The customer service number for Amazon.com is...

800-201-7575.

Pain in the ass to find.

Try and find it on Amazon.com. It's impossible.

Maybe they should focus more on education.

The RNC recently released a web ad stating that US troops and enemies watch our news, and so they hear a Democrat's comment that the war does not appear to be going so well. You can read about that silliness, and how the photo used in the ad is doctored here.

I could give you a political rant about it, but instead, I'm taken aback by the grammar:

Our soldiers are watching and our enemies are too

Retreat and defeat is not an option

I should have gone to Yale. I could maintain a C- average and rise to prominence in the political spectrum, merely so that I can write poorly worded phrases to bash the opposition.

You've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky?

Well, do ya, punk?

Football on Sunday

I can't remember the last time I broke out into a game of touch football.

I can't even remember the last time I touched a football.

And I'm not even very good at football.

I can eat, though.

Thanks, McD's.

Come, Baby, Come...

Christmas season.

Well, ok. Advent season. Christmas season, not yet.

Radio doesn't play Advent music, though. Except "O Come Emmanuel." And maybe "Come Baby Come" by K7.

I've nearly completed my Christmas shopping. Attempted to purchase several things online. We'll see how that goes.

Writing abstract sentiments about one's life impresses me after working a 70+-hour workweek.

What are you doing for New Year's?

Really.

Can I come?

If you read only one story about a 57 year old author being spied on by the CIA for an owner of Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus this year...

...make this the one.

I Disappear for Five Minutes and...

1) Bloomberg's mayor again. It's probably because he kept his promise to import lifeguards from the Southern Hempishere to fill the shortage at NYC pools (pg. 14, line 2).

2) We're still at war.

3) Despite the war and record deficits, Congress still found the money to give itself a raise...

4)...while cutting student benefits.

5) No more TO...

6) ...which is good for the NY Giants.

7) MSNBC's Keith Olbermann reports (third story down) that Rush Limbaugh is the worst person alive.

8) It's almost Christmas. It wasn't so almost Christmas the last time we blogged.

"Then where does the power come from, to see the race to its end? From within."

Congratulations, Duv.

(That link isn't too thorough. For those who didn't get it, let's just say Duvy worked off yesterday's big pasta dinner.)

I think I'm ready to endorse a candidate for NYC Mayor.

And to think, I was leaning toward Bloomberg...

(Well done, MB.)

Exercise in Futility

The Film Critics of the New York Times, those humble torch bearers enlightening our cinematic palette, recently released a book entitled The Best 1,000 Movies Ever Made.

Mind you, this books does not contain a ranking of the best 1,000 movies ever made. It merely contains a laundry list of the 1,000 best movies ever made. And, everyone has their own interpretation of what makes the movie the "best," such as great storytelling, performances, cinematography, etc...

To rationalize this daunting task, editor Peter M. Nichols writes in the preface:

The idea behind this book, of course, is to provide the film buff or anyone renting a video with as full an account of a movie as possible. But unedited reviews also leave no way to wriggle out of judgments made on deadline years ago. Are these really the one thousand best films? An impossible question, of course, but from the accumulated evidence, it's apparent that Times critics knew a great movie when they saw one.

Yep, 1,000 movies the NY Times Film Critics thought were "great." Think about the brainstorming session that went into this:

Editor's #1 & 2 sit in the kitchen of their swanky Upper West Side apartment, with a legal pad at their side and PowerMac at their disposal.

Editor #1: Well, we've got 947. That's not a very round number.
Editor #2: Is it a prime number?
Editor #1: Ooh. Maybe.
Editor #2: I'll start dividing it by numbers.
Editor #1: Now are there any movies named by prime numbers...?

Enter Subletter in Editor #1's apartment

Subletter in Editor #1's Apartment: Dude, you're out of bread. I can't make a reuben if I don't have any rye.
Editor #1: Reuben? What's a Reuben?
Subletter: The only completely invented sandwich? Hello? It's a freaking Reuben! A Reuben!
Editor #2: Did he just say Reuben, Reuben? That was part of a sextuple feature I watched in high school while foregoing my prom. It was pretty good. Put it on.
Editor #1: Reuben, Reuben! Great!
Subletter: Screw that. I can't make a Reuben without any bread.
Editor #1: Hmm... bread. Nope, don't know any movies about bread. Let me punch Bread into IMDB.com... Bread, Love and Dreams. Sounds light years ahead of its time. Yeah, that could work. No one will watch it anyway.
Editor #2: 949.. That's like a number anagram. We could stop now.
Subletter: Let me see that...

Subletter in Editor #1's apartment rips away the legal pad with the 949 movies listed. He flips through, page by page.

Subletter: Henry V? Which one?
Editor #1: What do you mean which one? The Shakespearean one, you fool!
Subletter: No, you moron. They remade it a few years back. There's at least two of them.
Editor #2: Great. We can use both.

Subletter throws the legal pad at editor #2

Subletter: Look, guys. Take a fucking break, go down the street get some rye bread and corned beef from the Butcher. Boy.

Editor #1: The Butcher Boy! I watched that on TV the other day before I left to watch that Bela Lugosi Iron Man Movie Marathon Last Thursday through Saturday! It was not bad.
Editor #2: Fantastic. That brings us to 952. That's an even number. Can't be a prime number.
Subletter: Pi is a prime number.
Editor #1: Ignoramus. You clearly have no idea what you're talking about.
Subletter: Much like the moron who ends his sentences with prepositions. Douche.

...end scene.

I have reservations about any list that can include RoboCop but forget SpaceBalls, Terminator, and the Oscar Award Winner for Best Picture in 1977 (Rocky) and 1998 (Titanic), among others.

The majority of movies in this book are among the "10 Best Films" chosen by critics at the end of each year.

Right.

It's a coffee table book, NY Times Editors. Made presumably because you feel infalliable about movies and had some time on your hands. Nothing more.

The Greatest Show on Earth

The World Series commences tonight, pitting the Houston Astros against the Chicago White Sox of Chicago.

Whenever Championships of this caliber come out, you always get silly amounts of coverage as to who will win, why you should watch despite the Yankees and Red Sox being absent in the Series, and other heartwarming but fairly irrelevant side stories.

I don't feel compelled to offer more on why you need to watch the Series tonight (precisely because it's two fairly talented teams who AREN'T the Yankees and Red Sox), who will win (White Sox in 5), or any pointless anecdotes from my childhood about these teams (I don't care for the White Sox, I don't like Roger Clemens).

I don't need to tell you that if you live in Houston, the mayor issued a sock-less weekend in honor of the World Series. Or that two senators, neither from Houston nor Chicago, propsed a resolution this week with the goal of exonerating Shoeless Joe Jackson from his part in throwing a World Series.

Or that Houston is the fattest and dirtiest city. Or that Chicago's 1933 World's Fair featured a midget village.

I write merely because there's a baseball game on TV tonight. And you should watch, because it's baseball, and baseball is good.

PS - Just for old times sake, let's revisit this gem in commemoration of the Yankees being eliminated from playoff contention a very long time ago.

The Pledge

I've lost my voice. Metaphorically speaking.

"Everything Right is Wrong Again" = at this point, officially estranged.

We had a good run. Hit the highs, sank to the lows.

Then I went and got a job in Jersey with no computer at my desk and no patience to write when I got home. You slaved over a hot stove. I ate out.

It's not over. I think we need to work on it. Maybe see a counselor. Talk more, definitely.

What's on my mind, you ask? I'm trying to move. I'm stuck in mediocrity. I haven't done much besides work and sleep lately. I need more. And blog, you will be my outlet. You will be my last bastion of hope.

Oh screw that shit. No need to make this redeclaration of our independence here in relative obscurity. I'm just going to work on writing more. On whatever. Whenever. Like Shakira. But without the hips. And I'm a guy.

We must protect this house.

You won't have Houston to kick around anymore.

Glory, glory Alleluia!

He had a few moments of glory, but not many.

Go NY! Go NY! Go!

It Was the Week that Was.

Boo.

I've come out of hiding. Where have I been?

Well, you'll never guess where I worked last week. Or who was the host. Or who never got on a plane to perform.

Now, I've been watching "Showtime at the Apollo" after Saturday Night Live for years, from Sinbad's first stint to Steve Harvey and so on. It never really garnered much interest besides the Amateur Night, the competition where average Joes vie for their 15 minutes of fame. Now, to see it behind the scenes, I realized there are rules to success:

First, don't rap. Ever. One performer actually got booed off the stage before laying down their first rhyme. They started over, and he still got booed.

Second, no stand up. You'll be booed off. One stand up actually cracked his opening bit, but then lost the crowd mere moments later. Score one for the little guy. Score is still eleventy billion to one, though.

