Oxy Moron

[Ed's note: I'm gonna level with you, kids. This N.O.C.W.I.T. entry is gonna be gross. If you have a weak stomach, you may want to skip it. It discusses dealing with acne in a frank, some would say profane, manner. There it is, you've been warned.]

When I was in junior high, I developed really really bad acne. From about 7th grade until about my senior year of high school, my face was filled with red blotches and shiny pimples. I know everyone gets it, but I'll bet I got it worse. True story: when I was in 8th grade, a kindergartener asked me if I had chicken pox. I got this acne medication from my doctor that dried up my skin and made it flake off. I would routinely have to shake dead skin out of the folds of my text books in junior high.

Now it's not as if I was a social dynamo to begin with. It wasn't like I had a whole lot else going for me either, so I can't blame it all on the acne. I didn't have a personality, wasn't smart, was scrawny (I say it like it's a bad thing), had a huge nose for my face, and unmanageably thick and straw-like hair. And this was after I got the braces off.

[Side note: It seems like I've never been able to get it all right at the same time. I was a weird kid, then I got normal. Then I got braces. I got the braces off, but then I became a bit of a fat kid. Then I dropped the weight and the acne kicked in. Then the acne goes away and I gain like 50 pounds in college. Then I get glasses. Then I drop some of the weight and get comfortable with my body type, and I start getting thinning hair. It's like I've always been half-dork -- some might say more than half.

There was one, shining one-year period when I was a senior in high school that was like the eye of the nerd hurricane: the acne was going away, I was 180 lbs, no glasses (even though I probably needed them). If I had only had a personality, I would have been a real catch back then. Ah well...]

But when it came to the one thing that set me apart from my peers at that age, it was the acne. I was never ostracized by my classmates or anything like that, since many of them had it too. Actually, only my bitch sisters and asshole brother used to tease me about it. But I took it, knowing full well that about the time mine started clearing up, those idiots would get it. And they did.

Acne was my mortal enemy for a long time. It was cruel, tormenting condition of the skin caused by dirt and oil. When Noxema and Clearasil and Oxy 10 and all the other acne-cleansing products didn't work, I would sometimes have to practice "vigil-acne" justice. (Haha! Man I'm clever!) I would pop 'em. I would pop the zit out of 'em.

Some people enjoy popping plastic bubbles, I enjoyed popping zits. It wasn't just the perverse pleasure of squeezing all that disgusting stuff out of its fleshy foxhole, or watching the volcano-like eruptions signifying the end of a blemish. It was sweet revenge -- hell, it was the only possible revenge -- against this dermatologist-mocking syndrome that had kept me at a disadvantage all those years. After all, my looks are my livelihood!

There were two particular instances where my Charles-Bronson-in-Death-Wish-like hatred of all things oily and putrescent would produce a most-satisfying result. I would like to tell you about both of them right now. If you are squeamish, you may want to skip to my I Hate Jared from the Subway Commericals entry or something.

The first incident took place in my health class at Fairport High School in 1994. Back then I was a T-Shirt 'N' Jeans guy, unlike the nattily dressed fashion plate I am today. I wore a black Vancouver Canucks baseball cap and a black t-shirt that day. There had been an immense, Mount St.Helens-size pimple right at the base of my skull. I knew what it was. There was a large bump there, but it had a putty-like fluidity about it. It was enormous. It actually gave me a headache, this monstrosity. I had been fanagling with it for a few weeks, and I was wondering when it was gonna pop. They always pop, but some take longer than others.

This day, I thankfully got to health class early, before most of the other people did. I set in the second-to-last seat in my row, and the guy who sat behind me (I think his name was Mike, but I wouldn't swear to it) hadn't shown up yet. My hat was on, but right under the snaps was this bump, making the hat uncomfortable to wear because they were rubbing against one another. I placed my two middle fingers on either side of the bump, first massaging it, then tapping it slightly. I wasn't sure if it was ready yet. I decided to test it out. With my two middle fingers flanking the mountainous lump, I pressed in, against my skull, as if I were fastening two snap-on buttons. To my great surprise, my head exploded from the back, shooting a rocket of pus behind me. It looked like the Zapruder film. I never did hear it land. Thank the lord that my classmate Mike had not been sitting behind me, because explaining that one would have been difficult. He has no idea how close he was.

The relief I felt is indescribable. It was like opening a release valve. You could practially hear the "sssssss." One side effect: there was (I'm not kidding) a small hole in the back of my head after that. In fact, when I'm shaved bald you can still see the scar. A small amount of blood actually flowed out of my head and into my hair. Luckily, I just turned the Canucks cap backward, with the brim covering up the blood, and washed it off after class. Very smart on my part. My head is not just a breeding ground for acne, folks.

The second incident took place at the Art Museum in Philadelphia in 2000. There was a very promiment pimple I had had for probably 8 or 9 years on my forehead. It sat dead-center, about an inch and a half directly above my nose, and it was the one blemish on my otherwise relatively smooth (and growing) forehead. This zit had been my albatross for years. This thing was so deep that no amount of cleaning or buffing or attempted-popping could get it out.

In early 2000, I had had enough. One day, when I was alone, I took the business end of a corkscrew (it was the sharpest object I could find at the time), went to a mirror, and dug into this thing. It was as if I were trying to excavate a corpse from a grave. Not that I've ever tried to do that. I was unable to fully remove the blemish, but I must have jostled something.

I was visiting my friend Tony in Philadelphia. We went to the art museum and did the "Rocky" thing at the top of the stairs and it was all very amusing to us. Inside the museum, my head began itching or something. I touched the pimple that I had been trying to dispose over for the better part of a decade. I used the same technique I had used before -- the pressing toward the skull -- except this time it was with my index fingers. It wouldn't budge. I tried again; nothing. One more time, with all the force I could muster, and with an inward "wedge" motion, using my fingernails, I gave it one last try. And to my delight, at long last, it finally popped. No longer would I have to deal with this distracting piece of flesh marring my otherwise perfect face. Okay, yes, it bled, and yes there is a small scar there, but it's not half as distracting as it once was.

So there it is. Kids out there with acne, fear not. You'll get the best of it eventually. These pimples may arrogantly sit on your face now, but they don't know that one day, they will meet an untimely demise.

The Best Songs of 1978 - 2002 (Now With Extra Bitching!)

Back in 2002 VH-1 came out with a list they called "The Best Songs of the Last 25 Years." This was back when television (and most of pop culture) was list-crazy. Call it end of millennium obsessive compulsion, which I now have.

I guess they settled on 1978 and after so they didn't have to make another list riddled with the Beatles, the Stones, Bob Dylan, David Bowie, the Bee Gees and all the usual players. So for trying to branch out a little, I gave VH-1 some credit.

However, I was so infuriated by some of the choices on the list that I made a song-by-song critique as sort of a catharsis. I am posting the list, with my comments, strictly for posterity. Feel free to ignore it.

But first, the legend (and no, I'm not referring to Tom O'Connor):

After each song is a "YES," "NO," or "MAYBE." This indicates with whether I agree (YES), disagree (NO) or am ambivalent (MAYBE) about each selection.

$ = Sellout song; a song a group used to deviate from their fan base for more money
@ = Anthem of the times; landmark of its year/movement
! = Overrated even in its own time, but perhaps more so now
* = Outstanding songwriting
& = Much better available songs by same artist

Let's begin then:

1. Nirvana, “Smells Like Teen Spirit" (YES. Although I think the song is unbelievably overrated at face value, there is no denying it’s influence. I would not put it at number one, but I recognize its importance, even while acknowledging that it’s not as great a SONG as people think. ) @!

2. Michael Jackson, “Billie Jean” (YES. Phenomenal. It was timely at the time, but it’s still grooving now. It’s amazing how good his music was back then.) @

3. Guns N’ Roses, “Sweet Child O’ Mine” (MAYBE. It was the first one, but “Paradise City” was more rocking, “Welcome to the Jungle” more influential and timeless, and “Patience” better written. It’s a good song, but not #3.) &

4. Eminem, “Lose Yourself” (YES. I’m skeptical of mainstream rap so it took me a while to come around to this song. But if you listen to the lyrics, this is truly a transcendent song, in both content and structure. Eminem is a virtuoso here, and he has never quite duplicated it.) *

5. U2, “One” (MAYBE. Again, is this really their best? I would put “Sunday Bloody Sunday” or “Angels of Harlem” above this. But I’m not a Bono-head, am I?) &

6. Run-D.M.C., “Walk This Way” (YES. Effectively ushered rap into the mainstream. Not only culturally significant, but it’s a great tune. A moment frozen in time, if you ask me.) @

7. Prince, “When Doves Cry” (YES. A hallmark of electronic music. The lyrics are a little odd, but that’s part of its charm.) @
8. Whitney Houston, “I Will Always Love You” (NO. If ever there were a more corporate attempt at manufacturing feeling and emotion, I’ve yet to see it. This song is a travesty.) ! &

9. The Police, “Every Breath You Take” (YES. The fact that it’s overplayed aside, this is a gem. Haunting. But it is incredibly overplayed, and I wouldn’t put it top ten.) @ *

10. Madonna, “Like a Virgin” (NO. “Material Girl,” yes. “Papa Don’t Preach,” sure. I’ll give you “Borderline” if you want. This one is her most vapid and least fun.) &

11. Van Halen, “Jump” (YES. One of the best keyboard solos this side of Rick Wakeman, and DLR in his prime. An icon of 80s hair rock.) @
12. Alanis Morissette, “You Oughta Know” (YES. Maybe this song was about Dave Coulier and maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the lyrics are way too obvious. But few songs capture the bitterness of a bad breakup like this song. And it is catchy.) @

13. TLC, “Waterfalls” (NO. Just because this was catchy and obvious doesn’t make it a good song. It’s more of a guilty pleasure) !

