famous people, it is against basketball players. Or Keira Knightley. But that one's one-on-one.
But I digress. I never though about playing beer pong against baseball players, but it makes so much sense, especially if you're playing pitchers. Hell, David Wells could probably school anybody in beer pong. And in flip cup, chugging, marathoning, case races, eating contests and just about any other test of excess that exists.
But what about other, less obvious players? Chuck Knoblauch probably tosses the ball off the porch, on the fly. Steve Trachsel never plays, because no one will partner with him on account of how long he takes to shoot. Same with Wade Boggs, who won't stop eating to play, unless it is against women. Cal Ripken will play beer pong every day, much to everyone's detriment. Why do you think Tony Gwynn is that size and shape?
Curt Schilling would be That Guy Who Just Won't. Stop. Talking. Carl Everett doesn't believe in beer pong. Nobody would play Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens, because they adamantly deny that they're leaning, even though they clearly are.
And, of course, Manny Ramirez would kill on the first three cups, then fake an injury, then hold his breath until he turns blue, then forget what he's playing, then would start missing on purpose until his teammate kicks him off and then go pair up with another team and sink five in a row.
Usually, when I imagine playing beer pong against famous people, it is against basketball players. Or Keira Knightley. But that one's one-on-one.
But I digress. I never though about playing beer pong against baseball players, but it makes so much sense, especially if you're playing pitchers. Hell, David Wells could probably school anybody in beer pong. And in flip cup, chugging, marathoning, case races, eating contests and just about any other test of excess that exists.
But what about other, less obvious players? Chuck Knoblauch probably tosses the ball off the porch, on the fly. Steve Trachsel never plays, because no one will partner with him on account of how long he takes to shoot. Same with Wade Boggs, who won't stop eating to play, unless it is against women. Cal Ripken will play beer pong every day, much to everyone's detriment. Why do you think Tony Gwynn is that size and shape?
Curt Schilling would be That Guy Who Just Won't. Stop. Talking. Carl Everett doesn't believe in beer pong. Nobody would play Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens, because they adamantly deny that they're leaning, even though they clearly are.
And, of course, Manny Ramirez would kill on the first three cups, then fake an injury, then hold his breath until he turns blue, then forget what he's playing, then would start missing on purpose until his teammate kicks him off and then go pair up with another team and sink five in a row.
Orientation? Orient me to the nearest beer!
Well-placed sources inform me that, once again, it is Orientation time back at the old Cornell. Right now, the class of 2012 is sitting amongst piles of boxes, holding a map upside down, wondering what the hell Willard Straight is.
I remember way back when, when Orientation used to be fun. First night of Orientation, me and my roommate walked down to Collegetown and it was like Mardi Gras. Up and down College Ave., it seemed every house was having a party. And every party spilled into the next house, and drunk people happily surfed the crowd, using kegs like way stations, and everyone was happy to see each other, and we freshman, wide-eyed, were getting a first-hand, sloppy lesson in what woo! college! was all about.
And then the lovely hamlet of Collegetown turned into a police state. TheIthaca Police Gestapo, it seems, believed that their job was no longer to stop us from killing each other, but from yelling at each other. Each successive year, from sophomore to junior to senior, saw the streets of Ithaca grow quiet, and then finally still. Finding a party was like trying to find a speakeasy. Drinking on your porch? Verboten! Watching the incipient college football season? Verboten! Ringing a doorbell past the hour of 7 p.m. on a Summer Evening? Verboten!
I am not exaggerating. I remember Senior year, I was sitting on a porch with some friends. It couldn't have been more than three or four people. No music, no ruckus, just talking softly about something or other. And then up comes Barney Fife in his police cruiser and, using a megaphone, tells us to go inside or else we get booked for a noise violation.
I understand that police need to patrol for safety and "keeping the peace." But that means keeping people from jumping off roofs and/or stabbing each other. What's wrong with college kids playing beer pong on their porch? I mean, classes haven't even started yet. Those who live in Collegetown know it will be noisy, especially when the seniors from Alpha Alpha move in across the street. You assume the risk, which, in my opinion, is the whole point of college anyway.
I remember way back when, when Orientation used to be fun. First night of Orientation, me and my roommate walked down to Collegetown and it was like Mardi Gras. Up and down College Ave., it seemed every house was having a party. And every party spilled into the next house, and drunk people happily surfed the crowd, using kegs like way stations, and everyone was happy to see each other, and we freshman, wide-eyed, were getting a first-hand, sloppy lesson in what woo! college! was all about.