Third, if you are a nervous performer, don't talk to the Apollo kids before hand. I saw two such instances where the kids, who were just a smidgeon too spoiled for their own good, would not understand that the amateurs were just that and wouldn't often make the amateurs feel that much worse. There's nothing sadder than watching a grown man or woman being belittled by a 12 year old girl in braces.

Finally, be aware that 90% of the audience is drawn in from the street that day. There's no preparation. There's no "right song." It's a crap shoot.

Oh, and, I got a new job. Go me.

I'll get back in the swing of things soon.

And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy, and Boy, I know I'm one...

I'll be attending the New York Giants-New Orleans Saints football game at the Meadowlands (aka Louisiana Superdome North) tonight. The Saints are the "home" team, having been removed from their home due to Hurricane Katrina.

After countless college football games and even one XFL game, this marks my first NFL contest. Four rows from the field. I'm very excited.

Still, I find myself slightly torn. I am a NY Giants fan, but with all that's happened in the Gulf Coast, the New Orleans Saints have taken up the reigns as "America's Team." They're a heartwarming sports story. Something I can appreciate.

So I think that means I can't boo. I need to be tasteful with my heckling. I can't very well root for anonymous hearts to be broken with the Saints suffering a tough loss. I need to be well-mannered, a good sport.

I've decided that instead of unleashing my trash talk at tonight's game, I'll do it here now. Get it out of my system.

Apologies to those this might offend.

"You guys play like you're homeless."

"We're gonna blow through you guys like Hurricane Katrina."

"Did you take New Orleans and the under?"

"You guys seem a bit sluggish."

(singing) "Under the sea... Under the sea..."

"Hey, speaking of patron saints, did you know...?"

"In case you forgot God doesn't love you anymore, that TD should've settled it."

"Flood of emotion? Oh, it's a flood of something alright."

"If you want to be America's team, you need to overcharge me to pay you and your cronies' salaries while you send me off to a tiny nation to botch up your personal agenda while you completely neglect the possibility of something actually happening to me.
"Oh, you charged me $90 for this ticket? Carry on then."

...and there's more... but it's time to go.

Leave your tongue-biting thoughts or un-American sentiments for me in the comments section. I'll be booking my reservations for Hell in the interim.

Added Tuesday, September 20 @ 1:03am
The Giants won.

"They sure weathered that storm."

"What stinks? Oh, it's just New Orleans."

"Good game. Now let's all go home."

Not everything about the Mets is downright awful lately.

The Mr. Met commercials, in all their glory.

Still Googling after all these years...

It's kind of like eBay, but now you can have millions of pieces of worthless crap at your fingertips for free.

Reason #412 People need to leave the house more

What frightens me is not that a fantasy blog stock system exists. Instead, I'm frightened that said game thinks we're worth something.

Buy low. Sell high.

...in a New York minute.

September 11th. 4 years later.

The skyline still feels empty. Things are different, even if back to "normal."

I was an RA in Syracuse that day, woken up by one of my residents who was checking to see if my family was alright. I watched the events unfold with a room of people who, a month prior, I didn't know. I worried as I didn't know if my older brother (a messenger), younger brother (who attended school less than a mile away), or my sister (less than 5 blocks away) were OK as all of Lower Manhattan was chaotic that morning. They were accounted for at 7:30pm that night, and I later felt relieved and guilt at the same time. Relieved as my folks were OK, guilt as others weren't so lucky.

4 years later. It doesn't have the ring of "5 year" or "10 year" or "25 year" and the rest of the Hallmark anniversaries. Still, born and raised and returning a New Yorker, it doesn't garner any less significance.

We remember. New Yorkers never forget.

You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold dead hand.*

*Or while I'm bailing out my flooded attic

Police begin seizing guns of civilians

Mr. Compass, the police superintendent, said that after a week of near anarchy in the city, no civilians in New Orleans will be allowed to carry pistols, shotguns, or other firearms of any kind. "Only law enforcement are allowed to have weapons," he said.

You should know the NRA cancelled its 44th Annual National Police Championship, to have been held in Jackson, MS from September 11-15. You know, out of decency to the victims. Because they are always considerate of the victims.

Still, the government taking the guns from the civilians? Think Heston's up in arms over this?

That order apparently does not apply to the hundreds of security guards whom businesses and some wealthy individuals have hired to protect their property. The guards, who are civilians working for private security firms like Blackwater, are openly carrying M-16s and other assault rifles.

Er, nevermind.

You gotta love it, though. Somebody still speaks from his soul.

You can question his opinion. You can question his tact. But, sir, you cannot question Kanye West's stones...

Information can be a very dangerous thing.

Today, East Coast residents can finally acquire a free copy of their credit report from one of the three major credit organizations.

Now if only they'd tell you your FICO score.

Or how long it would take to pay your credit card bill if you payed just the minimum balance* every month.

Or a million other things credit card companies would prefer you not knowing.

(*FYI - Minimum credit card payments are doubling from 2% of the total balance to 4%. This won't help you pay it off substantially faster, but it helps a smidge. The more important thing is that your credit card bill, if you just pay the minimum, is about to double. How this hasn't made a peep in the news outlets is mindblowing.)

Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead

I've officially been in Denver, Colorado for 24 hours now. I'm trapped in an industrial park in Englewood, though my room at the Marriott overlooking nothing is nice.

I've been nailed with a fate so heinous, it's tough to describe: I can't stop farting stinky farts. Alright, maybe it's simpler to explain. Apparently, the higher altitude causes the gas to expand, and that somehow makes whatever room you're in smell like Elizabeth, New Jersey. I'm afraid to light a match for fear of nuclear meltdown.

You apparently need to drink plenty of water here, too. It's apparently silly easy here to dehydrate. One of beer's ingredients is water. I'll try that.

Tonight marked our first foray into the greater Denver metropolitan area that didn't involve the words "airport" or "liquor store." We ate at a steakhouse called the Buckhorn Exchange, which prides itself on 500 animals stuffed and stapled to walls while hiding out between the slums and the railyard. I couldn't determine if I should be attempting to score some crack or throwing my belongings in a sack and leap in a boxcar. I ate a Buffalo Prime Rib. Tender. Dissolved in your mouth, so tender. Like eating a baby, but with more guilt.

Time to go down the hall and drink myself blind. Maybe you'll get a drunken Denver post in 3 hours.

Dare to dream, kiddies. Dare to dream.

Walk without rhythm, and it won't attract the worm.

Just because.

All I know is that this violates every canon of respectable broadcasting.

My car has logged over 72,000 miles.

It's traveled in 10 states (NY, VT, MA, CT, NJ, PA, MD, DE, OH, WV) and one Canadian province (Ottawa). It's never been involved in anything larger than a few scratched bumpers. It's been updated with a new Rockford Fosgate sound system, so the music is perdy. It's even been featured in an episode of "Law & Order" (as the murder weapon, no less!).

Why do I bring this up? Well, my car needs about 15 gallons of gas to go from E to F. When I first inherited said car after I graduated from dear ol' Syracuse University, that averaged about $22.50 per fillup. I used to say with confidence "fill the tank" at every available opportunity.

Now, I'm averaging about $37.50 in one of the highest priced cities for gasoline in the dear ol' US. I don't particularly like New Jersey, but I find myself longing for romps down the NJ Turnpike merely to save the $3 per gallon extra I spend here in Brooklyn. And God forbid I drive in Westchester...

Now, I get news that we're now living in the highest gas increase in our nation's history.

Thank you, W. Congratulations again on your second term, by the way.

Now, OK, I know i'm the eleventy billionth person to chime in on this conversation, and I'm not particularly bringing any new facts to the table. But I do have one fact to offer that I don't think is being nearly mentioned enough:

I know gas prices are high. Please stop telling me that.

I had this revelation on the way to work in a cab the other day. 1010 WINS-AM had a brief report on high gas prices. The reporter visited gas stations in NYC and asked people what they thought of the high prices. And you know the responses, "Man, it's hard." "It's so expensive." "I don't fill it all the way like I used to." And it just hit me. I've heard this interview previously. I read it in the newspapers, saw it on TV. It is literally the only story ever aired about the high prices.

As a wise Spinach-eating sailor used to say, "I've had all I can stands and I can't stands no more."

These reports NEVER discuss governmental pursuits of alternative energy. They never discuss how most cars don't need anything higher than an octane rating of 87, or how some gas stations are charging even higher rates to make a little extra profit. They never discuss hybrid cars or vegetable oil cars or cars with the floor below the driver's seat ripped out so that it may be powered Flintstones-style. They never discuss drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, known affectionately as ANWR (pronounced ann WAHR'). The reports are always "Gas prices are high and there's no end in sight. Suck it, consumer."