14. Sinead O’Connor, “Nothing Compares 2 U” (YES. I gotta say, it’s a great song. Her rendition is very heartfelt, so much so that I can’t even let her bullshit get in the way of that.) *

15. Pink Floyd, “Another Brick in the Wall (Part 2)” (YES. A great song, bombast and all.) @

16. No Doubt, “Don’t Speak” (NO. Preposterous. In the top 20? I could have expected “Spiderwebs,” but this pompous crap?) !

17. Def Leppard, “Photograph” (MAYBE. It’s a fine song, but is it really a standout from a lot of the arena rock of the 1980s? I would have expected “Pour Some Sugar on Me” for them.)

18. R.E.M., “Losing My Religion” (NO. Thematically it’s a rip-off of #9, and it was massively overrated when it came out. No hook, no chorus, pretentious as it gets. If you absolutely must put an R.E.M. song on there, make it “It’s the end of the world…”) !

19. Public Enemy, “Fight the Power” (YES. Although it’s hardly their best song, it’s the most accessible and the one they’re known for. “Don’t Believe the Hype” and “Night of the Living Baseheads” are better, less obvious songs, but this one made them look like revolutionaries.)

20. AC/DC, “You Shook Me All Night Long” (YES. The fact that it’s overplayed now shouldn’t overshadow the fact that it’s a really good song.) @
21. U2, “With or Without You” (MAYBE. I must say I think this song is overrated, although I think I may be the only person to think so. They have much better out there.) @ &

22. Cyndi Lauper, “Time After Time” (MAYBE. Cyndi plays it pretty straight with this song, but “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” is her true best.) &
23. Prince, “Little Red Corvette” (MAYBE. When you think of Prince songs, this isn’t the most memorable of them. “1999” is more influential, “Raspberry Beret” more catchy.) &

24. Celine Dion, “My Heart Will Go On” (NO. Is there anyone who wasn’t over 13 years old and a girl in 1997 who truly thinks this is a good song? Pathetic, VH1, pathetic.) !

25. Rick James, “Super Freak” (YES. A terrific groove. He’s a pretty horrible human being, but it’s a great post-disco song.) @

26. Bon Jovi, “Livin’ on a Prayer” (YES. It’s between this and “Wanted Dead or Alive” but when you compare this song to their recent output, you forget how hard these guys rocked, once.) @

27. Grandmaster Flash, “The Message” (YES. It’s the first rap song with any kind of social commentary. The beat is one that has become legendary.)

28. Britney Spears, “... Baby One More Time” (NO. Seriously, who’s making this list?)

29. Bruce Springsteen, “Born in the U.S.A.” (YES. This probably should have been listed higher if only for its cultural impact the year it came out.)

30. Janet Jackson, “Nasty” (MAYBE. Very popular, kind of a cool song, but all of Janet’s songs run together somehow.)

31. Dr. Dre feat. Snoop Doggy Dogg, “Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang” (NO. It was popular, but it was one of the worst songs on “The Chronic” and turned rap into shitty synthesized crud.) $

32. Pearl Jam, “Jeremy” (YES. The apogee of their songwriting and a hallmark of the era.) * @

33. Tina Turner, “What’s Love Got to do With It” (YES. A great pop song of the ‘80s that Tina lucked into.) @

34. Peter Gabriel, “In Your Eyes” (MAYBE. Again, do people really love the song, or is this because of “Say Anything…”? I prefer “Sledgehammer.”)

35. The Sugarhill Gang, “Rapper’s Delight” (YES. From a purist’s standpoint, this is a travesty since they didn’t even write the lyrics, but this is a great song.) @

36. Joan Jett, “I Love Rock ’n Roll” (YES. The fact that a female singer can sound this hard is awesome.)

37. Alicia Keys, “Fallin'” (YES. A smash, even though it looks destined to be a one-hit wonder.)

38. The Clash, “London Calling” (YES. Completely underrated. I wonder if the “gurus” at VH1 would have even put this on if Joe Strummer hadn’t recently died.) @

39. Tom Petty, “Free Fallin'" (MAYBE. Hmmmm… I don’t know. This was popular in its day, but I don’t think it’s stood the test of time to be considered an outstanding song.)

40. Michael Jackson, “Beat It” (YES. This song is still as fresh and fun as it was when I was 8 yrs old.) * @

41. Red Hot Chili Peppers, “Under the Bridge” (MAYBE. The song is well-written, and a nice departure from their thrashing they-wish-they-could rap junk, but I’m not 100% sold.)

42. Blondie, “Heart of Glass” (YES. You gotta have one Blondie song on here.)

43. The Go-Go’s, “Our Lips Are Sealed” (MAYBE. “Vacation” should probably be here. It’s actually a decent song, but dated.)

44. Gloria Gaynor, “I Will Survive” (YES. Even though it’s been played out because of the ‘70s revival, it’s still a fantastic tune.) @ *

45. Aerosmith, “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” (NO. You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.) $ ! &

46. Queen and David Bowie, “Under Pressure” (MAYBE. This may be more of a case of the tail wagging the dog. It’s a good song, but honestly, if the exact same recording were made by, say, Men at Work, would people really tout it this highly?) &

47. Shania Twain, “You’re Still the One” (NO. This comes from that terrible time period where ballads were all the rage. This one does not stand out in any way.) !

48. Naughty By Nature, “O.P.P.” (YES. One of the first cases where a legit rap song became popular. It has playfully sexual lyrics and a great hook.) @

49. Journey, “Don’t Stop Believin'” (YES. An anthem of the 1980s. Sweeping, soaring, timeless.) @ *

50. Lenny Kravitz, “Are You Gonna Go My Way?” (YES. Another throwback to hard rock’s glory days. Rockin’ and even the message isn’t heavy-handed.) *

51. George Michael, “Faith” (YES. Great song, one of the great songs of the late-‘80s. Catchy and cool.) *

52. The Rolling Stones, “Start Me Up” (YES. A killer riff, provocative lyrics. It’s old school and it feels like a classic from the ‘60s.)

53. Marvin Gaye, “Sexual Healing” (MAYBE. It exemplifies mediocre R&B of the ‘80s; it’s an okay song, but if it were anyone else beside Marvin Gaye singing it, would it be as popular?)

54. Goo Goo Dolls, “Iris” (NO This song is pure bloated crap. The lyrics are not too bad, but the bombast combined with its constant airplay makes it unbearable.) ! $

55. Talking Heads, “Once in a Lifetime” (YES. Though I prefer “Burning Down the House” this is the one that has more of a lasting image.) @ &

56. Sheryl Crow, “All I Wanna Do” (YES. Fun, folky, wry lyrics. Represents the best of ‘90s pop.) * @

57. Eric Clapton, “Tears in Heaven” (YES. Beautiful, heartfelt, a real touchstone of the time. The reason behind it makes it that much more heartbreaking.) * @

58. The Notorious B.I.G. feat. Puff Daddy & Mase, “Mo Money Mo Problems” (NO. It’s essentially a remake of “I’m Coming Out” with some very suspect lyrics. Any song where the video made more of an impact than the song is sad. I mean, jesus, Ma$e?!) $

59. Meat Loaf “Paradise By the Dashboard Light” (MAYBE. I really don’t like Meat Loaf as a rule, but this song is very popular and has made a bit of a comeback. It’s certainly better than the schlock Loaf put out in the ‘90s.)

60. Santana feat. Rob Thomas, “Smooth” (NO. Endless radio play does not make it a good song. This was an especially weak time for music, considering it was the only thing they played for about a year.) ! $

61. Backstreet Boys, “I Want It That Way” (MAYBE. I can see where they’re coming from, but it’s not as good as “As Long as You Love Me,” but at least it made the list and nothing from fucking N*SYNC did.) & $

62. Pretenders, “Brass in Pocket” (MAYBE. This song is somewhat Special [Spe-cial!], but it’s also a little bland [bla-nd!].)

63. Beck, “Loser” (MAYBE. Not Beck’s best, but sure captures the spirit of it’s time.) & @

64. The Knack, “My Sharona” (YES. Timeless, blasts out of the speakers. Fun and pulsating.) @

65. Nelly, “Hot in Herre” (NO. Great club song, but so worthless. Let’s be serious.) !

66. Squeeze, “Tempted” (YES. This white R&B is better than the fruit of another… or something)

67. John Cougar Mellencamp, “Jack and Diane” (NO. Overrated song, simplistic and pretentious. John Cougar doing more of his “I’m a common person just like you” stuff.)