And then the lovely hamlet of Collegetown turned into a police state. The
I am not exaggerating. I remember Senior year, I was sitting on a porch with some friends. It couldn't have been more than three or four people. No music, no ruckus, just talking softly about something or other. And then up comes Barney Fife in his police cruiser and, using a megaphone, tells us to go inside or else we get booked for a noise violation.
I understand that police need to patrol for safety and "keeping the peace." But that means keeping people from jumping off roofs and/or stabbing each other. What's wrong with college kids playing beer pong on their porch? I mean, classes haven't even started yet. Those who live in Collegetown know it will be noisy, especially when the seniors from Alpha Alpha move in across the street. You assume the risk, which, in my opinion, is the whole point of college anyway.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Quote of the Day VII
I had Martin explain to me three times what he got arrested for, because it sounds an awful lot like what I do here ... every day.
-- Kevin
"So, do we order? Like, what we want?"
Has anyone noticed how more and more waiters, upon first visiting your lucky table, lead off not with the traditional question about your desire for a beverage, but with this:
"Have you been here to [this restaurant] before?"
And I'm yet to understand why. I could understand if this was some special restaurant with prix fixe meals, or one that showcases wine pairings, or even one that specializes in Dim Sum. In these cases, when a new customer is wondering why the heck the chef is filleting some poor octopus at your table with some scary-looking knives, I can see why the waiter has to explain the process to newcomers, so that no rookie mistakes occur, like returning your too-rare tuna to the Benihana grill after you've taken two bites.
But why would a normal, run-of-the-mill restaurant ever need to ask whether you've been there before?
Perhaps they look to welcome returning customers with great pomp and circumstance. However, restaurants to which my friends and I return "welcome" us back not with celebration, but with fear and trepidation, much like the French seeing the return of the Germans.
Perhaps they notice that I'm foreign and need instruction in the art of America. However, I don't. Also waiter seldom realize I'm foreign, since, when they ask that question, don't enunciate LOUDLY AND SLOWLY, while moving their hands a lot in front of a huuuuuge, friendly, phony phony phony smile.
Or perhaps they simply think that we don't know Standard Operating Procedure at restaurants, and feel the need to remind us that it is they, and not us, that are supposed to go into the kitchen to retrieve the food. I mean, when Iwas asked into the kitchen barged into the kitchen like a bull in heat, it wasn't that big a deal. I was just hungry. Like, really hungry. And really, it's their fault that I got seated next to the kitchen. And a man my size and shape, so near the kitchen, with the smell coming in and out, and, well, obviously not in his full senses, well, what do they expect?
And hey, at least it wasn't the bar.
"Have you been here to [this restaurant] before?"
And I'm yet to understand why. I could understand if this was some special restaurant with prix fixe meals, or one that showcases wine pairings, or even one that specializes in Dim Sum. In these cases, when a new customer is wondering why the heck the chef is filleting some poor octopus at your table with some scary-looking knives, I can see why the waiter has to explain the process to newcomers, so that no rookie mistakes occur, like returning your too-rare tuna to the Benihana grill after you've taken two bites.
But why would a normal, run-of-the-mill restaurant ever need to ask whether you've been there before?
Perhaps they look to welcome returning customers with great pomp and circumstance. However, restaurants to which my friends and I return "welcome" us back not with celebration, but with fear and trepidation, much like the French seeing the return of the Germans.
Perhaps they notice that I'm foreign and need instruction in the art of America. However, I don't. Also waiter seldom realize I'm foreign, since, when they ask that question, don't enunciate LOUDLY AND SLOWLY, while moving their hands a lot in front of a huuuuuge, friendly, phony phony phony smile.
Or perhaps they simply think that we don't know Standard Operating Procedure at restaurants, and feel the need to remind us that it is they, and not us, that are supposed to go into the kitchen to retrieve the food. I mean, when I
And hey, at least it wasn't the bar.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Rookie Mistake III
Always go through your stuff because you never know when your mom might go through your room because she's cleaning it and find a pair of women's socks and come out to the living room to ask you whether they're yours and, if not, whose?
The Banana Problem
The Banana Problem has vexed me for years. I lay awake at night, hours upon hours, pondering and contemplating and furrowing my brow in intense concentration, but to no avail. The solution will not wash relief over me, because relief simply will not come. Like the Gordian Knot, this conundrum will never be untied.