So, right here, right now, I make one simple request. Keep reporting on the high gas prices, but please stop reporting ONLY on the high gas prices. Package it with SOMETHING. Show me the vegetable car. Let me read about how this is the highest gas increase in our history, and what is being done about it (which, knowing our current administration and our President - who, let's not forget, started as an oil man in Midland, Texas himself). Bring up progess about ANWR, but also about how modes of alternative energy would actually make drilling in ANWR unnecessary. (For a hilarious bit on why Alaskans are for drilling in ANWR, read this. I especially like the part about how oil pays for schools.)

And hurry up. Challenge the machine. My car's got 40 states to go and is having a hard time finding work in television.

Zing!

Sunday's food for thought, courtesy of Mike Lupica:

It is no great shock that the same President who believes Palmeiro's version of things still thinks he's got a working plan going for him in Iraq.

Now, while the body count keeps rising, he thinks he needs the longest vacation any President has taken in 37 years.

Sometimes you think he knows as much about this job as he did about running the Texas Rangers.

Tired of the same ol' college football preview?

Grab a football if you love hip hop.

We're trying to make a movie, not a film.

When was the last time you saw a great movie?

Not a good movie.

Not Batman Begins cause it was cool and Liam Neeson was great in it.

Not Million Dollar Baby because it won all those Oscars.

Not Ray because everybody talked about it.

I mean the last time you went to a theater and got blown away without somebody telling you, "This movie is going to blow you away."

Sadly, you won't be getting a chance anytime soon.

Neal Gabler, a senior fellow at the Norman Lear Center at USC Annenberg, is the author of "Life the Movie: How Entertainment Conquered Reality, argues in an LA Times editorial that movies just don't matter anymore. His argument claims, in a nutshell that we as Americans have become so enamored with stars and how they live, that we don't even care why they're stars anymore (aka the movies).

Gabler writes:

Movies, television and DVDs are attracting fewer patrons because people, especially young people, value being entertained less than they value knowing about entertainment and entertainers. Movies have become what director Alfred Hitchcock called a "MacGuffin" — a red herring that triggers a plot but has no other inherent value. Like MacGuffins, movies have little inherent purpose except to be talked about, written about, learned about — shared as information.

This culture of Access Hollywood, People Magazine, and "The Fabolous Life of..." on VH1 is now making us dream, whereas crazy ideas like putting a movie in space simply doesn't do the job anymore.

And part of this stems from Hollywood paying too much attention to questions like "Will this make money?" and "Will this play in the Midwest?" Right before cable exploded, the credo about television was that "The best shows never air because they never get past the pilot phase." Film, an artform that should allow visual and other sensual expression, should not be held back because Kansas won't like it or a focus group didn't laugh accordingly.

We're too busy trying to know everything, to guess how movies will end before we see them (Spoiler Alert, anyone?). We will concede the actual experience of seeing the movie if we can assume how it ends. But come on... somebody, somewhere has a script we've never heard with characters we've never met and a story we've never been told. That's the one I want to hear. That's the one that will leave me saying, "Wow."

As opposed to the Dukes of Hazzard, which will inevitably leave me saying, "Wow.... that was crap."

Ok, so maybe reports weren't "greatly" exaggerated. They were exaggerated, though. I mean, I'm still here, no?

G'day, mates.

I'm back. For real.

We're a month later, a new computer, and and all around sense of "Damn, it's fucking hot outside" and it'd been too long.

So, to answer your question, the question being: "Where have you been?"

I don't really know. I know Vermont was there for a while. Took in a few Brooklyn Cyclones game. Remembered what it's like to have a social life. Still, that doesn't really solve the age old question.

Things happened while I was away. Supreme Court nominee. London. Palmiero nailed for steroids. And yet, I offered no mindless drivel to the conversation. Boo.

It won't happen again folks. We're back, and open for business. And downloading a substantial amount of pornography with the brand-spanking new 40GB Hard Drive.

Oh, internet, let's get together.

Reports of our demise have been greatly exaggerated.

We're still alive. STILL ALIVE!

We're just currently unemployed and home. We need to get out more.

We also need to stop speaking in the third person.

Unemployment, Here I Come

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

My unemployed life.

I move on today. Off to greener pastures. Well, OK. Not greener. Not yet anyway.

I Can Dream... with you TO-NITE.*

I've had that exact music lyric in my head all morning.

What's it from? I don't know. It came to me in a dream last night. A bizarre dream. Strange dream. A dream that had me backstage on one of those kiddie sitcoms on Nickelodeon. And a blond siren belts out a song, blowing everybody away...

I Can Dream... with you TO-NITE.
Na na na.... na na NA NA.

Yeah, I don't know the rest of the words. It kinda sounds like that song "I Believe" by Blessed Union of Souls (I googled it). Except sung by a woman this time, so its not as gay.

My lyric, BTW? Nothing. Well, until Google caches this one.

In the meantime, I clearly made it past the morning so this song will torment me for a while. In the meantime, I'll start playing obscure CDs in hopes of A) finding this song, or B) getting a new song in my head.

In terms of the latter, I dare you to do your worst.

(*Oh right, and since I'm publishing this now, if I hear Jessica Simpson, Kelly Clarkson, or any of those other no-talent hacks come up with this, I officially get to sue their ass.)

We're gonna be the Happiest Place on Earth, even if we have to throw you out in a box.

Child dies on Epcot ride

A 4-year-old boy on a family vacation died Monday afternoon after he passed out on a Disney World ride at Epcot.

The incident happened around 3:30 p.m. on the Mission: SPACE ride, according to Disney officials. The ride spins passengers on a multi-armed centrifuge to simulate a launch into space. It exerts more than twice the normal force of gravity on occupants.

Daudi Bamuwamye, 4, reportedly passed out on the ride and paramedics responded. Witnesses reported seeing Daudi's mother, Agnes, carry him outside to a nearby bench. Paramedics and a Disney worker tried to revive the child, but could not save him. He was prounounced dead at 5 p.m. at Celebration Hospital.

Ever notice how nobody's ever pronounced dead in Disney?

Oh, well, now it makes sense.

Cheney: U.S. Not Aiming To Close Guantanamo

In remarks to be broadcast today on Fox News, Cheney said the administration was reviewing its options at the prison "on a continuous basis." But he defended its track record, saying, "The important thing here to understand is that the people that are at Guantanamo are bad people."

I didn't know that. Keep on keepin' on, then.

Of course, a good portion of Guantanamo detainees are referred to as detainees and not prisoners because they haven't actually been charged with any crime.

The fix is in, next on 21.

I'll tell you about California when I damn well feel like telling you about California. In the meantime, I'm catching up on all the news I've missed while hiding out on the left coast. Good Lord, are they insulated from current events or what?

Did you hear that the Federal District Court case against Big Tobacco wrapped up this week? With some fireworks? Oh, you didn't know? Well, you better call somebody!

The government's nine-month racketeering trial against the nation's leading cigarette companies ended on a tumultuous note Thursday as company lawyers accused the government of a last-minute change in the terms of a proposed national stop-smoking program.

...

The eruption began in the final minutes of closing arguments when Sharon Eubanks, a government lawyer, provided new details of a $10 billion stop-smoking program - to be paid for by the defendants if the judge rules against them - that replaced the $130 billion program the government had been seeking until earlier this week.

At that point, the stop-smoking program was the biggest financial hammer left to the government after an appeals court ruling in February that civil racketeering laws would not allow the government to seek $280 billion in past profits from the companies.

Oh yeah. They couldn't sue for $280 billion because an earlier ruling said the government can't sue for profits made in the past by tobacco companies.

The $130 billion? To create a stop-smoking campaign for current and potential future smokers over the next 25 years. That number specifically came from a recommendation from an expert witness, Michael Fiore, a University of Wisconsin medical professor, called by the US Government in the case.

Then, on the last day of the trial, Eubanks, lawyer representing the US government, calls for a 5-year, $10 billion program for potential future smokers ONLY. For no known reason, since the US government ALREADY recommended the 25 year, $130 billion program IN THIS CASE. This even caught the Big Tobacco lawyers off guard:

"This is like a comedy skit on 'Saturday Night Live,' " Ted Wells, a lawyer for Philip Morris, said. "It's outrageous. It's ridiculous. This was a $280 billion case that became a $130 billion case that became a $10 billion case that will eventually become a zero billion dollar case."

"...Their case is in total disarray," said another Philip Morris lawyer, Dan Webb. "Even if they prevail in front of Judge Kessler, they are not going to prevail in a court of appeals."

And why should you worry, even if you don't smoke?

William V. Corr, executive director of the Campaign for Tobacco-Free Kids, said the last-minute changes suggest political interference by the Bush administration to soften the blow for the tobacco companies.