68. Chic, “Good Times” (YES. Fantastic, extremely influential.) @

69. Mary J. Blige, “Real Love” (YES. This was a darkhorse, but a beautiful song; the best R&B had to offer in the ‘90s.) * @

70. Culture Club, “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me” (NO. Blasé as it gets.) &

71. Dave Matthews Band, “Crash Into Me” (MAYBE. It’s well-written, it’s unique, but I like “What Would You Say” better.) &

72. John Lennon, “(Just Like) Starting Over” (NO. This song just sucks. Pseudo-‘50s garbage. Just because it was after a long absence doesn’t make it good. If it weren’t Lennon, it would never have made the top 5,000 list.) & !

73. LL Cool J, “Mama Said Knock You Out” (YES. It’s the last great rap song of the pre-’92 era. Rugged, pulsating, driving. Take that Moe Dee!) @

74. Hall & Oates, “I Can’t Go for That (No Can Do)” (MAYBE. Yeah, I can go for this. I like “Private Eyes” better, though.)

75. The Ramones, “I Wanna Be Sedated” (MAYBE. It’s not their greatest showcase.) &

76. Eurythmics, “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” (YES. A proto-techno landmark.) @

77. Missy Elliott, “Work It” (NO. I hope to god you’re kidding… we’re talking about 25 years here. What an insult.) !

78. Green Day, “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” (NO. Simple-minded, not well-written. This was written to be a graduation song, and I know because it came out when I graduated – and it still failed to capture any emotion of the event. You’re telling me this is better than ANYTHING Billy Joel has done since 1978?!???) !

79. Destiny’s Child, “Say My Name” (NO. The epitome of shitty lock-step mid-‘90s R&B.)

80. Duran Duran, “Hungry Like the Wolf” (YES. Well-written and melodic, with a killer chorus.) @

81. OutKast, “Ms. Jackson” (MAYBE. If this poll took place 5 years from now, it wouldn’t get a sniff. But the craft is there, it’s a good song.)
82. Soft Cell, “Tainted Love” (YES. Unique, and it was a massive hit.) @

83. Band Aid, “Do They Know It’s Christmas” (YES. But where is “We Are the World”? Encapsulates the Rockers Care 1980s.) @

84. Radiohead, “Creep” (MAYBE. “Karma Police” is a better song, but this one is the on they’re known for.) @ &

85. Eminem, “My Name Is” (MAYBE. Time will tell; this is a very catchy, fun rap song. Great beat. I think there are better rap songs they could have used.)

86. Tracy Chapman, “Fast Car” (MAYBE. Very well-written, but do people still revere it 15 years later?) *

87. The Who, “Who Are You” (YES. Love the synth and the harmony. A radio staple.) @


88. Metallica, “Enter Sandman” (NO. Shame on Metallica, pandering to MTV, with stupid Freddy Kreuger lyrics. Where is “One”?) $ ! &

89. Pat Benatar, “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” (MAYBE. This is one of those songs that is a good movie-trailer song, but doesn’t really hold up that well on its own.)

90. The Police, “Roxanne” (YES. Well-written, rockin’, harmonic.) @

91. Melissa Etheridge, “Come to My Window” (MAYBE. A very good pop song; I can think of 100 better ones.) @

92. Salt-N-Pepa, “Push It” (MAYBE. This is the best they had to offer, but it’s still a dumb song) @

93. Nine Inch Nails, “Closer” (MAYBE. Seminal, ubiquitous, somewhat irritating.) @

94. Cheap Trick, “Surrender” (NO. “Mama’s alright/Daddy’s alright.” This song is just alright, not top 100.)

95. Oasis, “Wonderwall” (MAYBE. Nicely written; I’m probably taking points away because I hate the video/Gallaghers so much.) *

96. Beastie Boys, “(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (to Party!)” (NO. It’s simplistic, no one really likes it except white rock media. So many better songs from them. A novelty at best.) ! &

97. Devo, “Whip It” (YES. This song has stood the test of time for its absurdity and distinctive 1980s sound) @

98. Hanson, “MMMBop” (MAYBE. Catchy and fun, but top 100…?) @

99. Norah Jones, “Don’t Know Why” (YES. A beautiful song that will become a standard someday. The top of its genre, whatever that genre is.) *

100. Madonna, “Ray of Light” (NO. This is an insult. There are about 10 other Madonna songs that could be here. This was Madonna unsuccessfully trying to reinvent herself; it was a blip.) $ &

Throwing Jared Under the Train

I'm watching the pregame for the Packers and Vikings this afternoon, enjoying the amusing banter between Howie and Terry. I'm even enjoying some of the funny commercials for fine companies like Staples and Burger King and FedEx. Just when I'm thinking, "We really are in golden age of commercials," onto my screen comes my arch nemesis.

Fucking Jared.

You know Jared. He's that guy who used to be really really fat, but then he ate 2 Subway sandwiches per day and walked a mile to the Subway restaurant and lost something like 280 lbs or something. I think they started the marketing campaign in like 2001.

At first, I found his story inspiring. A really fat bloated tub of cellulite who started eating more healthily and changed his life. He lost enough that he was even able to find a woman to marry him.

It's as if they were marketing directly toward me. All the appeal was there: I already love Subway sandwiches, I hate fat people and I'm inspired by people who change their lives by dropping pounds. Happy Gilmore himself wouldn't have been a better spokesperson at first.

But the Subway people never took into account the possibility that maybe they should have ditched this marketing campaign long ago. Jared's tale was all well and good when they would just show a picture of his previously fat ass and then flash forward to his new thinner, but still collossally dorky frame, eating a delicious sub from Subway. Very nice, I'll have a Veggie Delite with low-fat mayo because of you, Jared.

But then the Subway people made a fatal mistake: they allowed the prick to speak. At first, it was no big deal. Jared seemed like a dorky guy who just wanted others to eat better and get in shape like him. He would hold his enormous pants up to his newer body and say, something like, "I can thank Subway for the fact that I'm not a fat fucking bastard anymore," or whatever. But since then, Jared's aw-shucks charm has given way to a very unlikable Jared.

Have you noticed it? First of all, he has that problem with speaking. His pronunciation and diction are fine, but the way he speaks is irritating beyond belief. He has that incedibly annoying sibilant "S" that makes sentences like "So stop into Subway for a small soda and a tasty sweet chicken teriaki sub" unbearable to listen to. Neighorhood dogs agree.

Also, every time he speaks, his mouth opens up to twice the normal size of a regular human being. Have you noticed this? When you speak to a friend or co-worker, your mouth probably only opens up as much as it has to. But when Jared speaks, his lips contort as if he were attempting to stretch them out. You know when you have a bag of balloons, and you pull one out, and before you blow it up, you stretch it out a few times to improve its elasticity? Well, Jared does this with his mouth every time he talks on television. It looks like Drew Barrymore and Mary Jo Buttafuoco have joint custody demonic possession of his mouth and are trying to pull it in opposite directions. Seriously, how this douchebag found a wife is beyond me.

Oh, and don't even get me started on his recent condescending attitude. Okay, I get it, you lost a shitload of weight from eating healthy sandwiches and whatnot. It doesn't mean you have the right to talk down to me or any other person watching television at that particular time. There's one where he starts talking about McDonald's, I think it might be their Chicken Selects. Jared starts talking to me as if I'm a stupid fat idiot for eating them. He's like, "You know, you shouldn't eat them. They've got a lot of fat in them, and if you eat them you'll look like I used to. So you're stupid if you eat them. Are we clear? Have I made my point? You get the picture? You laughing now? Yeah, I thought so, fatty." I mean, can you ever get into a conversation with this guy about something where he doesn't mention how much weight he dropped by eating Subway? I doubt it.

I'm sure what Jared is thinking is, "I used to be a fat nerd. But now you can't say that! I'm not fat anymore! You are! You're fat because you eat that delicious... I mean, that unhealthy swine! You're an idiot if you don't eat Subway sandwiches every day of your life! Look at me, every commercial I'm walking with a tray carrying a healthy Subway sub and a diet drink, and I'm a somebody! I'm a somebody!!!![begins weeping]" It's all becoming very uncomfortable to watch.

Even if Subway's revenue has jumped 300% (which I'm sure it has) due to Jared's story, when are they going to realize that no matter how much thinner this guy is because of eating their subs, he is a terrible salesman. He's actually making me want to eat Big Macs and gain weight just to spite him. That way I could say to him, "I may be a fat bastard, but I'm still cooler than you. And I'm not even cool!" I'm hoping it would cause him to gain it all back. That would be hilarious. That dude's a dick.

I Got To Be On the TeeVee!

People always say that before Christmas is a busy time, and I suppose that's true, although when it comes to shopping I tend to confine all my purchasing to one or two days. Most people like to spread the shopping out over several weeks, or even months. To this I say, "F*ck you!" It is for this reason that credit card companies and large producers of goods are able to push the start of the "Christmas Season" back to got-damn Hallowe'en. And yes, I will use the olde english spelling of Hallowe'en, thank you very much. Just be glad I didn't use the term "All Hallow's Eve" because I do it, I swear I will.