I simply cannot figure out a way to efficiently purchase and eat bananas.
I buy 7 bananas, which is the usual size for a bushel. Because I am not a gorilla, I rarely eat more than one banana a day. By Day 7, the bananas look like Adam Sandler's foot in Mr. Deeds, and have the rough consistency of cottage cheese.
My solution? Buy the bananas green. But then I'm stuck for the first few days eating bananas that are not yet ripe and thus unpeelable. Remember CDs, many decades ago, how they used to come in those impenetrable plastic sleeves that no technology could pierce? That's kind of how these green bananas are, and, like the plastic covers, they also taste like crap.
So buying bananas turned into summer camp. It sucks for the first couple of days, because all the homesick kids can't stop crying and the counselors haven't yet realized they're only in charge of 12 year-olds and haven't yet stopped acting like the Ithaca Police Department. Then there's a great few days in the middle where the bananas are perfect, and everyone is drunk off sun and summer and Kumbayaing and all that happy bullshit. Then the last few days suck, since people start to mutiny because they just realized that they haven't seen girls, showered with hot water or had food other than beans for two weeks.
So, bottom line, I never know when the hell to buy bananas, at what point in their burgeoning ripeness, nor how many. It never works. And it kills me. Such is the banana problem, which no amount of technology can solve.
Perhaps I'll switch to apples.
I simply cannot figure out a way to efficiently purchase and eat bananas.
I buy 7 bananas, which is the usual size for a bushel. Because I am not a gorilla, I rarely eat more than one banana a day. By Day 7, the bananas look like Adam Sandler's foot in Mr. Deeds, and have the rough consistency of cottage cheese.
My solution? Buy the bananas green. But then I'm stuck for the first few days eating bananas that are not yet ripe and thus unpeelable. Remember CDs, many decades ago, how they used to come in those impenetrable plastic sleeves that no technology could pierce? That's kind of how these green bananas are, and, like the plastic covers, they also taste like crap.
So buying bananas turned into summer camp. It sucks for the first couple of days, because all the homesick kids can't stop crying and the counselors haven't yet realized they're only in charge of 12 year-olds and haven't yet stopped acting like the Ithaca Police Department. Then there's a great few days in the middle where the bananas are perfect, and everyone is drunk off sun and summer and Kumbayaing and all that happy bullshit. Then the last few days suck, since people start to mutiny because they just realized that they haven't seen girls, showered with hot water or had food other than beans for two weeks.
So, bottom line, I never know when the hell to buy bananas, at what point in their burgeoning ripeness, nor how many. It never works. And it kills me. Such is the banana problem, which no amount of technology can solve.
Perhaps I'll switch to apples.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Running Your Mouth
In terms of repetitiveness, doing play-by-play for the marathon has to be right up there with doing color commentary for NASCAR, except without the added boon of the entertainment that the periodic crashes provide.
I mean, the marathon has to be about the most representative sport of the Olympic games. It's grueling, a heck of a feat and has that epic feel that should symbolize the keystone event of a spectacle as grand as the Olympics.
But when you come right down to it, the marathon is people jogging at a brisk pace for a couple of hours.
And calling the game can't be much fun.
"They're still running... marching right along... yep... just one foot... in front of the other... always going forward... just picking them up and setting them down... still running... yep..."
I mean, the marathon has to be about the most representative sport of the Olympic games. It's grueling, a heck of a feat and has that epic feel that should symbolize the keystone event of a spectacle as grand as the Olympics.
But when you come right down to it, the marathon is people jogging at a brisk pace for a couple of hours.
And calling the game can't be much fun.
"They're still running... marching right along... yep... just one foot... in front of the other... always going forward... just picking them up and setting them down... still running... yep..."
Friday, August 15, 2008
Things Nobody Wants to Hear
The Daily Intelligencer reports that Obama's emergency plane landing back in Omaha a few weeks ago included some not-so-encouraging language on the part of the pilot.
The St. Louis air-traffic-control tower asked him which runway he wanted to land on, and the pilot replied, "Well, which one is the longest?" Uh-oh. Then he declared an official emergency. After that, he ordered crash-landing equipment to be prepared on the ground. And, finally, when someone asked him how many people were traveling on the plane, he said he had "51 souls onboard."Those are some of the last things you want to (or will) hear your pilot say. This is about as bad as your hairdresser saying, "oops." Or your surgeon saying, "oh, crap." Or your doctor asking you if you have a will. And, while it's definitely not as bad as having to say, "I think it broke," it's close.