"It appears senior Justice officials decided on an amount of money and are now trying to justify that amount by describing a cessation program that doesn't make sense and won't work," Corr said. "They are changing the cessation program to protect the financial interests of the industry rather than 45 million addicted adults."

Somebody is letting Big Tobacco off the hook here. I won't point fingers (Bush), but the fact that a group of corporations that creates a product THAT KILLS ITS USERS can get away with crap like this is downright infuriating.

It's insulting that they can't at least come up with a better excuse. Democrats on Capitol Hill are calling for an investigation, and rightly so. If the department was behaving reasonably when it introduced evidence that called for the larger figure, it has no business now -- with circumstances unchanged -- refusing to seek the vast bulk of what its evidence suggests the American people are lawfully entitled to. If the administration was going to cave in to its donors and friends in the tobacco industry, it should have done so six years ago. But then, what's $120 billion between friends?

Further Evidence that the Day of Reckoning is Upon Us

I'm back from Cali, but no that's not the evidence. You'll get Cali stories tomorrow.

This is the evidence. Thanks to Marty for catching it so that I could figure out one day later why they were playing Aerosmith's "Walk this Way" instead of anything by Dion, the Standells or essentially any quality oldies song you've ever tapped your toe to (whether you'll admit it or not).

New York City radio is awful. It's station upon station of the same mindless drivel over and over again. There is absolutely no room for new artists or eclectic mix. It's top 40, or adult contemp top 40. There are stations like K-Rock that pass themselves off as alternative, but more often than not just play whatever band will be playing the Hammerstein Ballroom that weekend or the Garden that month. Q104.3? Classic Rock is fine (Q104 was the only classic rock station in NYC until 101.1 FM switched formats), but could you hit me with something a little more challenging than your daily lineup of Zepplin, Floyd, Zepplin, Floyd, Queen, Zepplin, Floyd, Beatles, Zepplin, Floyd, Steppenwolf. Z100? Blow me.

I certainly didn't grow up listening to the songs spinning on 101 when they were released, but they became a part of my growing up. My parents listening to it. Me cooking to it. Me dancing in the kitchen while cooking to it.

And so goes 101.1 WCBS-FM New York, home of one of the American made art forms in one of its earliest stages. And you, in your other cities, thinking you've still got that one station that no one else has? This is New York City. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. And if we don't have a station like your cute little station, start worrying.

And apparently, we won't be able to hear that song anymore unless someone's recapping the Yankees game of the previous night.

Cousin Brucy, we need you now more than ever.

Stay of Execution: Day 6

"I'm going going, back back, to Cali Cali"
-Notorious BIG, "Going Back to Cali"

I BBQed all weekend. It was glorious. Leave your favorite BBQ recipes here, and I will cook them. For you, I'm not sure. But I will cook them.

Yep, I'll be in California for the week with the little lady.

In the meantime, entertain yourself with this.

Stay of Execution: Day 5

So nobody ever told you, baby
How it was gonna be
So what'll happen to you, baby?
Guess we'll have to wait and see
-Guns 'n Roses, "Estranged"

I lived on Day 5 freshman year of college. "Day 5 gonna get yo mama," we used to say.

On an unrelated note: Reason #1217 why the internet is great:
The Box Score of the Greatest Game Ever Played (with me in attendance)

It's sunny out. Go climb a tree.

Stay of Execution: Day 4

There's no time for us
There's no place for us
What is this thing that builds our dreams yet slips away from us?
-Queen, "Who Wants to Live Forever?"

The problem with gradually losing your job over time is that you can't blame it on alcohol. Which is why I'm going to start drinking on the job.

Ah, gin. At least you'll live comfortably during unemployment.

Stay of Execution: Day 3

You treat me like a dirty clown
You're always kicking my dog around
I never get nothin' but constant abuse from you
You couldn't care less what I think, or my point of view
-Oingo Boingo, "Goodbye, Goodbye"

Well, I'm certainly not doing work right now. I mean, I did some in the morning, but nothing meriting any kind of mention. So here's some random musings at present time:

- I'm out of maple syrup. It's not just any kind of maple syrup. It's Vermont maple syrup. My cohorts devoured it all. I was relegated to Aunt Jemima, who, while a very sweet lady, simply shouldn't try to add a butter flavor to her syrup.

- The New York Knicks will be drafting eighth in the upcoming NBA Draft. They would be wise to draft Hakim Warrick of Syracuse. Yes, they need another undersized forward like they need a kick in the nuts, but he's won a national championship, gotten better every year, and has crazy ass mofo dunks that can excite a crowd. He's like Marcus Camby without the injuries. And yes, there is that Syracuse thing.

- The US House of Representatives passed a pro-stem cell research bill despite the President's wishes. Stem cell research is an interesting thing cause the focus is on embryonic stem cells, which come from embryoes created via in vitro fertilization. The idea is that the cells, which have no specific job (i.e. they aren't heart cells, or nerve cells - they're just unassigned, all-purpose cells), could have potential value in treatment of diseases like Altzheimer's, Parkinson's, or different types of cancer. The stem cells are taken, the embryo discarded. Seems wasteful. (This differs from adult stem cells, which can come from organs and tissue such as bone marrow, but are considered to have a narrow potential.) Bush's argument against embryonic stem cell research is that the embryo is a living being and it's life shouldn't be simply discarded for the benefit of science. Interesting. That implies that life (presumably from the point of conception) takes on a value independent of the mother, and keeps that value for the length of its existence. A value we can't take away - because that would be playing God. Which Bush technically does by endorsing the death penalty. Interesting.

- It's Fleet Week. I saw the USS John F. Kennedy stroll up the Hudson. Fathers, hide your daughters.

- Naptime for Matty.

Stay of Execution: Day 2

Buy me a drink, sing me a song,
Take me as I come cause I can't stay long.
-Tom Petty, "Last Dance with Mary Jane"

Well, that was fun.

I updated my resume today. Read the papers. Punched myself in the face continuously for 8 hours. Jealous? You should be.

1 in 3 of lower or working class students drop out of college. 1 out of 3. That means at least 10 kids from my 8th grade class didn't graduate. 10. I should've hoodwinked them for more lunch money when I had the chance.

San Francisco is a silly place.

I'm going for a slice of pizza and a nap now.

The Stay of Execution: Day 1

Remember when you held me tight
And you kissed me all through the night
Think of all that we've been through
Breaking up is hard to do
-Neil Sedaka

I'm such a whore.

The things I do for money...

I've essentially been told I'm a lame duck at this point. It's nothing personal, they say. It's just the way they do things. I should move on, look for bigger and better, upgrade my place in the world and my way of life. Whatever I need to do to not be here.

And yet, here I am in the production office. Working. For money to finance California. I shouldn't have to finance California. Arnold Schwarzenegger still gets residuals. He should finance it.

It is a lot like a bad breakup. Dirty laundry. Clingy-ness. Free lunches at nice restaurants. Ok, maybe not the last part.

Things I think I'll leave on my computer for my successor:
- substantial amounts of pornography
- the Anarchist's Cookbook
- the complete score of the HMS Pinafore
- a picture of this guy

What's your opinion? We'd like to know.

Where the hell are the singing cats?

I'm going to see Star Wars Episode III tonight at a drive-in in Vermont.

Wanna touch me? You can.

I'm not a Star Wars geek. But sometimes I wonder...

Woo! College!

Ok, now it's true, the majority of students today are so cravenly PC, they wouldn't know a good time if it was sitting on their face, but there's one thing that will always unite us and them. They're young. They may not realize it yet. They've got the same raging hormones, the same self-destructive desire to get boldly trashed and wildly out of control. Look out that window! That's not a protest! That is cry for help! They're begging us... "Please have a party! Feed us drinks! Get us laid! Aahhhhhh!"
-Droz, PCU (1994)

Back in the Salt City, attending Erin's graduation. Very proud.

Jane Goodall's the commencement speaker. Which is better than last year, I suppose. (Certainly better than some speakers I'd heard about.) Not on par with mine, though.

Full House is on. Not so proud.

I'm a long way removed from my own commencement ceremonies.

I attended Senior Celebration on Thursday with the little lady (aka the one school event where they serve alcohol to students - albeit Bud Light, but free is free). I felt old. I realized the next major milestone for me is the reduction in my car insurance. The only people to recognize me were former residents from my RA days. Everybody seems so little. I could take them all in a fight. Not all at once, but that's a different debate altogether.

I did get mentioned on a comedy album's liner notes, though. And a former professor of mine told a current student of his to grow up to be me cause I've been eating the last 10 months. The fool.

I got 8 hours of sleep my commencement weekend. Erin has heeded my advice and packed before she leaves. Good for her.

I need a nap. Or gin. We've got gin.