Anyway, I could get into the benefits of compressing Christmas shopping into 2 trips, lasting a total of about 16 hours, but I'd rather quickly run through the events of the last 7 days or so. Now for you this laundry list of activities may seem humdrum, but for someone like me whose nights usually consist of doing Tai Chi in front of a mirror like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now, this week was positively humming with activity. Here goes:

Friday (Christmas Eve): Had the day off. Spent the afternoon at KJ's moms's place. Beat KJ and her sister Donna at the Saturday Night Live Trivial Pursuit game (naturally, I rarely lose, except when playing Dan Banazek). That selfsame day, drove to Rochester to see my family. My brother and I blocked everyone else out of a crab-dip breadbowl. I explained to my aunt (who is sort of a nun, but not really) about rap music. We ate and played the Trivial Pursuit, '90s edition, which my sister Eileen and I dominated (naturally, since that sonofabitch Dan Banazek wasn't there this time either).

Saturday (Christmas Day): Got an iPod. The rest of the day is a blur set to a soundtrack of nearly 900 songs.

Sunday: Bills beat the crap out of the 49ers. Jitter, Javen and TT come to town from Buffalo, where they had gone on a wing tour. Very nice time at the Change of Pace. Everyone got a little tipsy, and I got to talk to my boy Dave for a couple hours. We talked about college and Transformers and all sorts of stuff. Didn't get as wild as I had expected, but it was fun.

Monday: After work was another blur as I explored the true depth of the iPod's value. This topic should be a blog by itself. I now have over 1,000 songs on the damn thing and haven't even scraped the surface of it's capacity. Good lord what a technological leap forward this thing is.

Tuesday: V-Day. We had an early basketball game after work, and we came to play. Our team, the Change of Pacers, went up against our arch-nemesis, Chadwick's, or as we have dubbed them, Chumpwick's. We have a history with this team/bar, both on and off the court....

Change of Pace is about 2 or 3 miles away from Chadwick's, but Chadwick's is within walking distance of my house. So back in August Toastie and I went there, and Willie met us there. Willie came in and ordered a drink. The bitch bartender looked at his ID and said, "I can't read this, you have to leave." Will has a Massachussets ID, and he doesn't drive, so his ID is a little worn out, and the date of birth is feint, but readable. Regardless, the one thing on the ID that is absolutely readable is the year of birth. And that year of birth is in the 1970s. Now, I don't profess to be a master of mathematics, but in the year 2004, if someone was born on, say, December 31, 1979, the last possible day of the 1970s, that person would be ... right, 24 years old, well over the legal alcohol consumption age. The bartender would not let Will drink, to which Will replied, "How come I've been in hear a hundred times and they've served me before?" The barkeep only said, "You haven't been here when I've been working." So she made Will stand outside while Toastie and I finished our beer. We vowed never to return to this Yankees-Steelers (???) bar.

But that's not all...

In our first basketball game with Chumpwick's in Novemeber, they acted like a bunch of assholes. First of all, we only had 6 people, and one of them, Cliff, went down with a knee injury in the first half, which meant we played the entire second half with only 5 players, and I am out of shape. They are not a more talented team than us, but they were showboating the entire second half because they opened up a big lead on us. They have mostly a couple of fat white guys, one tall black dude, and a couple of gold chain-wearing, chinstrap-brandishing, lanky wiggers who try to zig in and out of the lane for layups. None of these fuckers can shoot, they hook the arm every chance they can, and they were talking shit. But the last straw? At the end of the game, with less than 5 seconds left, they had a fast break. Toastie ran down to try to stop the ballhandler. Another team member jumped in front of Toastie and blocked him from getting to the defender, as the ballhandler slam-dunked it. This was with a 30-some point lead with 2 seconds left. Total bushleague move. The ref waived it off so it didn't count, but it just shows the kind of bullshit character that squad has.

Anyway, this game we had 6 people: Me, Will, Toastie, Toastie's Dad, Dino and Jaime. We were ready for these fat fucks this time. They tried to muscle us inside, we muscled 'em right back. They had no other game. Now that we have learned to play physical defense, they had no answer. Willie and Dino shot the lights out from 3-point range, and since they can't shoot from outside layup range (and even that is only about 50%), they got frustrated, yelling at the refs and trying to hold and hook and cheat. But this time, we beat them. This was our first legit win in the league, and frankly I don't care if it's our last. It was so satisfying to take our 5 core guys who have been there for every single game this year (plus Jaime, a newcomer who played great) and beat these pricks with solid, clean basketball.

Wednesday: We weren't able to retain our victorious mojo for trivia at Clark's on Wednesday, but Toastie did have a very nice young lady notice his Red Sox hat and strike up a conversation with him, which was nice. Everyone mocked her after we left the bar, but I thought it was nice. He should have said, "See you next Wednesday" but he wasn't thinking clearly. Apparently none of us were, judging by our score.

Anyway, Jaime got hungry for "buffalo chicken anything," so we went to Tully's on Erie Blvd to order up ridiculous amounts of fatty foods. While there, a reporter from the local Channel 9 news must have noticed my Syracuse University hat and came to our table to ask us if we had any opinion on the recent firing of SU football coach Paul Pasqualoni being fired. We threw in a few comments, and she said, great, we're going live in about 5 minutes. I went to the restroom to primp a bit, but I looked like shit. Unshaven and bloated. But I got to be on TV. And while I haven't seen the tape, I think I did pretty well. Most of the people they interview for things like this seem like they have not much to say on the topic or can't speak in the English language. So all I wanted to do was not freeze up on camera (put your hands out of your field of vision, that's the first rule) and speak as if I had any idea what I was talking about. I didn't freeze, so that was good, and I think I did alright in the speaking department. Whether I had a clue what I was talking about is up for debate, but at the end I got to give a little wink to the camera and that's all I ever wanted to do.

I was wondering if anyone would have seen me on the news, since it was the 11:00 broadcast and many people are asleep, but a bunch of people from work told me the next day that they saw me, so I was able to walk around with an arrogance about me that said, "I was on local television for nearly 3 minutes!" I think people respect that.

A Hodgepodge of Miscellany

I've been a lazy bastard and therefore haven't been able to put together a coherent enough thought to put together a proper blog, so I thought I'd just do some spitballin' and give a random sampling of the last few weeks inside my melon. I can't promise that it will be as brilliant as Larry King's USA Today column, but what young writer could be expected to reach the prosaic altitude of that literary jabberwocky? Wanna hear it? Here it go:

+ I have watched the movie Dodgeball at least 8 times in the last 14 days. I assure you I am not exaggerating. I saw it in the theater the second or third week it was out and I loved it. Then I rented it and all the good jokes came back. But after the half-dozenth time, I'm catching nuances I never really caught before. You probably think I'm an idiot, and you're not wrong, but I think Dodgeball is destined for cult classic status. Interesting tidbit: the director, Rawson Marshall Thurber, also directed the brilliant "Terry Tate: Office Linebacker" commercials for Reebok.

+ Our fortnight of dominance and Clark's Ale House trivia Wednesdays came to an end today. We had tied for first place the last two weeks, but tonight we were undone by a holiday theme with a positively bah-humbug team. We had some key mistakes, but we still hung tough. Plus, we got to drink good beer cheaply in a great bar. Team BoHall will return and we will be angry.

+ A CD I have been listening to a lot is The Creek Drank the Cradle by Iron and Wine. Apparently Iron and Wine isn't a group and isn't two guys named Mike Iron and Steve Wine. It's one dude (I think his name is Sam Beam) and his first album sounds like it was recorded as a 4-track demo, but the music and the songwriting is just gorgeous. Lots of songs with a folky southern sound that is not twangy at all. Just beautiful. It captures such a sense of loss and loneliness, but also faint hope. I don't have the latest album, Our Endless Numbered Days, yet, but I can't wait to get it. It reminds me, if this makes any sense at all, of "All the Real Girls," a beautiful film directed by David Gordon Green (and to a lesser extent, the same director's "George Washington"). Southern, but not fraught with down-home cliches or phony bombast. It's gentle and taps into real-life emotions. The south is only a setting for universal anguish in the film and the album, not a contrived character in and of itself.

+ I'm back into "black person" rap. For a while I was hardcore into the "backpacker" school, which basically meant white people rapping. Your Sage Francis, your Eyedea and Abilities, your Aesop Rock, Anticon, Buck 65, what have you. I still really like it, but for a while I was shunning the other stuff for this breed of whiteboy hip hop (and if you mention the letters M&M to me, I'll tell you to get the fuck out of my face, rookie). I was in a more cerebral place then, lyrically. Now, I'm back into the grooves and into the anger that I grew up with. It feels good to be back.

+ The new year always makes me feel cautiously optimistic. I feel so much hope, so much excitement every January 1. I'm not sure why, but I always have. 2003 was categorically great for me, so I knew that it had to take a downturn in '04, which it did to a certain extent. 2004 is probably the most eventful year of my life, in terms of major events, both good and bad. It's been a real whirlwind over the last 12 months, and I can't believe how fast it's gone. I really hope I can get my bearings back in 2005, because I feel very off-kilter right now, like I'm in limbo somehow. It's as if someone threw a ball up in the air, and right now I'm at the apex, only to come down on one side or the other. Sounds like a horoscope, I know, but that's where I am. I'm excited and terrified at what 2005 has lined up for me.

+ Arrested Development is clearly the best show on TV. Nothing else is even close, in my opinion. The episode a few weeks ago where everyone was walking like Charlie Brown with their heads down was comic genius.