Quote of the Day VI
Can't we have one meeting that doesn't end with digging up a corpse?
--Mayor Quimby
Stroke of Genius
After Phelps's holy crap! finish a few minutes ago, I just have to ask. What the heck is up with the butterfly stroke? Seriously, what spastic came up with this motion that looks like a drunk guy trying to catch his beer before the bottle takes on too much water and sinks to the bottom of the pool floor?
It does not look like a butterfly. It does not look like a dolphin. It does not look like much of anything except a line of guys repeatedly trying to pounce on the water over and over and over again.
I can easily imagine that the butterfly stroke originated while a bunch of drunk guys were in a pool and a game of Marco Polo got out of hand. Or, again, someone tried to catch a beer before it sank to the bottom of the pool. Or a bunch of people were high and decided to enthusiastically play that great game we all played as kids, hug the water.
If you take the butterfly stroke out of the water, it kind of looks like this, only dumber.
Then again, 10 meter air rifle is an Olympic sport, and baseball soon won't be, so what do I know.
It does not look like a butterfly. It does not look like a dolphin. It does not look like much of anything except a line of guys repeatedly trying to pounce on the water over and over and over again.
I can easily imagine that the butterfly stroke originated while a bunch of drunk guys were in a pool and a game of Marco Polo got out of hand. Or, again, someone tried to catch a beer before it sank to the bottom of the pool. Or a bunch of people were high and decided to enthusiastically play that great game we all played as kids, hug the water.
If you take the butterfly stroke out of the water, it kind of looks like this, only dumber.
Then again, 10 meter air rifle is an Olympic sport, and baseball soon won't be, so what do I know.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
The Bed is Made!
Oh my God, I actually made my bed today. It's made. The bed is made. I'm speechless...
So that's what it looks like.
It looks nice, like a bed in one of the many catalogs that come to my home unbidden. All it needs is a price tag and a vacant-eyed Swedish couple sitting on it and presto! An Ikea ad.
See, the reason I never make my bed is it always gets unmade. I know that, by this logic, I shouldn't shower because I'm just going to get dirty again. But there's advantages to showering, like hygiene and having people return your high-fives. The only advantage to bed-making I can see is that you get to say, ooh, my bed looks nice, for a few hours.
And for all you [people] who're going to say, "What? AMexican Ohioan who doesn't like to make beds?" I can only say, shame on you. Also, you've been pre-empted.
So that's what it looks like.
It looks nice, like a bed in one of the many catalogs that come to my home unbidden. All it needs is a price tag and a vacant-eyed Swedish couple sitting on it and presto! An Ikea ad.
See, the reason I never make my bed is it always gets unmade. I know that, by this logic, I shouldn't shower because I'm just going to get dirty again. But there's advantages to showering, like hygiene and having people return your high-fives. The only advantage to bed-making I can see is that you get to say, ooh, my bed looks nice, for a few hours.
And for all you [people] who're going to say, "What? A
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Random Video of the Day IV
I think I can safely say that the number of American girls I'd marry can be reduced by one.
Additionally, people should play this video with the speakers all the way up. I guarantee you someone will call the police.
Additionally, people should play this video with the speakers all the way up. I guarantee you someone will call the police.
Monday, August 11, 2008
I Just Got an iPhone
And it's beautiful. It's so bright and shiny. I just want to marry it. Marry it and have bright and shiny babies with it.
There was a bit of a hassle with switching to AT&T and a new phone without losing my old phone number, based in central New York. But it's all been settled, and the only hiccup at the store was that they could only transfer 250 of my contacts from my old phone into my new one. I was at 263.
So we all know what that means, right?
Erasing time!
It's a fun activity to do every once in a while. I guess it's a bit perverse, but there's something fun in scrolling through names, going "who?" and permanently erasing them from your permanent records.
So so long, "blonde," farewell "Las Vegas Sam," adieu "girl at bar," nice knowing you, "Sxhuighy."
Perhaps the unkindest cut of all was "Bartleby." How I came to name someone that, or, God forbid, meet somebody named that is beyond me. But I couldn't imagine calling him to figure out what his deal was. "Hello?... Yes ... I was just wondering who you were ... see, I'm transferring to a new phone, and I don't really remember you, so I was wondering who you are ... I see ... You would prefer not to tell me ... I guess that's to be expected."