On reading one too many "deer" John letters

5 deer, dead and roadside on Rtes I-280 West and I-80 West in New Jersey. None in PA nor in NY.

Pat, I take it all back.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

Unemployed life, that is.

I mean - I've got two weeks coming up of work, but that's all. Soon after, the checks start coming in.

I've celebrated with 3 naps and an anthropologic pilgrimage to every pizzeria between Smith Street and my house.

The pizza, for the most part, not so good.

The nice thing, though, of being done with Season 15 of ye olde Law & Order is I'm now once again allowed to publicly tarnish NBC-Universal properties, something I wasn't allowed to do due to a "conflict of interest" clause in my start paperwork.

So:
Fear Factor - sucks.
Nobody likes watching big breasted blonds eating any testicles. Sucking them is one thing, but eating them - nope.
Waterworld - sucks.
I'll piss on you.
MSNBC - sucks.
Way to try to be reputable.

Sorry. I've been waiting 10 months to get it out of my system. It's nice.

I'm hung over, my knees are killin' me and if you're going to pull this shit at least you could've said you were from the Yankees.

At Shea again last night. That's two for this season. What have we learned so far:

Record: 0-2
Combined Score: Them 14, Us 6
Free Tickets: 2
# of Hot Dogs: 3
# of potential ulcers: 1
# of Beers: Not nearly enough
Average Inning I Lost Hope: 4th
Average Inning I Had my Hope Restored, only to have those same hopes dashed moments later: 9th
# of Runs the Opposing Team scored before I reached my seat in the bottom of the 1st: 6
# of fans booing Glavine after last night's debacle: 17.050
Infielders who did not make errors in these two games: Mientkiewicz

# of times Jose Reyes walked: 1
# of times Jose Reyes walked this season: 1

So that's a bright spot. Kinda.

I'll be making a concious effort to get to the game before it starts next time, merely as a precautionary measure.

It could've been worse. We could've lost to Tampa Bay last night.

Strong men also cry... strong men also cry...

I attended the Law & Order wrap party and all they gave me was this lousy headache.

It's 9AM on Thursday... 9 hours ago, I may or may not have still been drinking. I'm not sure. See, it all kinda went blank after the third gin & tonic. Here's what I vaguely remember:

- I may or may not have been weirded out by the guy in the Good Humor suit who greeted me at the front door with a glass of champaigne.
- One of the intern's moms may or may not have flirted with me.
- I may or may not have spilled on myself, thinking my drink was in a beer bottle (it wasn't).
- I may or may not have had one of the writers (who lives and works in LA) recognize me.
- I may or may not have brushed off the same girl for offering me 8 different hors d'ouevres in a 10 minute span.
- Erin may or may not have punched a guy out at a concert last night.
- I may or may not have agreed to attend some sort of movie on Saturday with I don't know who (can't go - have a date with a model on Saturday).
- I may or may not have acquired at least two phone numbers last night, one of which was someone I may or may not have attended Syracuse with and the other having something to do with the New York Mets because I have a number in my phone with the label "METS" and I don't know where it came from (and no, I don't have the Mets ticket office on my phone).
- I may or may not have seen the medical examiner attempting to go home with the doorman.
- I may or may not have agreed to meet a friend for breakfast at Pipes, which is a restaurant in San Diego. I won't be in San Diego until June 1st.

Alcohol, you whore... see you Saturday?

T-minus 8 business days...

...until unemployment.

I am unafraid. I'll be traveling until early June, so I'll be occupied. And I can collect unemployment, so I'm financed. I may try to make the world's largest ball of Silly Putty, then try to replace Los Angeles with it. Merely to appreciate the irony.

No word from the Pope yet. I imagine he's busy doing Pope stuff. I'll keep hitting him on the Pope phone.

Just remember, when you control the mail, you control... information.

You can e-mail the pope.

benedictxvi@vatican.va

I e-mailed him three questions:
1) When will God give me a puppy?
2) Now I'm not saying God is partial to a particular sports team, but if He were, who would they be?
3) Why koalas?

I figure with all the irrelevant, petty things people are going to e-mail the Pope with, the least I could do is get in on the fun.

See, kids, blasphemy can be fun!

Tom Delay: "I hate books."

Tom DeLay had comments to make on a Fox News Radio interview about "judicial activism" (you might know it as "Checks and balances"), and singled out Supreme Court Justice Anthony Kennedy, a Reagan appointee.

On Kennedy, DeLay had to say:

"We've got Justice Kennedy writing decisions based upon international law, not the Constitution of the United States. That's just outrageous.

"And not only that, but he said in session that he does his own research on the Internet? That is just incredibly outrageous."

Stupid educated Justices, wanting to know more. Mark Twain had you pegged years ago:

"We have a criminal jury system which is superior to any in the world; and its efficiency is only marred by the difficulty of finding twelve men every day who don't know anything and can't read."

Senator Dick Durbin, D-Illinois, rebuts:

"Has the Internet become the devil's workshop? Is it some infernal machine now that needs to be avoided by all right-thinking Americans? What is Mr. DeLay trying to say, as he is stretching to lash out at judges who happen to disagree with his political point of view."

He's saying the Internet is the devil, silly.

We want a Maciej Maciej man!

Detroit phenom Darko Milicic had a career high 16 points yesterday as a starter.

So can we go ahead and adjust the 2003 NBA Draft order one more time?

1) CLE - Darko
*and it's not even close!
2) DET - LeBron
*still this high because his name sounds French but isn't
3) DEN - Carmelo
*he's like a Caramello, but he doesn't suck
*Oh right, and there's the 2003 NCAA Championship for Syracuse
4) TOR - Dwyane Wade
*probably deserves to be higher - but his first name looks funny, and for that, he should be banished to Canada
5) MIA - Michael Sweetney
*yes, there are much better candidates, but as a Knicks fan, I'm still pissed off we got stuck with him...
6) LAC - Kirk Hinrich
*...instead of Frodo
7) CHI - Josh Howard
*Yeah, nobody cared then. We do now.
8) MIL - Luke Ridnour
*And to think, nobody knew Oregon was still a state until he came around and reminded us the Ducks aren't a casual reference to Emilio Estevez's finest hour
9) NYK - Damn.
*See, the Knicks still get nobody. Nick Collison? Just what we need. Another undersized forward. Dahntay Jones? Not as exciting without Marv Albert calling the games. "Dahn-tay Jones... YES!" Lampe? Heh heh....

You have exactly ten seconds to change that look of disgusting pity into one of enormous respect.

I spent Saturday as a tourist in New York City.

I hate that. I hate being a tourist. I don't mind showing out-of-town friends a good time and such, but I can't stand Times Square.

I saw the Producers, featuring that prominent actor featured in such films as Ferris Bueller's Day Off and Walking to the Waterline, which was good. I became taken aback yet again at Times Square.

I don't particularly like Times Square, mostly because everybody who comes to New York City wants to go there. There's absolutely nothing to do in Times Square, save the periodic shouting at windows or unclad buckeroos. Still, it's something to see, essentially a 10-block assortment of Warhol Gone Wild. And I can't stand it cause I've seen it. And now I wish to move on.

I followed that with dinner in Chinatown and dessert in Little Italy. Which was good.

And no, I did not check into my hotel that I booked on Priceline.com shortly thereafter.

I couldn't afford Priceline.com. I stayed home.

Asshole.

For the screaming 17-year old female contingent of my blog readers

Free Good Charlotte Concert*

*Attendance at this concert may significantly decrease the amount that I currently like you

There's got to be a morning after

This has easily been one of the stranger weeks in recent memory.

I've been working till 3AM every night. Which is good, in that I get a cab ride home every night. And good, cause I get home quick. Bad, cause I'm the only one awake at that point.

Tomorrow, Pedro's debuting at Shea against Al Leiter, which is good. It's sold out, which is bad (cause I don't have tickets). Meaning Pedro will throw a no-hitter, which will be bittersweet.

I haven't bought dinner yet (referred to as "lunch" by Accounting), which is bad. But I'm only now starting to get hungry, which is good. I've never hunted and gathered, which I imagine is bad. I did eat a Reese's Piece off the floor once, which was not so good, except it was within 5 seconds, so that's better.

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Two former Cornell University entomologists ... recently had the job of naming 65 newly discovered species of slime-mold beetles, which is good. George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, and Donald Rumsfeld each got a slime-mold beetle named after them, which is funny. I didn't get a slime-mold beetle, which is bad, but not so bad cause I didn't want one really.

Sheep go to Heaven, which is good. Goats go to Hell, which is bad.

The Glory of 2nd Meal

2nd Meal. Tonight's from BBQ. I'm eating a BBQ brisket sandwich from BBQ. At midnight. And I can have more. And I pay for none of it.

And this is the second time they've fed me today.