+ Our basketball team had a strong showing the other night. We did lose by 15, but we were respectable in every phase of the game. Our defense and rebounding is much improved, our ball-movement is exponentially better, communication is improving. Here are our problems, still: only a couple of true shooters on the team, severe height disadvantage, some ball-handling errors (though that's been offset somewhat by our strong passing of late). We aren't getting bullied inside anymore, we're much more physical, and our transition game is improving, though still not great. We won our first game last week by forfeit, but we're improving and playing is starting to become fun again.

+ I think I spend far too much time in front of a computer. I do it all day at work, and then I come home and much of the time I'm back on it here. I'm not a computer freak or anything, but instead of watching tv or something after work, I find myself feeling much more at home at the keyboard. Maybe it's making me asocial and depressed to a certain extent, but I can't seem to stop it. I mean it's fifteen minutes until 1AM on a school night and I'm still on this damn thing, aren't I?

+ I'm going bald and I'm getting old. This makes Billy very unhappy. I have a good head for baldness, I'll always say, but I don't want to rush it. I wish I could afford Rogaine or one of those damn hair-grower products, but I'm sure I couldn't. This upcoming in a month and a half will be my last birthday in my 20s. That is a sobering reality for me. I remember my 20th birthday, never thought back then that I'd be where I am now, for better or worse. I'm too young for a mid-life crisis, but maybe I'm having one. Being out of shape doesn't help. I wish there was a way to hate food. Maybe if I start cooking it myself...

+ I have to be up in six hours, and right now, that doesn't feel like a lot. I wish I was already asleep...

This is little 1.5 year old Lily Mae Flanders. She is adorable, as if you couldn't tell already. 

The Big Six-Ugh

My moms had her 60th surprise birthday on Saturday, December 11, 2004. It was actually her actual birthday. Now, for most people, something like this would go off, as they say, without a hitch. Most people, of course, are not my family. I think before my relatives came off the boat, before they changed the last name to Shannon, it must have been Murphy, you know the one who had a law named after him. Maybe they wanted to sound less Irish, I don't know.

Overall, the shindig went very well. Nice turnout, my mom was genuinely surprised, and I could tell she had a really nice time. But before I get to that, let's just make a quick rundown of all the stuff that went wrong:

1) No one was there to open the door. Now, this seems like a small oversight on the part of the Monroe County Parks and Recreation Department. But when my brother called and said no one was there to open the place at 10:00 AM, we got a little uneasy. My dad began to slightly panic, and a slight panic for my dad is like a major panic for just about anyone else. My dad panics about not taking out the trash. I wasn't panicked, I was pissed. I'm not one of these people who gets all uppity and mad about things and calls places and asks to speak to supervisors and threatens to call lawyers and all that shit, but I left a very pissed-off message with the answering machine that they had at the county. My brother, a rookie cop, had to call in a bunch of contacts he knew from "the force" to bust into the place. I, of course, thought it would be so much cooler if he just shot the lock or kicked the door down, but my bro must be one of those "by-the-book" cops. When everything was over and we were cleaning up, I wish we hadn't mopped and swept up. If the county tried to charge extra for not cleaning up, we could have said, Well, we weren't even able to get in, how could we have made a mess?

2) We nearly started a small electrical fire due to a faulty fuse or something in a coffee machine. We're putting up streamers and balloons and crap and suddenly there is a loud pop. I look over by the kitchen area and see several bursts of fire like firecrackers. Someone got the smart idea to actually pull the coffee machine away from the wall, causing the plug to pull away from the outlet. The place was made mostly of brick, and there was a fire extinguisher close by, so it wouldn't have been horrific, but it gave the old folk quite a scare.

3) My dad was supposed to bring my mom at 1:00 so we could have a somewhat large contingent of people do the old "surprise" move when my mom showed up. Instead, he shows up at ... 12:15! My brother says, "Yeah, that's dad's car, they're here." We were still doing prep work and my dad shows up 45 minutes early. Well, turns out my mom's sisters wanted her to show up early so she could spend a little time with the family before all the other folks arrived, but it was a little weird to have this big empty hall and about a dozen people saying "surprise" when we were really the ones caught off guard.

Other than that, everything went very well. I saw people I haven't seen in several years. It was nice to see a nice mix of older, younger and middling folk. I think my mom really enjoyed seeing all these old friends and family members. My mom had a pretty serious injury a couple of months ago, and I think it took a toll on her psyche a little bit. But she was right in her element. My mom is a very sweet woman, and she's always been very good to me. It was nice that everyone was able to show her how much she means to them. To me she really doesn't look 60, either.

A funny thing my mom told me before most of the people showed up: "If I died yesterday [when I was 59], people would have said, 'Oh she died so young.' But if I drop dead tomorrow, they'll say, 'She lived a good, long life.'" Amazing how numbers can color our perception. I'm not even 30, yet that magic number approaches me like the crocodile in Peter Pan that swallowed the clock stalked Captain Hook. 60 years old is more than twice my life away. I can't even fathom that concept.

One thing I realized is that I have almost no capacity for sincerity. Here we were at a very nice event with a bunch of nice people who only came to wish us well, and I tormented them with out-and-out bullshit almost the entire day. Whenever someone would ask me a question like, "What are you doing these days?" instead of telling them what I did, I would make up some phony, preposterous story. And the story would always change. I'm sure I told someone I just escaped from prison. Male modeling was one I used. (It's funny when you look like me and you tell someone you've been doing male modeling with a straight face; their reaction is priceless. It's as if they can't believe it, but don't want you to know they can't believe it. So the look on their face starts as surprise, then morphs into a false sense of being impressed.) I told one very sweet lady with whose son I graduated high school that I never graduated. She had a befuddled, confused look until my mom swooped in and saved me, saying, "Oh Billy, you did so graduate." That's when it comes to bite you in the behind: when you say something that you know is totally ridiculous and yet the person you tell assumes that you would actually tell the truth about something and believes you. On one hand I felt kind of bad for being such a charlatan most of the day, but on the other hand I have to admit, I was on.

Another thing I learned about myself: beer and more than 1 slice of birthday cake will put me to sleep before 8 PM. Every single time.

Stupid Things I've Done: The Mayonnaise-on-the-Shirt Trick

I'm starting a new, hopefully recurring part of my blog today called "Stupid Things I've Done." I'm hoping that these things will be so stupid as to make you laugh, not just plain old stupid things, like the time I put a homemade pizza in the oven on a wooden rack, not thinking that wood burns and often catches on fire at high temperatures. That's not funny-stupid, it's dangerous-stupid.

Today's will be a mild example, but I think it's a good idea of what a complete imbeclie I can be. Enjoy!

Summer 1998

I was taking an English class at Le Moyne College, not having realized that I was exactly one class short to get my degree. It was the summer after what was supposed to be my senior year, and I stayed on campus for the summer to paint dorm rooms and take this one class. The class was called "Perspectives in Literature" with Dr. Novak, and to this day I would have to say it's the best class I've ever taken. It truly and sincerely changed my life. The class didn't make me smarter though, and I'll prove it.

One fateful summer day I went to class clad in jeans, a baseball cap and a white t-shirt. I don't remember what the t-shirt said on it, but like I said, it was white. The class was four hours long, and consisted of a woman with some sort of foreign accent (don't remember what kind, but I think it was German), a guy who was training to be a cop, a woman who I think worked at a grocery store, and myself. I'm no genius obviously, but I was like the ringer of this class. The class's participants were less a collection of scholars than people you would see at a defensive driving course for people who crashed into stop signs or something. I felt so bad that Dr. Novak, one of the most insightful professors I ever had, had to deal with this collection straight out of "Summer School."

Mercifully, the class was half over, so I headed down the barren staircase of Le Moyne's Grewen Hall down to the lower level where the Dolphin Den was located. The Den was the place where you could go and get pretty good, cheap food, watch some TV, play some old old video games, and sometimes study in peace. It was usually packed during the school year, but during summer, no one showed up.

Anyway, to speed things up, I ordered some sort of sandwich that had sauce on it. I think it may have been a chicken parmasean sandwich or something like that. It was delicious, I'm sure. But in the course of eating the sandwich, I -- as is my custom -- dripped some of the sauce on my shirt. My heretofore pristine, white shirt. Now, there was a huge red glob in the middle of my shirt, and I had to go back to class with it. There wasn't enough time to run back to my dorm and get a new shirt. Here I was, thinking I was the smart one in the class, and now I had a stupid stain on my shirt. I was gonna look like an idiot!

Quickly, I thought, how can I rectify this? I ran to the restroom and tried rubbing it out with a wet piece of toilet paper, but that didn't work. It just made a wet spot around the stain which further magnified it. How could I cover this up?! I've got it!

I went to a condiment station where one could pick out any of a number of items: napkins, straws, ketchup, mustard, salt, pepper. I saw my salvation; my embarrassment was to be spared by the Hellmann's company. Mayonnaise is white, I thought, and my shirt is white. White on white! It's perfect.