I've spent nearly all night playing with this thing, and it has so much awesome stuff. Bright and shiny stuff. About which I'll blog about, I'm sure, at some point. There's so much, and I must return to it. From the looks of it, it seems unlikely I'll ever be bored again.
Now if only someone would call me.
There was a bit of a hassle with switching to AT&T and a new phone without losing my old phone number, based in central New York. But it's all been settled, and the only hiccup at the store was that they could only transfer 250 of my contacts from my old phone into my new one. I was at 263.
So we all know what that means, right?
Erasing time!
It's a fun activity to do every once in a while. I guess it's a bit perverse, but there's something fun in scrolling through names, going "who?" and permanently erasing them from your permanent records.
So so long, "blonde," farewell "Las Vegas Sam," adieu "girl at bar," nice knowing you, "Sxhuighy."
Perhaps the unkindest cut of all was "Bartleby." How I came to name someone that, or, God forbid, meet somebody named that is beyond me. But I couldn't imagine calling him to figure out what his deal was. "Hello?... Yes ... I was just wondering who you were ... see, I'm transferring to a new phone, and I don't really remember you, so I was wondering who you are ... I see ... You would prefer not to tell me ... I guess that's to be expected."
I've spent nearly all night playing with this thing, and it has so much awesome stuff. Bright and shiny stuff. About which I'll blog about, I'm sure, at some point. There's so much, and I must return to it. From the looks of it, it seems unlikely I'll ever be bored again.
Now if only someone would call me.
Quote of the Day V
I know... you're right. I'm so sorry, I fuckin' hate this job. I don't want to be the one to pass judgment, decide who gets in. Shit makes me sick to my stomach. I get the runs from the stress. It's not cause you're not hot. I would love to tap that ass. I would tear that ass up. I can't let you in cause you're old as fuck. For this club, you know, not for the earth. You old, she pregnant. Can't have a bunch of old pregnant bitches running around. That's crazy, I'm only allowed to let in five percent black people. He said that, that means if there's 25 people here I get to let in one and a quarter black people. So I gotta hope there's a midget in the crowd.
-- Knocked Up Doorman
My Head Just Exploded
On February 1st next year, the holy trinity will align. The Super Bowl will be played that evening, featuring a half-time show by none other than Bruce Springsteen. This will be followed by an hour-long episode of The Office.
The best thing in sports, the best thing in music, and the best thing on TV? I love it when two or more awesome things intersect. Steak pizza. Sirloin Burgers. Texas combo platters with ribs, brisket and cornbread. . . . I'm sure there are non-food things as well. But not many.
Football, Bruce, and Dwight Schrute, together at last. I can't frickin' wait.
The best thing in sports, the best thing in music, and the best thing on TV? I love it when two or more awesome things intersect. Steak pizza. Sirloin Burgers. Texas combo platters with ribs, brisket and cornbread. . . . I'm sure there are non-food things as well. But not many.
Football, Bruce, and Dwight Schrute, together at last. I can't frickin' wait.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Rookie Mistake II
Apparently you cannot bring booze to a booze cruise.
Who knew?
Trying to sneak in a fifth of Jack turned out to be a fruitless endeavor. In fact, it ended up being a negative result, as the bottle was confiscated and has now probably been consumed by the very large security guy who is an enemy to good, wholesome fun.
Where did I "hide" the bottle of Jack? Unlike other people who stuff them down the front of their pants (admittedly, that worked), I stuffed it down the back of my pants, so that it lay cradled in the small of my back. The farthest you can get from the sides, right? Well, sunnuvabitch found it.
Such a thorough pat-down has likely never been seen. They do less invasive searches than airport screeners. All they needed was an x-ray machine, a pack of dogs, and an aversion to efficiency to turn the dock into the customs line at JFK.
Alas.
Who knew?
Trying to sneak in a fifth of Jack turned out to be a fruitless endeavor. In fact, it ended up being a negative result, as the bottle was confiscated and has now probably been consumed by the very large security guy who is an enemy to good, wholesome fun.
Where did I "hide" the bottle of Jack? Unlike other people who stuff them down the front of their pants (admittedly, that worked), I stuffed it down the back of my pants, so that it lay cradled in the small of my back. The farthest you can get from the sides, right? Well, sunnuvabitch found it.
Such a thorough pat-down has likely never been seen. They do less invasive searches than airport screeners. All they needed was an x-ray machine, a pack of dogs, and an aversion to efficiency to turn the dock into the customs line at JFK.
Alas.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Random Video of the Day II
Carl Lewis sings the national anthem:
"...and the roooockets' ... ... REDGLARE! ... uh oh..."
"...and the roooockets' ... ... REDGLARE! ... uh oh..."
Pre-Parental Apartment Clean-Up
My parents are coming to visit next week. This includes my mother. This means, of course, that this weekend will be one hundred percent devoted to cleaning the apartment.
And, because such is the nature of the beast when parents come to town, this will be no ordinary clean-up. This will be a full-blown, DEFCON 1, all hands on deck, dig the trenches deeper, maximum security lockdown, shut down the borders and evacuate the president to an undisclosed location clean-up.
My apartment is fairly clean. Almost too clean for a guy my age. But there is dust on the bookshelves and I haven't quite gotten around to vacuuming in a few weeks. And by weeks I mean months.
So, by this time next weekend, my apartment is going to smell like the Febreeze factory exploded. It's going to get a rogering like it's never seen before. I'm really going to go to town on it. It's going to squeak it's so clean. Someone just say "that's what she said" before I overextend myself.
And, because such is the nature of the beast when parents come to town, this will be no ordinary clean-up. This will be a full-blown, DEFCON 1, all hands on deck, dig the trenches deeper, maximum security lockdown, shut down the borders and evacuate the president to an undisclosed location clean-up.
My apartment is fairly clean. Almost too clean for a guy my age. But there is dust on the bookshelves and I haven't quite gotten around to vacuuming in a few weeks. And by weeks I mean months.
So, by this time next weekend, my apartment is going to smell like the Febreeze factory exploded. It's going to get a rogering like it's never seen before. I'm really going to go to town on it. It's going to squeak it's so clean. Someone just say "that's what she said" before I overextend myself.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Quote of the Day II
Say what you want about America, but 13 dollars still gets you a hell of a lot of mice.
--George Michael
Bro-Bama!
Bro-bama celebrated his birthday in Boston last night. And DUDE! I mean, DUDE! What a blast.
The Mess of Epic Proportions started off at the frat house, where the Kegerator continues to prove itself as the best investment we ever made. Bro-bama turned only 47, despite his incredibly graying hair, yet 47 shots is too many for a presidential candidate to do. So we compromised. He took 4 shots in quick succession, we all took a break to play some beer pong and flip cup, then he did 7 more. Then we hit the town. (Kerry, by the way, ironically sucks at flip cup).
By this time, Bro-bama was blackout drunk, and we were taking bets on whether he would finally hook up with Hillary, who had been sending him indecipherable text messages and phone calls at 3 in the morning for weeks. (For the record, he didn't. Whomever I owe a drink, let me know). We were all pretty gone, and this is the one picture I did manage to take. Fortunately, it's a keeper:
Bro-bama wanted to go to Southie, saying it was where the real drinking was.
"Bro-bama, that's a bad idea," I said.
"No it isn't," he said.
"Bro-bama, that's a terrible idea. We can't do that," I said.
"Yes we can!" he thundered.
"Why don't we take another shot?" I asked.
"OK!" he said, and the whole matter was forgottten.
It all gets fairly blurry there. A couple of people left early to catch the T (Laaaame). But mostpeople politicians stayed. I know Wes Clark somebody got kicked out of An Tua Nua for being too loud, and there might have been a fight involving Bill and Al. At some point we were in a cab, looking for
The Mess of Epic Proportions started off at the frat house, where the Kegerator continues to prove itself as the best investment we ever made. Bro-bama turned only 47, despite his incredibly graying hair, yet 47 shots is too many for a presidential candidate to do. So we compromised. He took 4 shots in quick succession, we all took a break to play some beer pong and flip cup, then he did 7 more. Then we hit the town. (Kerry, by the way, ironically sucks at flip cup).
By this time, Bro-bama was blackout drunk, and we were taking bets on whether he would finally hook up with Hillary, who had been sending him indecipherable text messages and phone calls at 3 in the morning for weeks. (For the record, he didn't. Whomever I owe a drink, let me know). We were all pretty gone, and this is the one picture I did manage to take. Fortunately, it's a keeper:
Bro-bama wanted to go to Southie, saying it was where the real drinking was.
"Bro-bama, that's a bad idea," I said.
"No it isn't," he said.
"Bro-bama, that's a terrible idea. We can't do that," I said.
"Yes we can!" he thundered.
"Why don't we take another shot?" I asked.
"OK!" he said, and the whole matter was forgottten.
It all gets fairly blurry there. A couple of people left early to catch the T (Laaaame). But most
Rookie Mistake I
When you are backing up your work to a pen drive, make sure you are transferring to the pen drive as opposed to from the pen drive. Otherwise, you're faced with having to call up your boss, Professor The Scariest Man on Earth, and telling him you lost a week's worth of work.
Monday, August 4, 2008
R.I.P. The Voice of the Braves
It would be unfair to say that I learned to speak English from Skip Caray, who died yesterday in Atlanta, since I did go to a bilingual school. But when you watch baseball games every day during the summer, sometimes as many as 100 a year, it's difficult not to see an influence there. I grew up listening to him calling baseball games. Every day I would tune in and Skip would welcome the viewers to the broadcast. "Hello again everybody, and welcome to another night of Atlanta Braves baseball..."
He was a magnificent broadcaster, sarcastic and droll and so much fun to listen to. I'll never forget a call he made, late at night some summer evening. It was the bottom of the ninth and the Braves were just about to close out a win against the Mets:
Of course his call during the '92 NLCS is his most memorable one, but what I'll remember best is the jokes he'd make during games. "The bases are loaded and I wish I was too." There'd be 7,000 people in the ballpark and he'd call it a "partial sell-out." A grounder to third would be "a chopper to Chipper."
He always used to sign off the broadcast by saying, "So long, everybody." So long, Skip.
He was a magnificent broadcaster, sarcastic and droll and so much fun to listen to. I'll never forget a call he made, late at night some summer evening. It was the bottom of the ninth and the Braves were just about to close out a win against the Mets:
"Man on first, one out. The movie following the game tonight is Blazing Saddles, and we'll get you to that as soon as Tod Phillips grounds into a 6-4-3 double play. Here's the pitch... and it's grounded to short. Out at second... out at first. Hope they have that movie ready."
Of course his call during the '92 NLCS is his most memorable one, but what I'll remember best is the jokes he'd make during games. "The bases are loaded and I wish I was too." There'd be 7,000 people in the ballpark and he'd call it a "partial sell-out." A grounder to third would be "a chopper to Chipper."
He always used to sign off the broadcast by saying, "So long, everybody." So long, Skip.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Proof of Evolution
Has anyone seen the new shopping baskets at some supermarkets? The ones that roll? They look kind of like this:
Yes, it seems shopping baskets have evolved. No longer confined to a stationary existence wholly dependent on the whims of the overindulged masses, they have adapted. Their sprouting of wheels and new-found mobility is only the beginning. Next thing we know, they'll become automated and follow us home, much like a stalker, but without the drama. Unlike stalkers, however, they will come bearing chips and salsa, and not little dolls with locks of your hair.
Though I have to tell you, there are few things as emasculating as a grown man using one of these to wheel behind him his skim milk, cherry yogurt, and 100-calorie packs of Oreos. Is it that much trouble to lift and carry? Maybe if people got that little bit of exercise, they could indulge and go for the 1% milk. Trust me, it's worth it.
Yes, it seems shopping baskets have evolved. No longer confined to a stationary existence wholly dependent on the whims of the overindulged masses, they have adapted. Their sprouting of wheels and new-found mobility is only the beginning. Next thing we know, they'll become automated and follow us home, much like a stalker, but without the drama. Unlike stalkers, however, they will come bearing chips and salsa, and not little dolls with locks of your hair.
Though I have to tell you, there are few things as emasculating as a grown man using one of these to wheel behind him his skim milk, cherry yogurt, and 100-calorie packs of Oreos. Is it that much trouble to lift and carry? Maybe if people got that little bit of exercise, they could indulge and go for the 1% milk. Trust me, it's worth it.
Bruuuuuuuuuuce
Thanks to the spectacular generosity of a friend, I was able to attend a Springsteen concert yesterday at Gillette Stadium.
It was a 28-song, three hour extravaganza. After a monsoon delay (I have rarely seen rain fall that hard, that fast) that lasted an hour and a half, Bruce opened with "Summertime Blues" and did not look back. He has a pretty innovative conceit these days, where he collects signs with song requests from the audience. Then he flips through them, chooses an appropriate one, shows it to the band, and off they go. They played something last night called "Little Latin Lupe Lu," a Righteous Brothers song no one had ever heard of before. Fact, the band had only played it once, back in 1977.
Later, he hammed it up for "Spirit in the Night," singing
while sitting down and leaning back against the microphone stand, a feat whose physical possibility baffles me. Then Bruce played a very weather-appropriate cover of CCR's "Who'll Stop the Rain." Nils Lofgren absolutely nailed his guitar solo at the end of "Youngstown." (Note: These clips aren't from the Boston show, but what the hell, since they are pretty good reproductions of what we heard at Gillette).
And then I finally got to see my favorite song of all time performed live. By request, from a guy whose birthday it was (God bless your folks for birthing you this day), Bruce and the band tore into the epic that is "Jungleland," with the beautiful piano intro, the majestic Clarence Clemons sax solo in the middle, and the coda of howls to the strains of a fading violin. Glorious. I can die happy now.
It was a 28-song, three hour extravaganza. After a monsoon delay (I have rarely seen rain fall that hard, that fast) that lasted an hour and a half, Bruce opened with "Summertime Blues" and did not look back. He has a pretty innovative conceit these days, where he collects signs with song requests from the audience. Then he flips through them, chooses an appropriate one, shows it to the band, and off they go. They played something last night called "Little Latin Lupe Lu," a Righteous Brothers song no one had ever heard of before. Fact, the band had only played it once, back in 1977.
Later, he hammed it up for "Spirit in the Night," singing
while sitting down and leaning back against the microphone stand, a feat whose physical possibility baffles me. Then Bruce played a very weather-appropriate cover of CCR's "Who'll Stop the Rain." Nils Lofgren absolutely nailed his guitar solo at the end of "Youngstown." (Note: These clips aren't from the Boston show, but what the hell, since they are pretty good reproductions of what we heard at Gillette).
And then I finally got to see my favorite song of all time performed live. By request, from a guy whose birthday it was (God bless your folks for birthing you this day), Bruce and the band tore into the epic that is "Jungleland," with the beautiful piano intro, the majestic Clarence Clemons sax solo in the middle, and the coda of howls to the strains of a fading violin. Glorious. I can die happy now.
Friday, August 1, 2008
American Sexpress
Here's a good way to make your wallet explode like George Costanza's. From DI comes this report of a company in NYC peddling sexual health certification cards. Apparently, if your date for the evening becomes dubious of your sexual history, you can whip this baby out (taking care not to also accidentally extract the condom behind it) and prove to her, once and for all, that her doubt, although understandable, should never have existed in the first place.
I wonder if these things come with all the perks that credit cards have. I wonder if there's a credit rating. You could get a clean bill of health and a Centurion card. Or you could have the AIDS (see below), which would be the rough equivalent of Diner's Club.
And what are the rewards? Vacations to club med? A DVD set of HBO's Real Sex? Do they have member's clubs at airports? Outside of Thailand, would those even be legal?
Wouldn't they also expire after you use them once? No method of prevention is 100 percent fool-proof, right? And noticing the date on your card can't go anywhere good. Let's say your date notices the date on your card, and that date was a year ago. Now, she can think only two things:
1) This guy hasn't been laid in two years? What's wrong with him? or
2) This guy hasn't updated this thing for two years? God, where has he been?
And then she's "going to the bathroom," you're replacing your Sex Credential in your wallet and noticing that the condom in your wallet is expired. By that point, you might as well go audition for that long-awaited sequel, The Forty-Two Year Old Virgin.
I wonder if these things come with all the perks that credit cards have. I wonder if there's a credit rating. You could get a clean bill of health and a Centurion card. Or you could have the AIDS (see below), which would be the rough equivalent of Diner's Club.
And what are the rewards? Vacations to club med? A DVD set of HBO's Real Sex? Do they have member's clubs at airports? Outside of Thailand, would those even be legal?
Wouldn't they also expire after you use them once? No method of prevention is 100 percent fool-proof, right? And noticing the date on your card can't go anywhere good. Let's say your date notices the date on your card, and that date was a year ago. Now, she can think only two things:
1) This guy hasn't been laid in two years? What's wrong with him? or
2) This guy hasn't updated this thing for two years? God, where has he been?
And then she's "going to the bathroom," you're replacing your Sex Credential in your wallet and noticing that the condom in your wallet is expired. By that point, you might as well go audition for that long-awaited sequel, The Forty-Two Year Old Virgin.
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