Glory be to TV.

Too bad Hallmark doesn't make a "Sorry your dodgeball coach got killed by two tons of irony" card.

Dodgeball is a sport of violence, exclusion, and degradation.
-Young Patches O'Houlihan, "Dodgeball"

On my way to work today, I began to realize how much I missed dodgeball. Not the game itself, but gym class dodgeball. Usually consisting of 40 minutes of co-ed humiliation that doesn't involve bodily functions (in most circumstances), dodgeball didn't really involve many skills save falling to the ground or not throwing like a girl.

In elementary school, I earned my stripes in gym class playing dodgeball. It was five-on-one (I was the one), and I whittled the other side down to a 1-on-1 showdown. I couldn't go on, so I waived somebody on while I went to the bathroom to throw up. On my way back to class, I joined the line as they exited for a fire drill. While I stood outside holding my stomach, the first grade teacher, Sister Mary Ann, came up and asked, "Is he OK? Are you OK?" My gym teacher, Mr. DeSimone, came over, put his arm around me, and said, "He just gave me 110%." True story. I had a free pass for the next 2 years, and he would ask my brother about me after I graduated.

That's not why I miss dodgeball, though.

I miss hitting the fat kid.

That's all. Short. Succinct. There was no sweeter sound in elementary school than hearing the fat kid get hit with a dodgeball.

THUD.

You can hear it, can't you?

Sure, it was fun throwing at the wallflowers, or the shy ones who had no idea the ball was coming, or those using the fat kids as shields. But hitting the fat kids...

THUD.

There was no wrong angle to hit the fat kid to make that glorious sound. In the face, in the stomach, in the ass, off the leg, on the back, anywhere.

THUD.

They're slowly eliminating dodgeball from elementary school gym classes because they say it discriminates. Against the fat kid. It couldn't be against girls (I'd been eliminated by a few in my day), nor against the soft tossers (dodgeball wasn't about who threw the hardest). It's because the fat kid can't get out of the way. (Wanna bet? You've never play dodgeball against the patented Matt Fristachi tumble roll.)

Obesity is not a disability folks. Hey fatty, wanna stop getting hit with the dodgeball? Try curbing that cheese doodle habit. Put down the video game controller and go take a walk. That might help cut down the physical abuse you endure when dodgeball week rolls around. But please, leave me with...

THUD.

And the Patriot was an awful movie, too.

Patriot Act hearings began today. They're reviewing certain provisions in the Patriot Act that will expire soon without any revisions to the existing law. The AP reports:

"Among the controversial provisions is a section permitting secret warrants for "books, records, papers, documents and other items" from businesses, hospitals and other organizations.

That section is known as the "library provision" by its critics. While it does not specifically mention bookstores or libraries, critics say the government could use it to subpoena library and bookstore records and snoop into the reading habits of innocent Americans.

...

He will support giving someone who receives a secret warrant under the provision the right to consult a lawyer and challenge the warrant in court, and will back slightly tightening the standard for issuing subpoenas, the official said."

These phantom warrant challenges will be reviewed by a magic genie who may or may not review your inquiry depending on how many wishes you have left.

They've also discussed the possibility of offering "outs" from prison by either rolling doubles on dice or offering a Federal "Get Out of Jail Free" card, which will probably get you deported anyway.

Peanut Butter-Jelly time indeed.

...

I had the esteemed honor of hanging out in an airport bar for 2 hours last Friday. I went straight from work to JFK, and from the metal detectors to the Labatt Blue.

I sat at a bar watching old Law & Order: Special Victims Unit and football bloopers. I was joined first by a gentleman from Grand Island who could talk sports quite uncomfortably, and sought to crack jokes about beers to all passerby. He, an elderly gentleman rocking a suit he'd probably owned for a while, didn't have a whole lot to say, just that he'd been out in Long Island on business and was now going back home. I didn't have a whole lot to offer, as talking impeded my eating and drinking.

We were then joined by an early-40s divorcee with a penchant for Heineken and college basketball. She converted travel distance from miles to pints and was the VP of a corporate broadcasting company in midtown. After hearing I was a Syracuse alum, she offered me a job on the spot, but considering her alcohol-induced state, I wasn't sure what kind of job she referred to as I politely nodded and ordered another beer.

Upon hearing she had bought a house on the Niagara River (she had pictures on demand), our friend from Grand Island revealed he'd been a Buffalo Oil man who's semi-retired with two sons in West Palm Beach, Florida and he passes his time now as a consultant and as the Councilman of Grand Island (with business card on demand). I laughed. Those two spoke to themselves as I spoke quietly to Sam Adams.

They got into a conversation about sailing and went on their way as I mocked the bartender for not having enough libations to satisfy my palate. I threw down my tip, threw up middle fingers, and left for the night sky.

In Memoriam

Three things I took away from the Jerry Orbach Memorial at the Richard Rodgers Theater this afternoon:

1) That Angela Lansbury... She's a looker.
2) I'll sadly regret not meeting Jeff Zucker, President of NBC Entertainment, (who's roughly the size of a dwarf) and taking him down on principle. I won't sadly regret calling him Slappy.
3) Jerry Orbach, who I pretty much owe my job still existing to, led a good life. Cool.

Try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh, so mellow.
Try to remember the kind of September
When grass was green and grain was yellow.
Try to remember the kind of September
When you were a tender and callow fellow.
Try to remember, and if you remember,
Then follow.

Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow,
Follow, follow, follow, follow.

Try to remember when life was so tender
That no one wept except the willow.
Try to remember when life was so tender
That dreams were kept beside your pillow.
Try to remember when life was so tender
That love was an ember about to billow.
Try to remember, and if you remember,
Then follow.

Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
Although you know the snow will follow.
Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
Without a hurt the heart is hollow.
Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
The fire of September that made us mellow.
Deep in December, our hearts should remember
And follow.

Thanks, Jerry. You are missed.

Savvy?

Finally, pirates are en vogue again (and there's no Disney rides in sight).

If myself of 10 years ago knew me now, I swear myself of 10 years ago would beat my ass and steal my lunch money daily.

CBS-Sportsline.com will clearly be the death of professional me.

I've discovered they have THE BEST online scoreboard of them all (presumably due to CBS having exclusive coverage of the NCAA College Basketball Tournament). I'm at work, and I swear I've done work today, but if you needed to know what exactly, I'd have nothing for you.

Estimates range into the millions on how much money companies lose due to things like fantasy sports and office pools. I'm certainly doing my part.

Now, back to St. Mary's making an ass out of themselves... and my bracket.

In Search Of

A while back, I brought up a dating service for those who clearly aren't marketed to by services like Match.com.

Well, people felt I still didn't right-ly capture their essence.

I think we may have a winner now.

The Madness... it's Spreading...

Way to be dating a Vermonter, me.

I washed my hands of it shortly thereafter.

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Stupid Morality

I have a $20 Tower Records gift card.

I went to spend said gift card at Tower Records.com this morning. To my surprise, the new Jack Johnson CD was a quite reasonable $0.12.

Yes. $0.12.

So, I added four to my cart (somebody would want it, right?), and decided to keep shopping. Other CDs by Ray Charles, Miles Davis, and others were between $0.09 and $0.12. I added four of each to my cart.

I moved on. With over 30 CDs in my cart (I didn't even start on the DVDs - listed between $0.30 and $0.60... including South Park, Chappelle Show, the Motorcycle Diaries, etc...), I was tearing Tower Records a new one while my co-workers each eked out a random Donnie Darko or obscure French CD. I went for the motherload, for it all, for my music collection to upgrade from "just barely" to "awfully pretentious." I followed that bright light to the likes of Keb'Mo and Jimi Hendrix. Dispatch to the Doors.

Then, checkout.

I had to set up a new account, which I did. Mail it to my billing address.

My balance? $3.38. Yeah, I'll pay for the shipping.

Before I finalized it, I paused. My cohorts, with their small bounties, the scraps reaped from my reward, boasted of paying $3 for their one CD or their one DVD. Still, they looked on. They knew a master had taken to task, that great work would still be done.

They had their meager goods. I, however, had in my grasp the Grail.

Men of all ages, of all eras, clamored for this which I now held in the palm of my hand and nothing but microchips and computer text stood in my way. You simply don't take the Grail and walk away unaffected. It can't be done.

You stop. You stare. You savor every nanosecond, craving the reward standing before you and the adulation that awaits you. You prepare all pagentry in your head, of which your comrades would look on in awe and envy. A part, deep inside (we'll call it "Catholic guilt"), makes you question. I found myself asking, "Should I do it?" "Is it right?" "Could it be?" You freeze, you question everything, evaluate your life to this point, and question whether you want what comes next.

You simply just can't take the Grail.