I went back to my table, a packet of mayonnaise and a napkin in hand, ready to undo the cruel past. I proceeded to rip open the packet of mayo, put it on a napkin, and ... wait for it... WIPE IT ON MY SHIRT. This was my brilliant solution. Hindsight being 20/20, I didn't realize two things about mayonnaise that I should have anticipated: 1) Mayo isn't really white when it's taken out of a jar or packet, it's actually closer to yellow. 2) Mayo is made of eggs and vinegar, and therefore not odorless.

Well now I snapped out of my moronic daze and realized what a fuckup I really was. I went back to class with this nasty yellowish blotch covering up a red blotch on my shirt and finished the last two hours of the class. No one said anything about the stain, but they noticed. They noticed...

This was fun.

A Couple Pics from the SU-St.Bonaventure Game

Toastie enjoying the game despite my incredibly hairy hands 

Jav, Willie, Me, Toast after the game 

Javen, Bill and Toastie after the game 

For Whom the Credit Card Machine Declines

As if going to the mall isn't bad enough, technology -- which is meant to make our lives simpler -- screwed me over today. Today, technology cost me $2.00 in ATM fees. You owe me, Technology! Pay up, bitch!

I haven't been to the mall since before Thanksgiving, and there's good reason for it. I hate the mall. And I mean I really really hate it. Not any specific mall, but all malls.

When I was a teenager of about 15 or 16, I loved the mall. And I mean really really loved it. I got my first job when I was 16. (I'm a late bloomer in a lot of things: didn't get my driver's license until age 18, didn't get drunk for the first time until later that same year. I've still never "done it" with another dude.) The job was at Richardson's Canal House in Bushnell's Basin in Rochester. I'm told it was a very good restaurant, the former owner even had a license plate that said "5 Star." She was a real bitch. She's not my boss anymore so I can say that.

My boy Cialini actually got me the job there. He and I worked like dogs at that place. We were dishwashers, but in addition to that very important task, we also mopped floors, broke down boxes, peeled green beans and all sorts of other skilled duties. The kitchen was always hot as hell, the waiters were assholes, as were some of the people that worked there. My boss, Dave, was a raging prick. In fact, one Saturday night when I came into work he yelled at me because I had left early the night because I had to take my SATs that morning. He said to me, "That's bullshit. I oughta fire your ass right now. [Long pause.] I'm not gonna but I should." Yeah, you're not gonna because your ass is gonna be down your only dishwasher for the night. To this day I wish I had said, "Go ahead and fire me, bitch. Go ahead." He never would have done it, he would have been screwed. That very same night he got violently ill and had to spend several weeks in the hospital. He ended up being okay, but I never saw Dave again. I put in my two-weeks notice the next week.

Anyway, I'm getting way off track. The mall. Yes, working in that hell's-kitchen was always worth it, because every other Saturday or so, Cialini and I would cash our paychecks and then spend the bulk of it at Camelot Music at Eastview Mall. Over the course of the 8 months of my junior year of high school, I wouldn't be surprised if I spent close to $900 on CDs and (mostly) cassette tapes. Mike and I listened pretty much only to rap music at the time, so we would snap up all the new releases, then go home and "dub" them off each other (this was before downloading and burning, young children). I actually would calculate my paychecks in terms of how many rap tapes I could buy with it. Back then, tapes were about $8.99, so with tax they were just right around $10, so if my check for the week was $120, I would think, "Wow, I can get 12 tapes this week!" CDs were usually about $17 back then. Of course, at chain record stores they still are. I had no idea you could go to a indie record store and get CDs for like $11. This is why I have three large plastic crates positively overflowing with cassettes. That's forward thinking, eh?

I was so obsessed with stretching my cassette tape dollar, that I became a cheap son of a bitch when it came to spending money on anything else. In fact, once I was at the mall with my brother Mike and his friend (I think his name was Rajit, sarcastic little Indian kid), and they were hungry, so we went to Burger King. It was right across the way from Camelot. I was the only one with a job, so I had the money. My brother and Rajit wanted hamburgers, so I said they could get hamburgers, but no cheese. (I swear this is true.) The cheese would have been 10 cents extra per sandwich, but I put the kibosh on the cheese. Rajit later found a dime on the floor after they ate, and he asked me, "If I bring this up to the register, do you think they'll give me a slice of cheese?" Punk kid.

Was there a point here? I don't know. But the point is, now the mall is the last place I want to go. Not only is it a soul-sucking place of commerce, especially around Christmas time, but it's filled with old, slow-walking people; gaggles of teenagers, girls with shirts too tight, boys with pants too big; loud obnoxious noises everywhere; and all that walking. I hate the walking. I'm always too hot, but I don't want to leave my jacket in the car. It's miserable, but yet I love to buy things, so what else am I going to do?

Today I went to a place that Willie, Toastie and Javen have told me about called Steve & Barry's. They said it was a treasure trove of t-shirts that were usually under $10. And I'm a sucker for "gimmick" t-shirts with wacky or ironic sayings on them. That they know of, there are two stores, one in Albany, one in Auburn. When I got there, I was positively floored by the amount of merch available, and how cheaply. If you ever have a chance to get to one, take it, especially if you are a t-shirt person. Not since the heyday of the soon-to-be-defunct Champion Outlet (moment of silence...) have I seen such reasonably-priced, awesome shirts. They have shirts that range from legit college logos, funny slogans, and the obligatory double-entendre shirts. ("Dick's Wood Shop," "Go Hairy Beavers," et al.)

I got 5 shirts: four for myself, one for someone else. The shirts I got for myself are one that says "I'm with Stupid" and has an arrow pointing upward, one that has the "Parental Advisory, Explicit Content" logo on it, one baseball-type shirt that just says "Buffalo" (awesome!), and one that says "Canada" with a logo of a hockey player taking a slap shot. For all these shirts, I paid $27.

Well... I tried to pay $27, but unfortunately, Steve and Barry were having a bit of a credit card machine malfunction. I have a check card from Visa that withdraws the money direct from my checking account. The credit card number is 4456 8.... that's not important right now. The problem is that the card "wasn't going through." Rage, who was with me, had a similar problem at the register next to me, but her's was cleared up on the second swipe. With me, the cashier had to call a manager over. Great.

I've worked in retail, and it's a very awkward situation when you have to tell a customer that their card didn't go through. The customer invariably will say, "There's money in there, run it through again," at which point the cashier will gladly oblige, only to advise the customer 15 seconds later that it declined again. Few retail situations are more awkward: for the cashier having to break the news, and for the customer having to be told he has no money.

I'm no stranger to credit card decline. In fact, many years ago when I made less money than I do now -- and I'm still no Michael Bluth when it comes to yearly earnings -- such an occurrance was routine. Every purchase I made with a credit card back then was a fingers-crossed game of chance. This is why many of the major credit card vendors still prefer that I don't use their cards for at least a couple more years.

But this time, I knew I had the money. I went to get an oil change earlier today and the card worked like a charm. LIKE A CHARM! (Good thing, too, because if that hadn't worked, I would have had to have walked home.) I frantically ran outside to check my account balance on my cell phone. Because even know I knew I had the money, I didn't know if I had the money. I punch in my account number, 3024 873... sorry, off track again, and yes, I did have at least a couple hundred bucks to play around with this month. But the people in the store don't know that. The cashier, the manager, the line of people who were waiting for my deadbeat ass to get out of line didn't know that. So I had to walk all around the mall looking for an ATM. (And by the way, I've never been to a mall with such a dearth of ATMs as the Finger Lakes Mall.) I took out the money, and walked back triumphantly to Steve and Barry's with cash in hand, as if to say, "See, haters? I got the money, bee-otch!" But I'm sure they thought I just borrowed the money or beat up some kids for it. I had considered just walking away, not only to save face, but to penalize Steve and Barry's for their faulty computers. But that "I'm with Stupid" shirt? Ha ha! It's priceless! And appropriate.

Maybe in '14...

Today is my 10 year high school class reunion. And I'm not going.

It's not just that it's $70 for a banquet dinner and a cash bar. It's not just that I already had plans for the evening. It's not even that I was just in Rochester for Thanksgiving and going to the reunion would mean having to drive the hour plus back and forth a total of four times in the span of just three days. I mean it is all of those things, but most of all it's that I just have no interest in seeing anyone from my high school class.

I didn't hate high school like some kids hated high school. I wasn't a Columbine-kid-in-waiting or anything. I never got beat up, I didn't get picked on an inordinate amount of times. I wasn't a jock, I wasn't popular, I wasn't "alternative." I just was. Essentially a non-entity. I'm sure if I showed up, maybe a quarter (out of my class of about 550) would remember my name. About half would probably recognize my face (although that looks different now, too). Maybe 10% would look at me and realize that they hadn't thought about me in 10 years. Probably higher than that, actually. A few would come up and say hello, and how am I doing, they're doing great. Got married or have a great job or live in Atlanta. I would have very little of interest to say I'm sure.

I have one friend that I keep in touch with from my high school class. One. I had other friends back then, but my connection to them essentially evaporated after graduation. I still remember my graduation like it just happened. I remember all the people in their red gowns and blue gowns. So many of them were crying. I remember a pretty good male friend of mine coming up to me, eyes welling up with tears, saying, "I can't believe it's over." I nodded and gave a big goodbye bear hug and told him I'd keep in touch, knowing damn well I wouldn't. It was the last time I ever saw him, and it's too bad, because he was a good kid. But even at that moment, I couldn't help thinking, "get me the f**k out of this school."

You can probably many categorize people into two groups: High school people and college people. I was definitely a college person. Nothing wrong with high school people, mind you, but it just wasn't for me. I get a little jealous of people who did really really like going to high school, because I wanted to, and I tried. But instead I used to always get that feeling of dread you get before you go to get a cavity filled. And I got it, more or less, for four years.

I never felt a part of my high school. I still don't really feel like I'm included in that Class of '94 grouping. As if my name was on the roll, but somehow I wasn't actually there. Those years were unbelievably influential in my formation as an "adult" (whether I can yet take the quotes off that last word is still being debated in several circles), but most of the people I hung out with were not actually in my class. I would love to have a huge reunion with all the people who I hung out with when I was in high school, but none of them would be invited to this reunion.

When I went to college, it was hard at first. The first semester was the hardest because of the major transition. At first, I was afraid I wouldn't make any new friends. I'm a pessimist like that. The summer after high school graduation, I always had dreams about walking across wide, bottomless chasms on narrow tightropes. On each ledge would be tall shelves with books. These tightropes took me from classroom to classroom, and this was before I set foot on campus. But that's how overwhelmed I felt at the prospect of leaving home for college. And yes, I know it's only an hour away from home, but for me at that time, I might as well have been in a different time zone.

At first the fact that I did not know one single, solitary person from my high school when I went to college was frightening. But it ended up being the best situation that I could have asked for. Because of my anonymity, I was able to reinvent myself for a new group of people. I didn't have any baggage or any history that I would have to answer for with the new group. Not only could I be myself, but my self changed, now buoyed by a much more supportive group of at-school friends. When you live with someone, you really get to know them, and my floor at Nelligan Hall was extremely tight that first year. I found my niche, for the first time in my life. High school seemed so childish after that.

It's almost a cliche that high school is like its own microcosm of a society. So many kids' social circles consist almost entirely of the people from their schools. And that's why I'd see kids who had endless gaggles of friends traveling around in the hallways and eating in the cafeteria. But how well do you really get to know people by having a couple of classes a day with them? I felt like there weren't that many people from my school who took the time to get to know me. And trust me, I make very bad first-through-fourth impressions. It's around that fifth time that I get ya, usually. But in the on-demand world we live in, most people aren't going to give you that many go 'rounds. This is why "Arrested Development" (the TV show) is probably going to be cancelled, and Arrested Development (the group) won a Grammy or something for that crappy "Tennessee" song. ("A pair of horseshoes. A pair of HORSESHOES!!!") The TV show is hard to get at first, but becomes rewarding once you "get it." The song was accessible but skin-deep.

You would think I am bitter about my high school experience, but I'm truly not. I had a lot of great times during high school, they just usually took place outside the building itself. It's not like if I went to the reunion, I would get drunk and start yelling at the kid who knocked me over in a phys ed lacrosse game or say something rude to the group of girls who laughed at me or any crap like that. But spending time with these people seems to be counterproductive. It would be like a flashback, not to Vietnam, but maybe to an unpleasant date or something.

I remember myself back then, and while I don't dislike that person, that person is no longer me. I feel that if I did go, I would have something to live up to. What, I don't know, but something. Or that I would have to pretend it was good to see people when such a meeting would clearly be mediocre-to-regrettable. And to have to endure the indignity of having to hear how good it is to see me. Please. My parents still live in the same house, if you wanted to get in touch, you could have.

Maybe it's just my own fear of going and having nothing happen. I would hate to think that the four years I spent at high school were of no consequence to others. I'm pretty sure that to be the case, but I'd rather assume I'm just being paranoid of my own insignificance than show up and get real-time confirmation.

My dad's gonna kill me for this. Here's an old album cover of (l-r) my brother, me, my dad and my mom (seated). It's our first album as Country Church, "the most bluegrasstastic quartet east of Topeka!" That's what Lester Bangs said in his 1971 review. He also said the album would "leave you with an grits-eatin' grin from ear to ear till the turd truck gets back from Diarrheaville!" I think that review may have hurt album sales, but we considered it high praise at the time. You'll find the album listed in this month's Blender magazine as a "must-have reissue." Good luck finding it, though. 

Here's a good picture of Me and Will at Clark's Ale House back in February 2004. This is before our acrimonious breakup. 

Ode to Ron Artest

I know what Ron Artest did the other night was pretty inexcusable. There is an unwritten code (in fact, it probably is actually written down) that a player should never ever ever ever go into the stands and beat up a fan. The fans pay good money for their tickets and they have the right to cheer and boo however they want. I know that athletes are generally spoiled brats with money and no concept of consequences (and Artest is the poster child for this type of behavior).

But I loved it.

I'm not going to lie to you. I'm glad Ron Artest ran into the stands like an uncaged rhino and started beating Pistons fans down. I know it could have started a full-scale melee, already being in Riot Capital USA. And I know it was dangerous. But seriously, it was pretty awesome. Admit it, you know it was. Don't lie to me.

Why? Well, how many times have you been to a sporting event where some punk-ass, I-just-turned-21 fucker and all his boys get all liquored up and start acting like assholes. It usually starts with some loud comments pointed at the opposing team, then devolves into profanity (the presence of kids is irrelevant to these jerks), and later, if you're lucky, the picking of fights.

Now, I've been there. I was 21 once, for a whole year, in fact. And not to sound self-righteous, but I always behave myself at sporting events. I get very loud and yes, often boisterous at games, but never have I gotten so drunk or so obnoxious that I started getting borderline violent. (Okay, there was a New England-Buffalo game I went to in September where I got close to that point with some douche-bag Patriots fans, but it was pretty good-natured.)

Pointlessly self-reflexive flashback warning! You can skip this part if you want.

The most obnoxious I've ever been at a sporting event was at a Syracuse SkyChiefs game on July 4th weekend of 2003. I was at the game with the usual cast of characters -- Dan, Javen, Will, Jitter, Phelps, Toastie -- and when I got to the game, they were already drunk, of course. (It was the 2nd inning, after all.) Danny, of course, was really in the bag, and got into a fight with an 11-year old boy about 8 rows ahead of us. The boy was telling Dan he was drunk, to which Dan replied something like, "No shit." Dan and the boy sparred verball briefly, but it never got into anything violent; mostly it was just a philosophical disagreement. I think at one point, the kid actually said, "You're sad," and I think Dan was just loopy enough to actually be slightly hurt by this. But in typical Dan Banazek fashion, he said something to the effect of, "Yeah, well you're sober!" The kid was gone by the 5th inning.

Later on during the game, we were all becoming more intoxicated, but never too rude. We were obnoxious, to be sure, but a fun-loving kind of obnoxious. I was roundly maligned for ordering a medium beer. Will and I began a rousing rendition of Gary Glitter's "Rock & Roll Part 2," a-capella style. I could tell that everyone in our section was completely annoyed by us, although some were amused by a bunch of idiots who were far too old to be acting like such jackasses. The point is, it was never a situation where any other fans would have felt in danger or threatened by us. And let's face it, P&C Stadium is such a sterile environment that it could use a little shakeup once in a while. I'd like to think we provided just that very opportunity.

I don't remember much else about the game, but I do remember, as we were walking to our cars after the game, we continued a surprisingly coherent version of "Rock & Roll Part 2" again. (You may know it as the "da dada daaaa dum...HEY! dada dadum" song they play at nearly every sporting event these days.) And just as the drum solo comes in ("boom ba boom ba boom ba HEY, boom ba boom ba boom ba HEY"), I -- acting as the conductor of this glorious symphony -- started walking backward and shushing everyone with a single index finger to my lips, while tapping the cadence in the air to the imaginary drums. I hadn't realized a flock of onlookers had been staring with amused horror at my stupidity, until Jitter addressed the puzzled mob, pointed at me and said matter-of-factly, "Medium beer, folks." I felt like a real ass.

End of flashback.

There is such a contingent of violent fans these days, and security rarely does anything about it. How many times have your good seats been ruined by some drunken asshole who won't shut his mouth, and security just shakes their head and laugh.

And how much would you love that loudmouth little punk, who's been yelling at some guy for the whole game, have a player come off the field of play and beat the living shit out of him? Well the other night, it happened. My favorite part, incidentally, was the kid wearing the black shirt and glasses in the stands who was laughing it up and clearly mocking Artest, until he realized that big Ron was coming after him. Suddenly his face goes from, "ha ha, you suck Artest" to "holy mother of God it's me the crazy bastard is coming after." Watching that little bitch's face change from drunken laughter to abject horror -- and eventually to "being-bashed-in" -- is a moment I relish. I don't care if he threw the first beer or not. To me it ranks up there with 20/20's John Stossel getting his meat lumped by wrestler David "Dr. D" Schultz" when he asked him if it was fake or not. I hope whoever did throw that first beer got an ass-whoopin' too, because like Dan says, "I can't help but shudder when I think about how much the beer fans were tossing cost."

The great thing about this event is that it sets a precedent. Sure, this is unlikely to happen again in the United States for a long time. But the next time some rowdy shit-kickin' hick gets all lit up on PBR and acting like a degenerate, he has to wonder, in the back of his mind, is that guy gonna come up and kick my ass? He'll consider it, won't he? And maybe he'll shut the fuck up until the National Anthem is finished.

The Four Phases of Me Being Bombed

Phase One: Inebriated Fog


Phase Two: Descent into Peristaltic Distress


Phase Three: Fleeting Relief and Euphoria Due to Little Debbie's Snack Cakes


Phase Four: Vertigo and Loss of Ability to Stand

[picture not available]

Phase Five: Loud Vomiting

Movie Review - Sideways

For the second time in as many weeks, I actually went to the movies. Now, going to the movie theater is one of my favorite things to do. And choice of theater is crucial. There is a beautifully rickety "movie house" on Westcott Street in Syracuse, where they play a lot of independent and low-budget fare. So if it's a choice between going to the Westcott or going to the mall, I choose the Westcott every time. It's the kind of place my mom and dad used to take me when I was a kid. (In Rochester, there are no theaters in the mall, only near them. By the way, if you're ever in Roch, the best theater is The Little Theatre on East Ave, a great venue for fans of indies.)

Last night the feature was Sideways, a very unusual movie about (among other things) a mid-life crisis. It's unusual not in an Oliver Stone or David Lynch way, but because of its story. In a nutshell, two buddies, Miles (a neurotic wannabe novelist) and Jack (a small-time actor/big-time philanderer), go on a trip to California wine country to celebrate Jack's impending wedding. Miles wants to drink wine and play golf, Jack wants to get laid. It's a simple premise, but what follows is one of the more tonally interesting films I've seen in a while. I call it a buddy-comedy-slash-romantic-drama. Some people call it "Swingers for 40 Year Olds" but that's a bit too glib to describe it, although it is fitting in many respects.



Some thoughts:

+ Alexander Payne is one of our best young filmmaking talents. Well, he's over 40, but his films are relatively recent. If you haven't seen his three other major films, see them. Citizen Ruth is a comedy about the abortion-rights debate, and it's both funny and even-handed. Election is a well-crafted satire. About Schmidt, the story of a small man dealing with his own purpose in life, has one of the most emotionally satisfying and uplifting endings I've ever seen.

+ Paul Giamatti is a great character actor, but this movie proves he can carry a film on his own. As Miles, he is the perfect combination of self-depricating humor and self-loathing pathos. He is hilarious and heartbreaking, often simultaneously. Thomas Haden Church makes a welcome return as Jack, the guy who just wants to let loose before he's bound by the shackles of marriage (as he sees it, initially). And Virginia Madsen may be starting to show a little age, but she has a loveliness about her in this movie that keeps Miles believing in happiness.

+ This movie vascillates between drama and comedy like almost no movie I've ever seen. One of Payne's strengths as a writer is the ability to find the funny things in tragedy, and lend some weight to comedy. The events that happen between the two men are usually very amusing, even if they are disastrous. But when they are dealing with the various women they encounter, Miles's thoughts often turn to his ex-wife, causing him to tailspin. But the tone changes so frequently that the film is nearly impossible to categorize.

+ This is a movie for grown-ups. I'm not really a grown-up yet, I guess, but I enjoyed/appreciated it nonetheless. I'll probably like it even more in about 15 years when I'm older and balder and going through some sort of midlife crisis. It really taps into the "my life is half over and what have I done" feeling that people over 40 tend to get. The conversations are like those that real people have. There are no plot-contrivance misunderstandings or cheap ways out of situations.

+ Wine is a major character in this movie. Miles is so obsessed with wine, and so in tune with its virtues, that to some degree he equates his own life with the life of grape that becomes wine. This is highlighted in one key scene of the movie, but is never touched on so much as to be trite.

My grade: A-

Weekend at Arafat's

I'm so sick of sequels. Can't anyone come up with an original idea anymore? At least they got the original cast together again. This one was created by my buddy John Johnson to commemorate the untimely and tragic death of a Nobel Peace Prize Winner. (Not a bad rendition at all considering the remedial paint shop program he had to use to do it.) Really sad to see him go. I guess in 20 years when Osama finally kicks the bucket, we'll have all sorts of tributes to him on the news, too. 

Caucasians United!

On Tuesday night, we played in our D-League basketball game, our third of the season. Though we were seeing marked improvement, it was obvious that our next opponent -- Latinos Unidos -- were going to be our toughest test yet. (You can see further perspective this by visiting Willie's and Toastie's blogs.)

Were they ever! We lost by -- and I'm not exaggerating -- 96 points. That very well may be the largest blowout in the history of basketball going back to the great James Naismith's original 13 rules. Certainly the largest of the shot clock era. Were we outmanned? Yes. Were we outplayed? Of course. Were we out-talent...ed...? No question.

Were we outclassed? Not a chance.

This team went on a 40-0 run. I'll repeat that score so you know it's not a typo. 40-0. Forty to zero. And yet, for the rest of the game, this team continued to full-court press us and run all kinds of fancy run-and-gun plays on us. Sure, they were able to do it, and it was all legal, but was there any honor or integrity involved? No way.

(Side note: I was injured slightly. Nothing big, but I have a small triangle of bruises around my left eye. I was trying to be strong in the paint on defense, and when an errant shot was coming down, I naturally jumped for it. Simultaneously, one of the larger Latinos Unidos came down on me with an elbow to the face. It wasn't intentional, but it was a foul. Yet no foul was called. I was knocked to the ground shell-shocked for a few moments, and came out of the game. When halftime rolled around, I went to one of the refs -- with whom we entrusted $36 per team -- if there was a foul called on that play, as I had been too groggy to notice. The ref said there was no foul; his ref crony chimed in saying oh no no, the ball hit me. It was the ball. Now, I don't have a shiner or anything, but looking at my eye, it's clear that no basketball made this imprint. The bruises are in positions where a basketball could not left the remnants. Also, my glasses were snapped in half from the impact. I'm no forensics specialist, but the way my specs broke was more indicative of a sharp, elbow-like blow than a round, blunt blow. I asked my teammates, "Did the ball hit me in the face?" And one of my teammates said, "If by 'ball' you mean 'elbow,' then yes." Seriously, what do you have to do to get a foul in this league?)

This team did not do the Latino people proud. Now a lot of people will say, "I'm not a racist, but...." Well, I really am not a racist. I love all people of all races. I was what one might call a "wigger" in high school (and what one would now call "a teenager"), and in college I lived with a multi-ethnic group for a few years. I really have no hatred, malice or prejudice against any race or ethnic contingent. So like I was saying, I'm not a racist but...

These players were reinforcing every stereotype that you could think of regarding inner-city youths. They were talking trash, showboating, yelling when others were taking shots, full-court pressing all game long (did I mention that?). All the reasons that white racist people hate the inner-city athlete, they exemplified. I started to hate these guys. They probably aren't bad guys, but the classless way they conducted themselves over the course of this game was off-putting. It wasn't fun anymore, now it was just irritating. It was to the point that when I saw any people of latino descent for the next few days, I subconsciously became embittered, because it reminded me of this game. (This brings on the notion of racism due to prior experience with a certain race, but that's a topic for another blog.)

It makes me angry inside to know that this stupid basketball game made me feel like that. But it did. We found out later that these guys played for the Spanish Action League, but I must say I was not impressed with this organization, considering the cocky and trash-talking manner in which these young men conducted themselves. If this team is one of the ways you are reaching out to the community, well, I'm afraid Latinos Unidos are simply setting themselves back. I can't imagine people watching a bunch of guys act like this (whether it be in organized play or a pick-up game on a playground) and being impressed with their conduct. Very very disappointing. (And I'm sorry, when you're pressing all game long and you're up by 75 points, don't play the "That's how we play" card. You're not protecting the integrity of your defensive philosophy, you're trying to humiliate the other team. Don't bullshit me.)

It was a very disappointing hour of my life. But my friend Mr. (soon to be Dr.) Mark Phelps helped me see the perspective of all of it. We were in the locker room, taking off our sweaty clothes (to change into clean ones, you filthy little pigs) and one of the Latinos overheard me and Phelps talking about Phelps being in med school. (Phelps, the poor bastard, stood for 12 straight hours for surgery, and still came up with some solid rebounding for our team. I'm proud of ya, Phelpsy.) The guy mentioned that he had had some surgery a few years prior because of a tumor or some shit. Whatever. I was still pissed off about my aching eyeball.

Then Phelps, better man than me, told the guy they played very well and congrats and good luck, etc. The guy said thanks. He mentioned that they practiced at least 3-4 times a week and were the champions at every level in which they played. I sort of shook my head. When the guy left, Phelps said, "You can tell that's all they have." And he was right. Phelps continued, "I don't get my self-esteem from playing basketball, but you can tell that's where he gets his." Again, he ain't pre-med for nothing, folks. I realized, if this makes them feel better about themselves, let 'em have it. I don't get my self-esteem from playing hoops either. And thank God for that.

Besides, tonight we went to Clark's Ale House and totally whooped some ass in trivia. We came in 2nd place, only lost by 5 points, and got a $15 gift certificate, all with a pretty good turnout, too. I'd like to see the Latinos Unidos do that. I'll guarantee we would win by more than 96. Bring that shit to my house, bitches.