A few moments later and cheered on by my followers, who already ran rough drafts of my legendary tale of my pillaging and recompense to callers and passersby alike, I clicked OK. I expected a triumphant song to play, something signaling victory, immortality, 35 CDs for just over $3. The world my oyster, this my pearl.

Tower said NO. They had corrected the glitch - my bill now well over $300. I disrespectfully declined. I shriveled away in silence, having my reward so violently ripped from me.

Next time, just take the fucking Grail.

Goddamn it.

Untitled

I spent the weekend in the Poconos.

I had a good time I did. Rode a horse. Ate Japanese steak. Overheard an irate fellow with a towel on his head yell over, then directly at a pay phone (not an Arab - just a fellow wearing a white towel).

I gather the Poconos became a family vacation hotspot while I wasn't looking. Growing up, commercials for Mount Airy Lodge "Where all you have to bring is your love of everything" conjured up images of yuppies in hot tubs, boozing on champagne and fly-by-night stocks. No mullets.

There's mullets now. Curly mullets. I dare say the "mystique" could be gone.

Far be it from me to even associate my name with the Young Urban Professionals who've spent time gentrifing my Brooklyn into a "hip," health food-friendly, property valuing, substantially whiter menace.

I Want to Be

A Lanyard Supermodel.

Why the World Invented TiVo

Yesterday's results:

Law & Order (11.3 rating/17 share)
CSI-NY (9.6 rating/15 share)

Coincidence that our decisive victory in the overalls falls the same night that my car debuts on Law & Order?

I think not.

The Juiced is Loose (or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Bad Grammar)

I finished Juiced.

Like I said earlier, Canseco's simply too ignorant to actually pull a lie of this magnitude off. And the cracks deepen, with an FBI investigator and former A's manager Tony LaRussa coroborrating the story as well.

The book's good, though. The story of the Angry 'Roided Cuban and his foray into American Popular Culture can't help but be captivating, especially since reading it genuinely reinforces that there couldn't possibly be a ghost writer. Sure, this is the guy who sold "Spend a Day with Jose" while he was under house arrest, and the guy who's auctioning off his 2000 NY Yankees World Series Champion ring... still, it's a good read.

If only for tidbits like this:

On the birth of his daughter, Josie (my italics):

"They held up the umbilical cord, and I cut it. As soon as the nurse slapped her on the butt and she started crying, you could see the oxygen turn her from a dark purple to pink, pink, pink, and right away you could see her blue eyes." (144)

Then, one paragraph later:

"Very often, I'd be looking at Josie and I'd turn to look at Jessica. 'We created her!' I'd say, 'Look at her, a beautiful little girl, blonde hair, green eyes, tons of personality. We created this." (144)

Are You IN?

Paris Hilton's phonebook is available for all to see on the internet, much to the chagrin of Carson Daly. Some computer hacker hacked into her T-Mobile Sidekick phone and uploaded its contents on the internet. I'm hoping said hacker was beaten up and dragged into daylight shortly thereafter.

Apparently, former MTV VJ, host of that show before all the infomercials, and all-around "nobody cares" guy Carson Daly's upset that his number was NOT on Paris Hilton's phonebook. This is a phonebook that includes:

a local Rite Aid
rapper Bow Wow
mafia daughter Victoria Gotti
author Stephen King
Frankie Muniz of "Malcolm in the Middle" and "Cody Banks" fame
lawyer Robert Shapiro
someone named only as "doughnut"

And Carson couldn't crack this list. A contact list featuring those bozos, with a total of 510 people.

Then again, there's also the photo section of her phone. Carson didn't crack that, either, but he couldn't considering there's nothing but THIRTY-FIVE (yes, 35) photos of Paris herself.

Ever tried using a cell phone camera? It's not easy to take a picture of yourself, let alone 35 of them.

Poor Carson. It's apparently not easy to take a picture of him after 15 minutes, either.

You AS the Captain Make It Happen

Help Wanted (aka my backup plan if this TV thing doesn't work out)

Pitchers and Catchers

Now, thanks to Jose Canseco, the phrase "pitchers and catchers" can refer to a thinly-veiled euphemism describing his early days with Mark McGwire as well as the first day of Spring Training.

I sold out. I bought Juiced. I'm reading it now. Canseco writes like a fourth grader.

Favorite excerpts so far?

On introducing us to Canseco's perspective to steroids:

"We're talking about the future here. I have no doubt whatsoever that intelligent informed use of steroids... will one day be so accepted that everybody will be doing it. Steroid use will be more common than botox. ... As a result, baseball and other sports will be more exciting and entertaining. Human life will be improved, too. We will live longer and better. And maybe we'll love longer and better, too." (2)

So apparently, we're looking at this steroid issue all wrong. Steroids, if used properly, will make us well-adjusted members of society as well as "not only make you stronger and sexier, they will also make you healthier." (3) Damn, wish I had known that back in high school when I was shagging flies in the outfield with the kid blaming air pockets for his dropped balls.

On Canseco's Mom:

"She was our protector when my dad had a bad day at work or was after us for some other reason. Don't get me wrong. Ozzie (Jose's twin brother) and I were not what you would call little angels. ... My mom was the one who was always trying to soften the blows or the issues with my dad. From the time when we were young boys and all the way up until high school, Ozzie and I would always run to mom for protection if my dad criticized or spanked us. We loved her very much." (23)

I laughed out loud. Fact is, reading this book reaffirms Jose's got issues and segments like this back it up. Especially considering I think I wrote something similar about my Mom back in 3rd Grade.

On Mark McGwire:

"Sometimes we did it before batting practice, sometimes afterward. It was really no big deal. We would just slip away, get our syringes and vials, and head into the bathroom area of the clubhouse to inject each other." (74)

"Inject" each other, eh? Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?

I find myself incredibly amused at how all these steroid references come off as homoerotic. Truth is, some of the steroids did adjust testosterone levels, so maybe they literally were getting off on this stuff.

Honestly, I'm curious about where this goes. Canseco clearly isn't bright enough to pull off this kind of lie. Do I think he's exaggerating? Yes. Do I think McGwire did steroids? Yes. Do I care? Well, they are a bunch of cheaters, but then again, when was the last time MLB cared what the fans thought?

So, I'll keep reading. If only because, according to Canseco:

"If you've picked up this book just for a few juicy details about which players I've poked... (***intentional awkward pause intended to build up homoerotic overtones***) ...with needles full of steroids, or what it was like when Madonna sat on my lap and asked me to kiss her, that's fine with me." (5)

Honey, It's Not That We Don't Love Each Other

It's just that you made Mommy tired of me and as a result, I don't get no play.

Blame it on:
God
genetics
environment
alcohol
Rob Alarcon
And now...
the kid
But, of course not...
Each other

Assed Out of $50

The Virginia House of Delegates recently passed a resolution that orders you to keep your pants up. It states as follows:

Any person who, while in a public place, intentionally wears and displays his below-waist undergarments, intended to cover a person's intimate parts, in a lewd or indecent manner, shall be subject to a civil penalty of no more than $50.

Which intimate parts, you ask?

"Intimate parts" means the genitalia, anus, groin, breast, or buttocks of any person.

No word on whether this extends to plumbers or the Greek God, Echidna. It does, however, technically allow ass-less chaps. And saran wrap, too.

Still, one doesn't pass a law like this unless it becomes a problem. Considering nobody likes Sisqo or the Thong Song anymore... Could this then because of an unknown belt lobby, throwing money at politicians?

Or perhaps a room full of baby boomers got tired of staring at what they couldn't get for less than $200 an hour and acted "accordingly."

These are the same people who advocated the "traditional marriage" license plates.

I just hope it was included in that Mexican pamphlet teaching illegal immigrants how to cross the border.

"Happy Lent, Everybody!"

Fat Tuesday (or as the French refer to it, Mardi Gras) is upon us.

That means tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, the start of the annual guilt trip built into the Catholic Calendar known as Lent. Lent calls for Catholics to recall their sins and prepare for Easter. That means: purple, no meat on Fridays, and giving up one or more of my vices (intended to be forever, but after Easter, it's all good again).

At first, I didn't mind so much "giving up vices" cause when you're eight, you have not discovered alcohol nor pornography yet. "I won't eat Snickers" was an OK choice and contained no innuendo whatsoever. But now, I've got things to lose.

Heck, Mardi Gras itself calls for a night of debauchery and girls gone wild. Get it out of your system, and then pent it up till the next available opportunity to explode. Otherwise, you'll go blind and get hairy palms.

So, unlike New Year's, where most just resolve to not make resolutions, with Lent, I'll be pledging the following:

- I will not punt babies.
- Underwear goes outside the pants.
- I will not offer "sucks to your ass-mar" on weekdays.
- Don't stop till you get enough.
- Once you get enough, graciously stop.
- I will continue to not do atrocious things I didn't ordinarly have the ability to do (i.e. nuke third world countries, more cancer, propping up no-talent, big-breasted blondes).
- Nothing.

What's your opinion? We'd like to know.

They Almost Read Our Eu-googlies.

A lady called today asking about the casting office, namely, for names I'm not allowed to give. I explained that, she made a comment, I politely laughed. Then, she explained she's a motivational speaker and gave me this advice:

"Don't wait until the eulogy to say thank you."

You heard it here first, folks.

To the Mighty "K"asey...

Good luck, Dave.

The horror... the horror...

I did a bad, bad thing...

(ed. note: Before I go any further, I feel I owe an apology regarding Sunday's activities to all, but especially: the New York Mets and their fans, Sean Cloonan, that guy who came up to me on 5th Avenue in 2000 and got excited at my Mets hat, Mr. Met, anyone with functional brain cells, the Brooklyn Dodgers, and that eight-year old girl who said Jason Giambi was her favorite player.)

I got a call on Friday from a representative for Major League Baseball. "Are you available Sunday?" Yes I was. "We're working on a campaign trying to find baseball's ultimate fan as part of our 'I Live for This' campaign, to be held at Yankee Stadium this Sunday. Interested?" All I heard was "Major League Baseball." I signed on.

Then, I realized exactly what I got myself into on Sunday.

They weren't looking for the ultimate baseball fan. They were looking for the ultimate Yankees baseball fan.

Oh dear. Matty, Matty, Matty, what have you wrought?

Apparently, they're visiting the cities of the six 2004 playoff teams and finding the ultimate fan of those teams. And the Yankees, sadly, made the playoffs last year.

So, I spent my Sunday, 6AM onward, listening to Yankees fan profess their love to all things Yankee. I got to meet Bald Vinnie, the creator of the now-infamous Bleacher Creatures. I got to meet Freddie "the Fan" Schuman and his signature pan. I watched as Yankees press and others exploited a 23 year old female (yep, that's her on the NY Daily News.com website) for doing nothing but wearing clothes with the Yankee insignia and having large tits and an ass. And I spent the time being berated by a cold hearted Russian best summed up by the NYPD as raised by Ivan Drago himself.

If one thing came of this, though,,, it's that I would have 200+ subjects for an interesting study. A study into the Yankee fan's intelligence and attitude toward baseball, and here's what I came up with:

Each subject answered two questions:
1) What is your favorite baseball memory? We're not concerned with stats or play-by-play, but really in something that is your personal story.
2) Who is your all-time favorite Yankee?

And what did we learn:
- 1 in 5 Yankee fans think that Aaron Boone winning game 7 of the 2003 ALCS with a home run was their favorite baseball memory. This, despite the fact that the Yankees didn't win the World Series that year, and also that the Red Sox would avenge the 2003 ALCS in 2004 in a much more dramatic fashion.

And if I hear one more Yankee pine on about it, I'm going to have that person drawn and quartered.

- Far and away, Yankee fans picked one of three players as their favorite all-time Yankee:
1) Derek Jeter - picked mostly by little kids and ignorant parents
2) Mickey Mantle - picked exclusively by old-timers
3) Don Mattingly - picked by every person who said, "I'm no front runner, I'm a true fan. I rooted for the Yankees in the '80s" and then described Mattingly not as a good first baseman but really as a battle scar from a darker time.

- Other notable votes:
Thurman Munson (about a dozen - always followed by a moment of silence)
Lou Gehrig (3 or 4 votes)
Joe DiMaggio (1 vote)
Graig Nettles (1 vote)
Mel Hall (1 vote)
Reggie Jackson, Yogi Berra, Roger Maris, Babe Ruth, Whitey Ford, Catfish Hunter, Phil Rizzuto, Dave Winfield (0 - that's right, ZERO - votes)

- Despite being provoked by the YES Network "anchor" about the Boston Red Sox ("yeah, I know, but what I want to know is what do you think about the Red Sox?"), most Yankee fans don't have a clue about the Sox. Quotes overheard in interviews to local press:
"The Red Sox, to me, always seemed kinda skeevy."
"They're such sore winners. When Boston won, they just ran down into the stands and started hitting people."
"They didn't win the Series. The trophy's ours. We just loan it out."

- Also overheard during "casting":
"Yankee fans are the smartest fans in the world."

Horseshit.

- Two Major League Baseball officials mistook my Brooklyn Dodgers cap for a Boston Red Sox cap. One MLB official gave me a Boston Red Sox bumper sticker. I was then ordered to take the hat off so as not to offend anybody.

I left my dignity in the Bronx and $100 richer. Greta (aka Ivan Drago - Greta was the name given her by the NYPD that day) can't hurt me anymore. And Yankee fans... well, at least some things never change.

Nothing's Smelling Like a Rose...

9:30PM. Still shooting. About to become two units cause "Vincent is getting restless."

Stuck till midnight at least while my friends imbibe the good juice.

At least beer and urine prevents death by avalanche.

It has WORDS?!?

Here comes Mister Softee, the Soft Ice Cream Man.
The creamiest, dreamiest soft ice cream you get from Mister Softee.
For a refreshing delight supreme, look for Mister Softee.
My milkshakes and my sundaes and my cones are such a treat.
Listen for my store-on-wheels ding-a-ling down the street
The creamiest, dreamiest soft ice cream you get from Mister Softee.
For a refreshing delight supreme, look for Mister Softee.
S-O-F-T Double-E Mister Softee!

I just found out there were lyrics. Mister Softee, represented by James Conway, Jr., came under fire for the song that emanates from the ice cream trucks in summertime. For noise.

"And I understand that. I have four children, and if you pull up a truck in my neighborhood, I wouldn't want it to be there playing music over and over again, either," states Conway, appearing as a star witness at a hearing regarding noise in New York City. The song, which easily was the soundtrack to my nightmares until Britney Spears surfaced, can be ceased when the truck's in park, Conway offered.

Now if only they could take into account the skeevy drivers, we might have something here.

Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?

A week ago, on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I noticed an article in the Washington Post titled "Gay Rights Groups Map Common Agenda." The article spoke about how lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (or abbreviated LGBT) advocacy groups united and published their agenda for the upcoming year. The agenda included:

"...pushing for equal employment opportunities; adding sexual orientation and gender identity to federal hate crimes law; fighting for protections for children of LGBT couples; overturning military restrictions on gay soldiers; opposing anti-gay state and federal legislation; and fighting for the freedom to marry."

Later, in the article, it cites the LGBT's recent victories despite Bush winning back the White House and 11 states outlawing gay marriage. Those victories include:

"In California, the new year ushered in the strongest domestic partnership benefits in the country. In Montana, the Supreme Court ruled that excluding same-sex partners from dependent health benefits offered to state university employees violated the state Constitution's equal protection requirements. In Illinois, the legislature passed a bill banning discrimination against gays, joining 14 other states with such laws.

"...It was only 18 months ago, after all, that the Supreme Court struck down Texas sodomy laws, which extended the right to privacy to same-sex couples."

Now that's all well and good. Go for them.

Still, I couldn't tear myself away from my cardinal principle of "when all else fails, fuck shit up." It seemed like this agenda created literally beauracracy on the way to the struggle for Civil Rights. Like, as opposed to defying the system and carrying on with gay marriages because it's about love, people are waiting merely for the government to justify them. This sentiment appeared in Paul Starr's article today in the NY Times, where he states:

"Democrats have paid a historic price for their role in the great moral revolutions that during the past half-century have transformed relations between whites and blacks, men and women, gays and straights. And liberal Democrats, in particular, have been inviting political oblivion - not by advocating the wrong causes, but by letting their political instincts atrophy and relying on the legal system."

This captured my reaction to the LGBT agenda perfectly. Though their victories admirable and their goals modest, I read it on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day and thought to myself: Where's the sit-in? Where's Rosa Parks? Where's the peaceful march on Washington"? Sure, we had a few weddings in Frisco and New Paltz, but why did it stop? Why are we waiting for the government to approve what we already know to be right?

We've grown so accustomed to saying, "Oh we need the legal system to justify us" that we've forgotten history. We're hoping to get the results without the struggle, without attempting to fuck shit up. This isn't just gay marriage, this is abortion. This is gun control. This is all you can imagine. All we should get up and do something about, but instead we trust our lawmakers to right our wrongs for us.

Yeah, and that worked out so well on Election Day.

So, as we maintain the status quo on the eve of choosing the lead of the Democratic Party, we're left waiting and watching on the sidelines. Hoping it all goes according to plan. And forgetting Martin Luther King's words in front of the Washington Monument...

"And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, 'When will you be satisfied?' ... No, no we are not satisfied and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream."