Good luck exploring the infinite abyss

I'm Back

2006-03-30T12:27:00.000-08:00

As this blog’s prodigal author enters the press conference he called for himself, a hush falls over the crowd. Frenzied onlookers stop in mid-cellphone conversation and awestruck teenagers feint. Bystanders shoot harsh glances at the incapacitated teens as they fall loudly to the floor, knowing that the slightest break in silence could cause them to miss this once-in-a-lifetime moment. With the tension becoming almost palpable (not unlike the sexual tension between Daniel-san and Mr. Miyagi that burned white hot in Karate Kid 2 and subsequently cooled as Daniel-san put on weight by Karate Kid 3), the author steps from the shadows and up to the podium. At this moment, the breathless fans realize that this is not in fact the announcement of an O-Town reunion tour after all, and the faux-feinting teens angrily rise in unison and resume their daily routines of updating Avril lyrics on their Myspace pages and watching MTV’s Parental Control. (Editor’s note: Not that this blog’s author watches that show or is even vaguely familiar with its concept.) In a vain attempt to save face as his press conference falls apart, the author taps on the microphone and tells the first joke that comes to mind.
“So a duck walks up to the cash register at a convenience store and sets some Chap-Stick down on the counter. The cashier asks whether the duck wants to pay cash or credit. The duck scratches his head for a moment before quickly responding, “Just put it on my bill.” Get it? Just put it on my bill? Hello? Is this thing on?”
With that having been said, the press conference dies faster than Wilmer Valderrama’s career will as soon as “YoMomma” hits the air. Allow me to sum up what would have been said at the press conference:
“I haven’t written anything except rent checks and daily (albeit unsuccessful) marriage proposals to Dangerous Curves dancers in the past 11 months. Although I guess writing ‘Guilty’ as my plea in the whole Dangerous Curves restraining order fiasco technically counts as writing, that isn’t really the point. The point is that the streak ends today. This is my comeback.”
At this point, the press conference was supposed to erupt with questions from reporters, demanding to know the details of what exactly the author had been up to during his nearly yearlong hiatus. Here are the sample questions he was prepared to answer:
1. “What have you been doing for the past year?”
2. “What caused you to stop writing in the first place?”
3. “What do you have to say to your fans?”
4. “How tall are you?”
His answers would have been as follows:
1. “Paperwork. And I’ve been exploring a revolutionary, non-invasive surgery that would remove every episode of ‘Mad About You’ from my long-term memory. It’s still in its early stages, but things are looking very promising.”
2. “Well, it’s just like every cautionary tale you’ve ever heard. First I thought I’d just try not writing once, you know, for fun. I was in a social setting and I thought it would be no big deal. Next thing I know, I’m not writing in the morning, during my lunch break, anytime I can steal a moment. I was so out of control I even knifed a stranger in the park. It had nothing to do with not writing, but I figured I’d mention it nonetheless. I finally got my life together, pulled myself out of the gutter, gave my refrigerator box home to John Basedow, and decided to turn my life around. The rest is history.”
3. “I feel it’s my job to inspire as well as educate my fans, so I’d like to give them this motivational gem that I’ve been working on for the past few months. It goes, “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.” I’m thinking about putting it on a t-shirt or something.”
4. “I’m glad you asked. By standard Earth measurements I’m 5’11”, but under the right lighting I could play power forward for the Sioux Falls Sky Force of the CBA.”
After the rigorous Q&A session (that’s short for Question and Answer), the author was prepared to lay down the ground rules or “10 Commandments” of his comeback. He was prepared to do this dressed as Moses (complete with flowing robes, a fake beard and stone tablets made of papier mache) but decided that a wardrobe change would seem a little self-indulgent. Also, he could only come up with 3 commandments, so the whole theme sort of fell apart. Here are those commandments:
1. “I shalt not wear the number 45 during this comeback for fear of Nick Anderson stealing the basketball from me at a crucial juncture in the playoffs, leading to a series loss to the Orlando Magic.”
2. “I shalt carry a boombox on my shoulder blasting LL Cool J’s “Don’t Call it a Comeback” whenever I leave the house during normal business hours for the next 3 weeks.”
3. “I shalt keep my gloves up and protect myself at all times to avoid having my comeback turn out like Muhammad Ali’s. It started off all right, but it’s looking a little shaky nowadays.” (Chorus of boos from the crowd, beer bottles and garbage begin to be hurled towards the stage) “What, was that below the belt?” (Wild applause, crisis averted.)
And . . . scene.

Yes, it’s true, I’m back. I have a semi-reliable web connection, a government job and some time on my hands, which can only mean one thing: the excruciatingly miniscule, meaningless minutiae of my life will be chronicled on this newfangled “Internet” contraption that all the kids are talking about nowadays. Those goddamn kids and their gamestations and their spray paint and their Billy Idol records . . . Anyhow . . . I’m back and I’ll have more to write about in the coming days. Possible topics include:
1. A 500-word essay on how I spent my summer vacation
2. A 500-word essay on “I Know What You Did Last Summer”
3. A 500-page love letter to Freddie Prinze Jr. written as if I actually believe he is Zach Siler from “She’s All That.”
4. A 500-photo montage of tiny cut up photos of Steven Seagal that all come together to make one single portrait of him.
5. A 500-day hiatus from writing again. I’m leaning towards this as the most probable option.

Hear you me

2005-05-09T21:49:00.000-07:00

“Everything ends badly, otherwise it wouldn’t end.”
--Coughlin the Bartender in “Cocktail”

I don’t want to contradict a film icon such as Bryan Brown, who was last seen starring in the CBS smash “Spring Break Shark Attack”, but I have to disagree with him on this one.

Last weekend was a big one for me, chock full of endings and new beginnings, so I’ll quickly hit on the highlights:

1. I graduated from college over the weekend, and it all went down without any Van Wilder-esque future-dodging or any Charlie the Bachelor-esque gentle sobbing. It went down just like it was supposed to. I did get a little nostalgic when I was moving out of my house in Ames for the last time, but I’m sure the scent of stale beer and the sound of friends cursing at Playstation games will stay locked in my memory wherever I go.

2. Even more important to me than graduating was getting my commission as a Second Lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force, which I also did last weekend. I was sworn in on Saturday and am now a card-carrying member of the Armed Forces. I’ll be going to ASBC (Aerospace Basic Course) in Alabama for six weeks starting in mid-June, heading to Wichita to IFT (Initial Flight Training) and then most likely going to Vance AFB in Oklahoma for UPT (Undergraduate Pilot Training). Before starting pilot training I’ll most likely have to have a lobotomy to create more space in my brain for acronyms. If I get to choose, I’d gladly volunteer to delete my memory of Van Helsing, which I watched last weekend. Yeah, it was that bad.

3. In addition to the other accomplishments of the weekend I turned 23 yesterday, capping a busy weekend of milestones. Some might not consider turning 23 much of an accomplishment, but then again these people didn’t grow up on the mean streets of Bettendorf, Iowa. Dying young is no joke around here. I celebrated by eating a steak with my mom and dad, shooting some hoops, playing some old Trio songs on my guitar and watching Grosse Pointe Blank. All in all, it was a nice little Sunday.

Other developments of the past few days:
1. Bill Simmons was on hiatus from writing for his Web site last week as his wife was giving birth. Although that’s about as good of an excuse as anyone could have for taking a break from writing about the Karate Kid and the Celtics, I missed him terribly. Bill, you make my life better . . . hurry back.
2. I threw away a bunch of photos from high school and college that I didn’t feel the need to hang onto anymore. Does that make me a cold-hearted son of a bitch?
3. It’s been said plenty of times, but the Phoenix Suns play basketball the way it’s supposed to be played and I hope they make it to the Finals. This is four fold:
A. Steve Nash running the ball up the court on every possession is a breath of fresh air. After the Mike Fratello/Pat Riley/Greg Popovich slowdown thugball of the late ‘90s and early 2000s made the NBA about as watchable as reruns of The Nanny, I feel like the game is finally going in the right direction. Nash’s MVP is well-deserved.
B. Suns coach Mike D’Antoni looks eerily like Commander Mike Metcalf of Top Gun.
C. Amare Stoudemire’s athleticism continues to amaze me. He is good for at least two “Oh dear God!” moments per game, which is something that has been missing since Dominique Wilkins exited his "Human Highlight Reel" prime. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing him as he charges in from the elbow, elevates his hand above the box on the backboard, suspends himself in midair until gravity pulls everyone else hardwood-ward, and throws a nasty dunk in Erick Dampier’s mug.
D. The longer the Suns stay alive, the longer Paul Shirley’s blog will appear on suns.com.
4. Matt Skiba sits in an incredibly effeminate manner, so much so that it is difficult for me to watch him get interviewed. This troubles me greatly.
5. Gwen Stafani’s “Hollaback Girl” makes me want to set myself on fire.
6. Likewise could be said for the Black Eyed Peas’ “Don’t Phunk With My Heart.” Even if you excuse the fact that the title is such a cliched attempt at cleverness, the song is garbage. I can’t sugarcoat it.
7. I’ll miss a lot of things in Ames while I live at home this summer, but it’s a distinct possibility that I’ll miss none more than the Flying Burrito. What we had was so special.

A burning question . . .
What do spandex bike shorts, skin tight bike jerseys and fingerless bike gloves provide for recreational cyclists that gym shorts, a t-shirt and bare hands can’t? I’ve never understood this.

Things I threw away today during my spring cleaning kick . . .
1. One of those toy helicopters that annoying mall kiosk guys are always flying dangerously close to your head.
2. A paintball blowgun that I received for my 18th birthday and did considerable damage with.
3. Lots and lots of photos. Judge me if you must, but me and my black heart will enjoy the extra drawer space a lot more than seeing photos of high school dance awkwardness from 1999.
4. Fugazi’s “13 Songs” album. Punk purists contend that Ian MacKaye and his Fugazi bandmates were pioneers and visionaries, and they are entitled to their opinions. My opinion on this band and album is as follows: I want my 14 fucking dollars back.

Things I didn’t throw away today during my spring cleaning kick . . .
1. My Yoda Pez dispenser.
2. Either of my two copies of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ Greatest Hits album. It never hurts to have a backup.
3. A calculator watch that hasn’t worked for three years.
4. The final shreds of hope for a Brewers pennant win. I'm hanging onto those.

On that note . . .
The Suns have 99 points at the end of the third quarter and are on pace for 132 in a Conference semifinal game. I can’t afford to divide my attention between them and this anymore. I’m out.

I'm all thumbs

2005-05-02T19:00:00.000-07:00

“You have every right to be this appalled with me.”
--Lyrics from "Bloodied Up" by the Alkaline Trio

I know I haven’t posted in a long time, and I really don’t have a good excuse. I could try to get a note from my mom explaining that I've had the chicken pox, but that could take some time and you'd have no verification that it isn't a forgery. So to try to set things right, I'll make you this deal: In the future I promise I'll try to spend less time playing NBA Jam on Sega and more time writing.

Moving right along . . .

To rip off Bill Simmons, Best Week Ever and just about any other form of entertainment media operating nowadays, I’ve decided to play a little Thumbs Up, Thumbs Down. But because I’m in a good mood, we’ll only get into the Thumbs Up segment today. The premise of the game is simple, much like the sport of auto racing and the minds of freshman girls, so let’s just press on . . .

Thumbs up: Constantine.
I went to see Keanu Reeves’ pseudo-religious, demons vs. angels action film this weekend and I can only say that I was delighted. This is two-fold.
First of all, Keanu muttered his usual gems, further cementing his place in movie lore as the actor who delivered more terrible lines per movie than any other. My personal favorite was “This is Constantine . . . John Constantine . . . asshole.” It was very James Bond-meets-a-speech-impediment and I laughed for about two straight minutes.
Second of all, since Keanu was fighting against demons for much of the movie, he had to fight them with “religious” artifacts. This included a set of brass knuckles with crosses on them and a giant golden gun that had a barrel in the shape of a cross. I can only imagine this is exactly the way God would have wanted it.

Thumbs up: Not having to take any finals. I have more free time than I can shake a stick at, which means I can spend my time playing pickup basketball, watching the Inferno II and listening to my old Weezer records instead of learning about the history of magazines in America. I like this trade-off. With all this discretionary time and no early morning wake-ups, my liver might not share my optimistic outlook.

Thumbs up: NBA playoffs. Regardless of how you feel about the NBA, the playoffs are a whole different ball game. The players hustle, play team ball and genuinely care about winning. In short, the playoffs are everything that the regular season isn’t. I’m pulling for a Detroit-Phoenix final, which would be an offense vs. defense clash of epic proportions.

Thumbs up: Graduating. I’m just five short days from being a college graduate (feel free to insert standard “I guess miracles can still happen” joke here) and I’m pretty excited about it. Strangely enough I’m not going through any of that pre-graduation, early-20s “what’s it all about?” neurosis that was the topic of at least 20 movies in the ‘90s. Maybe the fact that I don’t wear flannel or hang out in coffee houses has made me immune to this syndrome.
Unfortunately, there is also one thing that is not so peachy about graduation. All last weekend and stretching into today I’ve had one disturbing and ever-present thought in the back of my head. The gist of it is that every time I run into a friend I get this sinking feeling that it might be the last time we ever see each other. It’s weird to think about, but hopefully it’s an unfounded fear.

Thumbs up: The makers of Karate Kid III. I have to take my hat off to the people who just wouldn’t let Daniel-san die. I watched KKIII this week and was thoroughly impressed. The evil sensei was unbelievably evil, the bad boy karate champ was unbelievably bad, and the high-flying karate action was unbelievably high-flying. It’s just nice to know that there are people out there who want to make movies about toxic waste-dumping billionaires who have nothing better to do than ruining a fledgling bonsai tree business and derailing the karate career of teenager. If only Hollywood made films like this today.

Thumbs up: Rip Torn.
“Mike Fitzgibbon’s son is a nuclear physicist, and my son can eat a chicken sandwich.”
Enough said.

Thumbs up: My mom. She sent me a package including Easy Cheese, a pen that blows bubbles, and a Yoda Pez dispenser to help me study for finals. And I don’t even have any finals. She’s the coolest.

Thumbs up: Alkaline Trio. Their new album, Crimson, will be released on May 24, so I’ve been listening to their older work to build up the anticipation. For my money, Goddamnit and From Here to Infirmary are as good from start to finish as any album I’ve ever heard. Laugh if you must, but coming in third is Third Eye Blind’s self-titled release. There’s just something about Stephan Jenkins’ voice that can make songs about meth addiction and depression sound so uplifting.

Speaking of which . . .
Here is a list of my top 15 favorite singing voices:
Steve Perry – Journey
Justin Hawkins – The Darkness
Biz Markee
Stephan Jenkins – Third Eye Blind
John Davis - Superdrag
Jesse Lacy – Brand New
Robert Smith – The Cure
Ric Ocasek – The Cars
Claudio Sanchez – Coheed and Cambria
Billie Joe Armstrong – Green Day
Dolores O’Riordan – The Cranberries
Geddy Lee - Rush
Merril Bainbridge
Brian Adams
Kenny Loggins

Wait, there’s more . . .
On a semi-related note, here’s a list of my top 5 rappers:
1. Jay-Z
2. OK, so maybe five was pushing it

I’ll try to do better next time. Later.

The war between Andy and his liver rages on

2005-04-24T22:27:00.000-07:00

So what’s the deal with airline food? I mean, am I right? Hello? Is this thing on?

So, anyway, it was one heck of a weekend, and with the amount of alcohol I consumed I’m pretty sure that I am now dumber than I was last week at this time. I might have trouble forming coherent sentences, spelling simple words and expressing complete thoughts, so just try to bear with me.

Here’s a rundown of what did the damage.

Friday
6:00 p.m. – Mix my first seven and seven of the night.
6:05 p.m. – Start watching Ralph Macchio’s epic performance in Karate Kid for the second time in less than 24 hours.
6:40 p.m. – Think to myself that Elisabeth Shue’s character is too agreeable and that she probably grew up to be a tramp. This is confirmed in Karate Kid II when she drops Daniel-san for a UCLA football stud.
6:45 p.m. – Decide that the Cobra Kai sensei, Kreese, is my new favorite actor. Approximate BAC: .10.
8:00 p.m. – Decide that the guy who shouts “Get him a body bag, yeah!” at the All-Valley Karate Championship is my new favorite actor.
8:30 p.m. – Start watching Emilio Estevez in the critically acclaimed and internationally celebrated Mighty Ducks.
9:00 p.m. – Watch a scene in which Emilio has an obvious stunt double skate around the rink for him. Start to question Emilio’s athleticism just a bit. Approximate BAC: .12.
10:00 p.m. – Pick up my phone, which has eight missed calls from an equally intoxicated Mitchell, and head out to the bar.
10:30 p.m. – Enjoy the first quarter draw of the night at Lumpy’s.
2:00 a.m. – After drinking a couple dollars worth of quarter draws and making a couple hours worth of awkward bar conversation, I went back to Mitchell’s for some unbeknownst reason. Approximate BAC: .20.
2:30 a.m. – Open and consume a LaCrosse Lager that I bought on firesale on Mitchell’s birthday last July. Approximate IQ: 14.
4:30 a.m. – Fall asleep in Tom’s bed.

Saturday
7:30 a.m. – Alarm goes off, signaling the imminent start of the Lambda Olympics. I try to pick up the remaining pieces of my life and walk back home. Approximate BAC: .08.
8:20 a.m. – Remember that I forgot to wake Mitchell up for the Olympics. I get in my car and drive to his place with Chazz and Kenyon. This is probably borderline illegal.
9:00 a.m. – Participate in the shotgun start of the Lambda Olympics.
9:01 a.m. – Puke up half of the Keystone Light I just shotgunned in an empty case.
9:30 a.m. – Team Old balls sweeps Team Young Bucks at flip cup.
10:00 a.m. – The draft is held. My team includes Chazz in full Marine attire, Stringham dressed as Huck Finn and Zaps replete with a drawn-on American flag tattoo. I try to hold my own with aviator shades and a tie-dyed Dead Head t-shirt.
10:15 a.m. – My team finishes first out of eight teams in the Quad-Chug, which is a race to see which team can drink a shotgunned beer, a beer in a can, in a cup, and through a straw the fastest. Needless to say it’s a skill game and it feels good to have the first gold medal of the day around my neck. Approximate BAC: .13.
10:45 a.m. – Come back from a 3-0 deficit in flip cup to force game seven. We lose game seven, which is played with full beers.
10:46 a.m. – Puke up a good portion of the beer I just poured down my throat into an empty Keystone case.
10:50 a.m. – Team meeting is held to help us regroup.
11:00 a.m. – Lose a close game of beer pong to Miller’s team. It stings. I don’t want to discuss it further.
12:00 p.m. – Run the Olympics’ closing event, the half-mile Victory Lap.
12:04 p.m. – Hit the backstretch of the race in first place, kick it into high gear, lose my shoe, but win going away regardless.
12:06 p.m. – Catch my breath and have a victory beer. Approximate BAC: .16.
1:00 p.m. – Crash hard in my rack.
5:00 p.m. – Wake up, shower and eat a turkey sandwich.
5:30 p.m. – Go to Cy’s for a graduation party and some free graduation beer. It’s the best kind. Approximate BAC: .08.
8:00 p.m. – Walk to Ashlee’s with Mitchell, Trevor and Wiemer to go to a grad party that I only think I’m invited to.
8:15 p.m. – Get to Ashlee’s, don’t know if I’m in the right apartment, and stand in the corner for ten minutes.
8:20 p.m. – Listen to Wiemer’s views on “track asses.” He approves. So do I.
8:25 p.m. – Ashlee finally shows up and gives me a Wet Willy. Very mature.
9:00 p.m. – Totally ‘80s is playing on the stereo and I am being berated by my Religion TA about writing a boring essay about the Nation of Islam. I want to kill myself.
9:01 p.m. – I get asked what my GPA is.
9:02 p.m. – Mitchell tells the TA that I just went to jail for punching a kid for no reason last week. The TA stops talking to me immediately.
9:30 p.m. – Go to People’s for more free grad beer. Trevor and I request 50 Cent songs from the cover band’s lead singer, who ignores us and proceeds to play Hoobastank covers instead.
10:30 p.m. – Down four pitchers with Trevor. Approximate BAC: .16.
10:45 p.m. – Ash meets us at the bar, and Wet Willy number two is administered. Still, very mature.
11:00 p.m. – Jager bombs and beer chugging exhibitions ensue, and I am having serious trouble forming cogent sentences.
11:15 p.m. – Tell Mary Ellen that I invented reality television. I don’t think she is impressed.
11:30 p.m. – Tell another girl that I rode my bike into outer space. I think she is impressed.
11:35 p.m. – Hear the following exchange:
Guy: I just got done taking the MCATs.
Girl: What are you going to do now?
Guy: Go to medical school.
Girl: What do you want to be?
Guy: A doctor.
11:38 p.m. – Stop laughing and attempt to regain my composure.
11:50 p.m. – I take a shot, put $5 in Ashlee’s boyfriend’s pocket, run out of the bar and walk to Dane’s with Trevor. Approximate BAC: .99.
12:00 a.m. - Arrive at D2K’s, who is obviously under the influence of illegal drugs. Trevor and I take the opportunity to drink his beer without asking and tell him lies about the evening. DTK simply giggles.
12:30 a.m. – Witness a more-than-slightly flirtatious young woman going home with two guys. I don’t even want to know how that one ends.
1:00 a.m. – Go home, try to crawl into a second story window, and drop Trevor on his back when helping him try to climb into the same window.
1:30 a.m. – Fall asleep as Trevor repeatedly calls a sober Danimal and berates him for driving drunk and hitting a kid. Danimal was not guilty of either offenses, but Trevor’s screaming would not subside.
12:00 p.m. – Wake up woozy, possibly still drunk and dumber for the experience.

Other highlights from the weekend include:
1. Going to Wendy’s, ordering a cheeseburger and winking at the cashier who was no older than 16.
2. Picking out a birthday card at Target that reads, “Just thinking of the man I love… Naked.” It’s for an ex-girlfriend and is really not fitting or appropriate for the situation.
3. Paying for the birthday card, which cost $4.27. I handed the cashier a wad of bills that included five ones and a twenty. She hands me back the twenty and one of the ones and rings up the purchase. I explain to her that I don’t know how to count and leave the store shaking my head. Approximate IQ: 8 and plummeting.

So that was me this weekend. I can’t really explain myself, so I won’t try. Also, if I owe anyone an apology, let me know and I’ll get that out to you ASAP. I’m out.

Here's mud in your eye

2005-04-21T18:10:00.000-07:00

I’m going to try to make this as quick and painless as possible. I wrote most of this post this morning between the hours of 2 and 3:30 a.m., but I fell asleep before I got around to posting it.

When I wrote this last night, my liabilities included the following:
1. I was awake at 3 a.m.
2. I had to wake up at 6 a.m.
3. I sleep so fitfully that it is almost impossible to keep my NFL sheets on my mattress in the midst of the thrashing. This means I probably slept less than 40 minutes per hour.
4. I’d been listening to The Arcade Fire and Joy Division a lot.

My assets included the following:
1. I have a computer and unorthodox but effective hunt and peck typing skills.
2. I always have a head full of ideas and schemes.
3. I inhaled enough second-hand smoke earlier in the night that the stimulants grabbed a stronghold in my bloodstream and kept me wired well into the morning.
4. I’d been listening to The Arcade Fire and Joy Division a lot (that door swings both ways).

So what is the post about you ask? I’ll give you three guesses.
Guess #1: A summary of how the Arena Football League stays in business?
Reply: Nope.
Guess #2: A point/counterpoint discussion on Aviator sunglasses: Cool or Passe?
Reply: Good guess, but no.
Guess #3: A bipolar summary of what gets me down and what brings me back up again.
Reply: Bingo.

Here’s a list of things that I am less than excited about:

1. Being in college. I know it’s a privilege many people never get, but I’m about at the end of my rope. It’s getting to the point where I’d rather take repeated shovel blows to the abdomen than sit through another PowerPoint presentation. I understand that to some people, media convergence and diversity in the workplace are watershed issues, but I’d just as soon slam my head in a car door than learn about them.
2. Poison’s Bret Michaels. While watching a VH1 special on power ballads or some such rubbish, it became clear to me that Michaels has an overwhelmingly skewed image of the importance and quality of “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” In his mind, it’s as if writing and recording that song was of the same merit as painting the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling or curing cancer. In my mind, it’s an elementary three-chord ‘80s song about seeing the bad side of someone. Oh, and it tries to rhyme “dawn,” “thorn” and “song” with each other. I guess Bret and I can just agree to disagree about this one.
3. Girls Gone Wild. In what alternate dimension do girls think that participating in these films is even remotely acceptable? I’m just waiting for the fathers of the world to unite and turn GGW founder Joe Francis’ face into the ‘After’ picture of one of those anti-drunk driving videos. Seeing him tossing out t-shirts with his jaw wired shut and his face looking like Jared Leto’s after Ed Norton pounded him into oblivion would make me feel pretty fantastic.

Speaking of feeling fantastic, here are a few things that make me incredibly happy:

1. Brett Favre touchdown passes. Even though it isn’t football season, the Packers are never far from my thoughts. Even though the front office’s offseason moves (or lack thereof) are making next season’s prospects hover somewhere between a nightmare and a train wreck, Favre can make it seem like everything is going to be all right. He plays with the enthusiasm of a fourth grader trying to lead his team to a big upset against the fifth graders at lunch recess and I love him for it.
2. The Shotgun Rules. I read the official rules to calling shotgun on www.shotgunrules.com and they are exactly the rules I have always played by. This is just a huge validation for my entire career as a car passenger.
3. Coheed and Cambria lead singer Claudio Sanchez’s falsetto voice. ‘A Favor House Atlantic’s’ tooth-decayingly sweet pop sensibility makes me want to roll down my windows and sing along every time I hear it.
4. Drinking, smoking and just shooting the breeze with my buddies on Danimal’s deck. Zeb’s main job is zinging drunken passers-by with harsh but clever one-liners and flashing that winning smile of his. Higs’ job description reads “professional Marlboro Lights purchaser and packer” and “quoter of more lines from ‘Top Gun’ that any one man should know.” The Danimal’s main responsibility is being just as drunk after two beers as he is after 12, which he always accomplishes as only The Danimal can. I’m mostly just there for my good looks.
5. Getting goosebumps. I’m not talking about the kind you get when you’re cold, but rather the ones you get when you witness something truly amazing and inspirational. If I get goosebumps in any given week, I consider it a success.

I’m just saying . . .
"Do you ever just get down on your knees and thank God that you know me and have access to my dementia?" --George Costanza

Here are a few more songs I’ve been ejoying:
1. David Bowie – Queen Bitch
2. Say Anything – Every Man Has a Molly
3. The Bens – Just Pretend
4. Joy Division – Love Will Tear Us Apart
5. The Streets – The Irony of It All

Just so you know . . .
I learned fast how to keep my head up cause I
Know I’ve got this side of me
That wants to grab the yoke from the pilot
And just fly the whole mess into the sea.
--The Shins

Lord I was born a rambling man

2005-04-19T12:59:00.000-07:00

Warning: There is no real point to this post. It simply consists of more of the inane ramblings you’ve grown to know and love . . .

I saw a t-shirt the other day that said “Jesus Got R Done.” While this shirt might help people with fourth grade educations and Skoal between their teeth gain faith in Him, it only made me lose even more faith in humankind.

I spent the better part of Sunday evening looking around Ames for a DVD copy of Karate Kid. Unfortunately, my search was to no avail. Fortunately, I was also unable to find The Next Karate Kid starring Hilary Swank. That was a small consolation.

I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but for everyone enjoying how The OC is going right now, consider yourselves warned: Theresa and that illegitimate kid are going to insert themselves back into the storyline right around season finale time. This little plot twist will serve two main functions. First, it will halt the Ryan-Marissa renaissance that everyone has been enjoying. Second, it will cause me to pray that Eddie and his mustache are somehow brought back onto the show. Only you can make it happen Josh Schwarz.

If I had to describe my Brewers’ play this weekend with one hyphenated word, it would be error-prone. If I had to describe my judgment concerning my alcohol consumption between the hours of 2 p.m. and 2 a.m. last Saturday, I would use the same term.

I’ve been reading Nick Hornby’s book High Fidelity (as part of my kick to read more than just ESPN.com’s page 2) and I’m really enjoying it. Some of the pop culture references are over my head (it’s a British book), but I like it just the same. I’m a little worried that I can relate to the jaded, caustic main character just a little bit too easily, but I’m willing to let that slide. Coincidentally enough, the main character has the same name as one of my buddies.

In a similar vein, Alanis Morissette’s bitter, Dave Coulier-bashing, Jagged Little Pill-hit “Isn’t it Ironic?” fails to meet any of the conditions that define irony. Wouldn’t it be better if the song were called “Isn’t it Coincidental?” Don’t you think?

I haven’t been to a good rock and roll show in a while, but the last few I’ve been to have been incredibly solid. They are:
1. The Goose Island Fest in Chicago, which featured the Alkaline Trio, Detachment Kit and Charlotte Martin. I don’t know if everyone else felt the same way, but I’m pretty sure I fell in love with Charlotte about halfway through her cover of The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven.” I’m just saying.
2. The Pop Disaster Tour in Tinley Park, Ill., which featured Saves the Day, Blink and Green Day. Green Day put on one of the most energetic and memorable shows I’ve ever seen, and Matt Skiba’s unanticipated appearance singing back-up vocals for Saves the Day was another highlight.
3. The M-Shop in Ames, which featured Ultimate Fakebook. Bill McShane jumping up on the Rock Box for his guitar solo was worth double the price of admission.

Speaking of music, here are a few tunes I’ve been listening to lately:
Built to Spill – Car
Nada Surf – If You Leave
Old 97s – Question
Ultimate Fakebook – Little Apple Girl
Graham Colton – Cellophane Girl
The Lawrence Arms – Necrotism Decanting the Insalubrious
Postal Service – Nothing Better
The Shins – Young Pilgrim
James Horner – Rocketeer
New Order – Age of Consent

I would estimate that I have nightmares five times a week. Last night I dreamt that Iowa Governor Tom Vilsack and I were standing on a balcony hanging up a banner. He was on a ladder, and when I handed him the banner, the ladder tipped and he fell several stories to his death. I couldn’t begin to explain why I dream things like this or even remember the last time I thought about the governor, but this is what goes on in my head. Hopefully I don’t get red flagged and put on some kind of a watch list for writing about this.

The WNBA had its annual draft last weekend, so I’ll post the column I wrote about the WNBA last year for the Daily before too long. It thought it was pretty entertaining. It was also the catalyst for about 10 rabid WNBA fans sending me hate mail accusing me of being a sexist and a bad writer. I’m not going to dispute that last part, and I’m trying to forgive them for all the inflammatory things they said about me. After all, I’d be pretty bitter too if my favorite basketball player needed a running start to touch the net. ZING.

I’ll end this entry with a description of a golf shot I hit over the weekend that ranks on my list of top five non-competition shots I have ever hit. I smashed a driver over a creek that was about a 250-yard carry with a little left to right action that fit the dogleg of the hole perfectly. I had several beers in me at the time, but I don’t think I could have hit that shot any better if I stayed on the tee all day. All that was missing was a TV commentator with a Scottish accent applauding and saying, “That was a useful, useful shot.”

That’s all for now kids.

I'll take potent potables for $200, Alex

2005-04-17T20:39:00.000-07:00

I'll spare you the details of my life for now, but here are a few things that have been rattling around in this precious little head of mine . . .

It is impossible to say Google five times fast. After about the first three repetitions it starts to sound like someone is drowning.

I’ve never had a cool nickname. On a semi-related note, people who give themselves nicknames need to re-evaluate themselves.

Sprite's Miles Thirst is a shoddy Lil Penny rip-off.

Ben Stiller movies without Owen Wilson are like people who drink Red Bull without Jagermeister – sure they’re hyper, but they’re missing the best part.

“She’s All That” is a woefully underrated movie.

Although Zach Morris could pause time, he never used his gift to cut off Slater’s curly mullet. He must have figured it was doing A.C. more harm than good with Kelly.

Bob Golic, a former NFL defensive lineman with no prior acting credentials, was chosen to play hardass RA Mike Rogers on Saved by the Bell: The College Years. How did he get this job? If he didn’t have compromising photos of Peter Engel, I will be monumentally shocked.

Alex Trebek always reveals the Jeopardy questions that no contestant answered correctly in an incredibly condescending tone. “The correct answer is German physicist Horst Ludwig. (Insert patronizing head shake) Horst . . . Ludwig.”

Tom Selleck’s mustache is absolutely breathtaking. It is the crown jewel of mustaches.

Almost every mildly successful TV show has been or is in the process of being released on DVD. I’m just counting down the days until “Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper” comes out.

Roy is a very unfortunate name for a person to have.

There’s a soft spot in my heart for washed-up movie stars with three names. Here’s looking at you Neil Patrick Harris and Richard Dean Anderson.

In a similar vein, my computer wallpaper (a photo of Christian Laettner with a headband, bowl cut and Wolves captain jersey) is no match for my buddy John’s, which features a close-up of Richard Dean Anderson licking an ice cream cone in front of a clock tower.

The fact that men know who Kevin Federline is but don’t know the infield fly rule epitomizes everything that is wrong with the world today.

Watching the Brewers makes me happy. Not in the same way as watching Keira Knightley makes me happy, but happy.

Savage Garden and Boys II Men songs seem to be tailor-made for middle schoolers to slow dance to.

I don’t know if Marcy Playground is the name of a person or just the name of a band.

I sleep on NFL sheets, but no girls do. At least not on mine.

That's all for now. Til next time . . .

You're my dog

2005-04-14T00:37:00.000-07:00

When my cell phone rings and “Mom and Dad” pops up on the caller ID, I have come to expect a few things. I know that both my mom and dad will be on the line at the same time, ready to wage a double-barreled attack of “We love yous” and “Why don’t you call more oftens” on their not-so-unsuspecting son. The initial volley is typically followed by my mom telling me about how her kindergarten class is behaving this year, and my dad is always ready to fill me in on the three birdies he made on the back nine at Duck Creek and how his putting is on the verge of being tour-ready. After that, we talk about school and family and sports before I get around to asking how Beau, our 12-year-old Irish Setter, is doing. They always have a good story about something goofy or ridiculous or lovable Beau did during the preceding days, because if there’s one thing to know about Beau, it’s that he rarely disappoints at being goofy, ridiculous and lovable. We usually end up saying our goodbyes after about 15 or 20 minutes, but not without one last appeal from my mom to get me to call more often. I know should.

Today’s phone call started off the same way as ever, with me droning on about my photojournalism final and or something equally mundane, and it was pretty much business as usual until the time came in the conversation for me to ask about Beau.

My mom, possibly sensing what was about to come, cut me off at the pass and made an attempt to explain the news. The way her voice wavered the first time she mentioned his name was enough to tell me exactly what was going on, and after the details and a few tears came out, nobody said anything for a while. I think that we all came to the same silent conclusion that we didn’t want to talk about it.

As I hung up the phone, the numbness I had felt since the second my mom’s tell-tale voice hit my eardrum refused to go away. A gang of questions started to gather in my mind, and there was not one among them that I could answer. Of all the creatures in the world, why was it that my dog, my boy Beau, had to break his leg running around and jumping the way he had done a million times in the first 12 carefree years of his life? Why, when my dad took him to the vet, was bone cancer discovered in my dog, my boy Beau, who had seemed as healthy as a horse when I played with him over spring break less than a month ago? Why did my dog, my boy Beau, have a Friday afternoon appointment to be put to sleep to keep him from suffering?

Still feeling numb, I realized that asking these questions was pointless. I know that if I were home right now, I would tell him how much I love him instead of how I sad I am and how much I am going to miss him. In fact, I think I’ll tell him right now…

Beau,

I love how we all fell in love with you from the first moment we saw you. You were the rowdiest puppy in your family, and you had a cowlick on your neck, a chip on your shoulder, and a penchant for roughhousing with your brothers and sisters. When we first saw you as a little Irish Setter pup from New London, Iowa, you had huge feet, even bigger ears and about two pounds of extra skin packed onto your five-pound frame. We knew right away that you were the one we were supposed to bring home.

I love how you used to chase our other Setter, Redd, around the park near our house, barking at the top of your lungs as you ran because you were too small to catch her. The first time you were fast enough to track her down, you ran straight through her like a linebacker through a tailback because you were so shocked that you had finally caught up.

I love how funny you looked in the summer when the hair on the top of your head got long and the sun turned it a bleached-blonde color. My mom always called that your California look.

I love how you would jump the gate between your room and the kitchen to come sit by me when I was eating cereal. I don’t know if it was because you wanted to spend time with me or because you wanted the stray Cheerios that found their way to the floor, but I was glad to have the company.

I love how playing in freshly-fallen snow was one of your favorite things in the world. The snow reinvigorated you like a B-12 shot, and the tracks you left consisted of four paws and the occasional mouth, as you periodically dropped your bottom jaw earthward to take in a mouthful of powder.

I love how you thought that the couch in the basement belonged to you. You would try to convey this message to anyone who took your rightful spot with a few explanatory glances before giving up and climbing right on top of them.

I love how you would follow Dad around wherever he went. You loved Dad more than anything, and you were never more than a few inches away from his hip when the two of you were in the same room.

I love how you loved sports and always pawed at the closet in our garage that held the baseballs. You’d take a tennis ball or a football over a bone any day, and you were constantly on the hunt for baseballs, golf balls, and any other sports equipment you could fit in your mouth. You were a dog after my own heart.

I love how excited you would get when you watched Packers games with Dad and me. I think part of it was Dad’s and my shouting after every Brett Favre touchdown pass that got you so riled up, but I’m guessing that 50 percent of the excitement was due to the fact that you were born to root for the green and gold.

I love how even though you weighed 85 pounds and towered over young kids and small dogs like Goliath over George Costanza, you were a gentle giant. You never once got angry with Tuxedo, my sister’s three-pound Chihuahua, and any kid who wanted to pet you was usually greeted with a big, wet kiss.

I love how excited you would get when someone would take your leash off its hook. You knew that this was your cue to go to the park, and you immediately devoted all of your energy towards getting ready. You hurriedly stretched out, ran headlong towards the door and started barking all in one haphazard and gleeful motion, and it never ceased to make me smile.

I love how you had a tough side. You had one type of bark that was reserved for the family, a noise that sounded more like an attempt at forming a sentence than a sound a dog would make, but you had an entirely different bark for strangers and hostile dogs. Your gruff, low growl let persona and canis non grata know that you weren’t afraid to sink your teeth into them.

I love the way you would tilt your head to the side and get a perplexed look on your face every time I fooled you with the hidden ball trick. The expression on your face when you discovered that I had only faked a throw and, in fact, still held the ball in my hand was equally priceless.

I love how you would stick your whole upper body out the window when we went for a car ride. You always left nose prints on the windows and enough fur on the seats to weave a quilt, but you sure enjoyed the ride.

I love how you would sneak upstairs to wake me up when I was trying to sleep in. The barely perceptible clicking of toenails on hardwood floors led up to you using your wet nose as my alarm clock. Getting you to leave was a whole different story, and I’m guessing from your pattern of behavior that you weren’t a big believer in the snooze button.

I love how you would get this bewildered look on your face when I woke you up at 5:00 a.m. as I was heading out the door in the summer to go to work. It took you all of about two tenths of a second for the bewildered look to fade and for you to look really glad to see me.

I love how I couldn’t resist giving you the last piece of whatever I was eating. I just couldn’t resist that face of yours.

I love the lazy, ambling trot you would take when we ran together, as if to say, “Is that all the faster we’re going today?”

I love how you could somehow fit your 85-pound frame through a window no bigger than a college-ruled notebook when you wanted to come inside the house. It defies logic how you fit into that little gap.

I love how you would pull down saplings at the park and drag them around like trophies to show how tough you were.

I love how you would hit me with your sneak attack kisses, the kind where one minute you wouldn’t even be looking at me and the next you would swing your head around and lap my entire face with your big pink tongue.

I love how we put up a stocking for you at Christmas. After all, you were part of the family, buddy.

Most of all, I love how you were one of the things in my life that could always cheer me up, no matter how down I was at the time. You just had that gift. And as I finish this list, I’m realizing that even in the twilight of your own life, you have once again made my life better.

I love you buddy,
Andrew

Putting the "ass" in "embarrassment"

2005-04-12T15:22:00.000-07:00

Just a quick one today, boys and girls . . .

If I know about one thing, it’s embarrassing myself. If I know about one more thing, it’s how to get into more socially awkward situations than almost anyone on the planet. I could give Larry David a run for his money in the Ultimate Victim of Circumstance sweepstakes. With that said, here are a couple ways to embarrass yourself that might get you a little closer to my level. Enjoy.

It would be really embarrassing to . . .
1. Check a girl out from a distance, remark to your friends how hot she is, and find out that she’s only 15.
2. Own and wear a “Who let the dogs out?” t-shirt
3. Get caught singing along with Destiny’s Child’s “Soldier” whilst driving with your windows down.
4. Have a tattoo that is misspelled.
5. Lose to a girl at a sport.
6. Check a girl out from a distance, remark to your friends how hot she is, and find out that she’s actually your cousin.
7. Hold your girlfriend’s purse while standing in the women’s section of a department store.
8. Get caught reading an US Weekly in the checkout line of a grocery store by someone you know.
9. Wear socks with sandals.
10. Check a girl out from a distance, remark to your friends how hot she is, and find out that she’s really your male cousin.

Three sounds that will automatically make me cringe, curl up in the fetal position and hope for death:
3. A dentist’s drill boring through my enamel
2. Michael Bolton’s voice
1. John Sterling’s “Yankees win! Theeeeeeee Yankees win!” call

In Theory . . .

Elimidate, the TV show which oh-so-cleverly combines the words “eliminate” and “date,” is a shining beacon of hope for everyone who loves to watch sluttiness win out over classiness every time. This groundbreaking show has many things to offer and has several strict rules that its contestants must abide by to qualify for the show. Contestants must be 21 years of age, have large muscles/augmented breasts, use overwhelming amounts of hair gel/eyeliner, and lack anything that could be construed as “a shred of dignity.”
My theory is that each Elimidate contestant must say the following things or be forever ostracized from the Elimidate community. They are:

1. "So, what is the craziest thing you've done sexually?"
2. "So, what can you do to top that?" This question is typically directed to a less slutty contestant after the sluttiest (sp?) contestant does everything short of letting the Elimdate Cassanova get to third base in the hot tub.
3. "Well ladies, it's a pretty tight competition, so I was figuring I'd take you out to the dance floor and let that make my decision."

And there you have it. Check back for a rousing episode of “Why is He Famous Again?” and a dating show connoisseur’s look at MTV’s latest offering, “Next.” Until then . . .

Back from the weekend warpath

2005-04-11T12:35:00.000-07:00

I’m back. This weekend was really one for the books, so I’ll give you a quick rundown before moving on to more important things.

1. My roommate Miller got his ass kicked by a trio of black dudes on Thursday night after allegedly “jocking” one of their babes. I don’t know exactly what that means, but I’m sure he had it coming.

"Joel, you wanna know something? Every
now and then say, "What the fuck." "What
the fuck" gives you freedom. Freedom
brings opportunity. Opportunity makes
your future."

2. Also on Thursday night, I watched a Risky Business-themed episode of The OC, which is having a late season resurgence of epic proportions. I might be slightly biased about the episode because Risky Business is my favorite movie about a high school kid turning his vacationing parents’ house into a brothel and nailing a classy, smoking-hot hooker on public transportation. I also love the slow motion scene where Joel Goodson makes a diving catch to save the crystal egg, which was recreated nicely by a sufficiently awkward Seth Cohen. My only worry is that the Jojo-listening, Hot Topic-shopping youth who watch The OC have never seen Risky Business, nor did they recognize the egg catch scene or the theme music being played at the end of the episode. This type of stuff is often lost on kids these days. Those damned kids with their spray paint and their Gamestations and their Billy Idol records . . .
3. Speaking of The OC, is it just me, or can you cut the sexual tension between Seth and Ryan with a knife. It’s practically suffocating.
4. I played dunkball on 8-foot rims with some buddies and came to two conclusions. First of all, being able to dunk and play close to the rim at all times makes basketball exponentially easier. There is no reason why Big Country Bryant Reeves should have ever struggled they way he did. Second, I shouldn’t be allowed outside on a sunny day without sunblock. Someone needs to save me from myself. I have roughly the same base tan as Powder, and third degree sunburn is only about 3 minutes of exposure away at all times.
5. A canoe made out of aluminum siding, rivets and duct tape took me out into the middle of Lake Laverne in the annual Greek Olympics canoe race before becoming so full of water that I had to abandon ship and swim all the way to shore in 50 degree water. All in all, the race could have gone better.
6. After seeing the first replay of Tiger’s miraculous chip-in at 16 at Augusta, where the ball took a serpentine route toward the flag, hung dramatically over the cup for what seemed like ten minutes, and finally got that last improbable revolution into the hole, one thing popped into my mind: I will see this replay 40,000 more times before next year’s Masters is over. And I’ll probably enjoy it every time.

OK, so maybe the weekend wasn’t really one for the books, but it did raise these questions . . .

1. Instead of clowns or mariachi bands serving as the entertainment at parties and social gatherings, wouldn’t hiring washed-up D-list celebrities to tell stories be more entertaining? I’d love to hear Emilio Estevez reminiscing about watching Steven Seagal do four lines of coke at Billy Dee Williams' house, get a little too drunk, start yelling at a statue and get ejected through a plate glass window by security. It would sure beat hearing La Bamba four times in an hour.
2. Why do people who type “correctly” think they hold some sort of moral high ground? I hunt and peck and I don’t care who knows it.
3. Question: What comes to mind every time I see Verne Troyer on television?
Answer: How is he famous again?
4. Is it no longer en vogue to use the term “going steady?”
5. Did I ever tell you about the time I invented reality TV?
6. Does watching Sammy Sosa try to field his position make you want to set yourself on fire? Yeah, me too.
7. Is there a better chill band than American Football? And is there a better chill song than "Never Meant?" I swear it reduces your resting heart rate by 20 bpm.

Let’s have a quick “get-to-know-the-author-of-this-incoherent-nonsense” session . . .
1. I used to play the guitar almost every day and come up with ridiculous freestyles about ping-pong, going to the library and frat guy pick-up lines. For whatever reason, I haven’t written a single song in over a year. I guess my point is that I hope the same thing happens to Simple Plan.
2. I took an online stress test and my results fell in the very undesirable area between lazy and retarded.
3. I don’t find Silly Putty all that silly, but it sure is fantastic.

I’m just saying . . .
“Chaos often breeds life, when order breeds only habit.”
--Henry B. Adams

The following is an abridged list of things that make people look ridiculous. Keep in mind that this is only the opinion of one man. Or one boy, depending on your outlook on that matter.

"We've got an unoriginal tribal tattoo on
Timmy, 15 yards for attempting to fit in."

The List: arm bands, wrist bands, ankle bands, head bands, bandanas, cut-off t-shirts, pre-cut cut-off t-shirts, unoriginal tribal tattoos, trucker hats, backwards trucker hats, leather jackets, pleather jackets, turtleneck sweaters, v-neck t-shirts, striped socks, pink popped collars, pierced ears, mullets, mustaches, racing stripes, tongue rings, rat tails, cornrows, extensions, WWE championship belts, trench coats, fingerless gloves or mittens, NASCAR t-shirts, camouflage, ski masks, breathe-right nasal strips, eye black, under armour, toe rings, leather bracelets, hemp jewelry, gold chains, medallions of any sort, ankle bracelets, Illinois National Championship hats and other paraphernalia, high school football t-shirts, house arrest ankle locator bands, prison issue denim jumpsuits, Looney Tunes neckties, United We Stand or other patriotic t-shirts purchased at a gas station, bowties, magicians’ capes, fake fangs, gold fronts, platform shoes, combat boots, leisure suits, air force ones, livestrong bracelets, throwback jerseys and Cosby sweaters.

That’s all for now. More soon.

Simply Masterful

2005-04-07T09:31:00.000-07:00

When I was 12 years old, I decided that I wanted to become a professional golfer. I practiced every day that snow wasn't on the ground, swung the club until the blisters on my hands were ripped open and bleeding, and spent all my paper route money on range balls and rounds at Duck Creek. My goal: to oneday play at Augusta National. I didn't want to win, I didn't even care about placing well. I just wanted to be there. Sadly, reality set in a few years later and I never became anything more than a moderately successful high school golfer. Nevertheless, I still watch every second of Masters coverage that I can each year in an effort to soak in as much of the beauty the course, the competition and the tournament have to offer. Last year as I watched Phil Mickelson win his first major with a riveting Sunday back nine, I wrote a minute by mintue account of the action. Here's what transpired . . .

Warning: Although this column contains a timeline, it is in no way related to the horrendous 2003 movie “Timeline” that starred Paul Walker in a reprise role as “that same really bad actor from ‘2 Fast 2 Furious.’” It simply recounts to events that transpired on Sunday, April 11, 2004 at Augusta National Golf Club during the 69th playing of the Masters. Thank you.

1:02 p.m. – Phil Mickelson steps onto the first tee of the Masters with a chance to win his first major. Instead of looking nervous or intensely focused, Mickelson simply has a knowing smile on his face.

1:25 p.m. – After chipping in from just off the front of the green on the first hole, Bernhard Langer excitedly takes off his visor and spikes it on the turf. He is immediately flagged for the day’s first “excessively awkward white celebration” and forced to write, “I’m a golfer, not an athlete,” on his scorecard 50 times.

1:45 p.m. – CBS analyst David Feherty refers to Augusta’s treacherous greens as “the most uncomfortable place in golf.” Rounding out the top three were standing behind John Daly in a keg line and sitting next to the guy who screams, “Get in the hole!” immediately after every Tiger Woods swing.

2:12 p.m. – Mickelson records his third bogey in a four-hole stretch. Instead of throwing clubs or looking confused, Mickelson simply smiles some more. Fans begin to wonder if a vodka and Vicodin breakfast is contributing to his poor play and amorous attitude.

2:50 p.m. – Announcer Jim Nantz uses his trademark calm whisper to say the words “exquisite,” “splendid,” and “yips” within a one minute span. NASCAR executives announce that they will not be offering Nantz a job as “The Voice of the Daytona 500” anytime in the foreseeable future. NASCAR fans go running for a dictionary.

3:09 p.m. – After holing a five iron from 220 yards out on the 11th hole, K.J. Choi jumps up, pumps his fist, and does everything short of running up to Ernie Els yelling “You got served!” to celebrate.

3:10 p.m. – CBS announcer Bobby Clampett marvels that, “With one swing of the bat K.J. Choi is back in the thick of things.” Producers send Clampett a memo saying that the things golfers swing are called clubs and that he is no longer allowed to listen to Braves games on the radio while he’s broadcasting.

3:25 p.m. – Sergio Garcia finishes a remarkable round that included a stretch where he had seven birdies and an eagle in 12 holes. That’s roughly one birdie for every 15 minutes Garcia spent standing over the ball fidgeting.

3:37 p.m. – Davis Love III hits a putt off the slippery 16th green that causes an embarrassed look to creep onto his face. He is comforted when he realizes that while he won’t win the green jacket this year, he will retain his title as the pro athlete with the most feminine walk.

3:40 p.m. – Alex Rodriguez announces that an ankle injury will prevent him from having a walk-off with Love, forcing A-Rod to concede the aforementioned title.

3:53 p.m. – Padraig Harrington scores a hole-in-one on the 16th hole, causing Dick Enberg to say, “They are dancing in the pubs of Dublin,” and causing several Irish pub-goers to glance at each other awkwardly and continue drinking.

4:06 p.m. – Kirk Triplett also scores a hole-in-one on the 16th, causing one Masters patron to turn to those near him and say, “The 16th hole is getting aced more often than Stevie Wonder at Wimbledon.” No one laughs.

4:07 p.m. – The camera shifts back and forth between Mickelson and Els, playing up the battle for the Masters title as being reminiscent of an epic heavyweight title bout. That is if epic heavyweight title bouts featured overweight middle-aged men dressed in polos and khakis.

4:08 p.m. – Feherty reacts completely prematurely to a good Ernie Els chip on 15 by announcing, “He’s got the green jacket by the collar.”

4:09 p.m. – Not to be outdone, Clampett announces that Brad from “Real World San Diego” has won the 2016 presidential election.

4:37 p.m. – Phil Mickelson holes a 20-foot birdie putt to pull even with Els with two holes to play. And he’s still smiling.

4:48 p.m. – Choi finishes his round with a sizzling 31 on the back nine to put him alone in third place. Because of his strong performance, South Koreans now equate Choi and golf success in the same way that North Koreans equate Kim Jung-Il and being completely insane.

5:05 p.m. – Mickelson curls in an 18-foot birdie putt on the final hole to win the tournament. He then jumps high enough to buck the monkey the size of Koko the gorilla right off his back.

5:25 p.m. – After ending a string of heartbreaking losses in major championships that left him seeing red so many times, Phil Mickelson slips into his brand new jacket and finally ends up seeing green.

Enjoy the show boys and girls. I'm out.

Let's call it a learning experience

2005-04-06T21:47:00.000-07:00

In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been using my very limited HTML skills to post some images to break up the monotonous walls of text I’m prone to writing. Plus, there’s just something about seeing a picture of Mr. Belding with a crooked mustache that all the words in the world couldn't sufficiently describe.

I’m also really trying to come up with a new name for my site. “Good luck exploring the infinite abyss” is a quote from Garden State that I thought was cool, but it doesn’t really sum up what I usually write about. The name would probably be put to better use by a suicidal teenager blogging (if that’s even a verb) about wearing dark eyeliner, quoting Avenged Sevenfold lyrics and carving the sign of the beast into his forearms. So I’ll come up with something new and probably just as lame before too long.

As some of you know (and the rest of you will find out when the parentheses end) I am about to graduate from college. As I approach the end of my run, I'm probably most amused by the naivety of kids coming into college. They typically fit into two categories:
A) the kind who think college is like it's portrayed in the movies
B) the kind that think college is like it's portrayed by high school counselors, orientation guides and university brochures.
Since neither of these portrayals are even remotely accurate, I feel obligated to conduct a public service announcement. And since college is all about learning, here are a few of the things you'll probably learn in your time there . . .

You’ll learn the words to Lil Jon songs no matter how hard you try not to.
You’ll learn that 5 a.m. is a bedtime instead of a wake up time.
You’ll learn that there are plenty of people on your campus who you could swear are way too stupid to go to college.
You’ll learn that most of them live together in things called ‘fraternity houses.’
You’ll learn that watching reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger is more fun than going to your 2 p.m. Astronomy lecture.
By watching the Steven Seagal movies that are constantly on cable daytime television, you’ll learn that he is the best actor of our time. Then you’ll see Charles Bronson in Death Wish 4, and it will change your life.
You’ll learn that, “Hi, I’m on the football team,” is the world’s greatest pick-up line. It’s worked far more times than you’d believe.
You’ll learn that, “So, what’s your major,” is the world’s all-time worst pick-up line. You’ll also learn that half the people on campus haven’t gotten that memo.
You’ll learn that those on the path toward being a San Quentin warden or an Abu Gharib prison guard often start out as RAs.
You’ll learn that going Campaniling (the tradition of going to the campus clock tower at midnight to make out) as a guy is eerily similar to being on a really bad football team playing against USC. There will be a lot of dudes milling around hoping that something good will happen, but at the end of the day, they will have absolutely no chance of scoring.
You’ll also learn that Campaniling is a lot like a BYOB. If you don’t bring it yourself, you probably won’t find it there. And if you do, it will probably taste terrible or belong to someone else.
You’ll learn that girls who ask you for ‘extra beers’ are not your friends.
Despite your best efforts, you won’t be able to ascertain what an ‘extra beer’ is.
You’ll learn that girls who use the word DRAMA followed by about five exclamation points as a one-word sentence should be avoided at all costs.
You’ll learn to become suspicious of guys who are constantly putting on Chapstick.
You’ll learn to laugh at college guys who grow mustaches, have ponytails, wear socks with sandals, follow NASCAR and work out wearing jean shorts.
You’ll learn to become suspicious of anyone who attends a class that has the notes posted on the Internet.
You’ll learn that professors can tell if you plagiarize. Hopefully this will hit you before you’re supersizing someone’s extra value meal.
You’ll learn that if you’re a junior or older, you have nothing in common with freshmen.
You’ll learn that the excitement of a first kiss is stripped away when it tastes like Hawkeye Vodka and Parliaments.
You’ll learn that if you spill your drink in a bar, it’s more than likely going to be on the guy with the biggest muscles and shortest temper.
You’ll learn that if you’re an engineer and you’re going to fight a drunk guy, never hit him with your calculator-operating hand.
You’ll learn that the OC is more addictive than cigarettes, caffeine and heroin put together.
You’ll learn the first time you return home from school that the people who start conversations by asking, “So, how’s school?” really aren’t your friends.
You’ll learn that drinking good beer is a luxury you can’t afford.
You’ll learn to love Keystone Light.
You’ll learn that randomly hooking up with someone you have to see socially is excruciatingly awkward.
You’ll learn that anything worth knowing is something that you’ll teach yourself.

At least that’s what I have learned. Later.

One not-so-shining moment

2005-04-05T17:53:00.000-07:00

While watching the NCAA title game between UNC and Illinois, the following things popped into my mind . . .
1. Sean May was definitely the MOP, but I’m just not totally sold on him as being as great as Billy Packer and Jim Nantz tried to make him out to be. It’s one thing to bull your way over, around and through James Ingram and Roger Powell Jr. for easy buckets. It’s a whole different thing to take a drop step into Ben Wallace, Tim Duncan or Shaq. If May tries to make a habit of doing that when he gets to the league, he’s going to be leaving the court on a stretcher. Give me the more athletic, fit young pros like Emeka Okafor, Dwight Howard and even Utah’s Bogut over May.
2. Someone should keep the shoelaces and sharp objects out of James Augustine’s reach for a couple days after the nightmarish game he had. The final line for the Big Ten tournament MVP included 9 minutes, 5 fouls, 0 points and about 45 bewildered looks. After he got his third, fourth and fifth fouls in less than a minute of total court time, the look on his face was more depressing than the end of 21 Grams. I was just hoping that someone would walk over to him and give him a hug.
3. I was genuinely hoping that Roy Williams would fall off the step ladder and onto the scissors he was using to cut down the net. That would have been one shining moment.
4. Bruce Webber’s deer hunter orange suit jacket was quite possibly the best championship coaching attire of all time. He was a pair of matching orange slacks and a tab-collared shirt short of being straight out of Saturday Night Fever.
5. Illinois definitely won the game’s battle of facial hair, but North Carolina countered by winning the battle of the tattoo. Illinois’ Ingram, Dee Brown, Deron Williams, Augustine, Luther Head and Nick Smith all had confirmed goatees with mustaches, but the Heels looked like they got a group rate at the unoriginal basketball and Chinese symbol tattoo assembly line.

In theory . . .

Separated at Birth: Michael Jordan's
wife Juanita (left) and the King of Pop.

The legend of Michael Jordan has one fatal flaw. Everyone knows that he is the most competitive, type A, ruthlessly perfectionist athlete in sports history. Everyone knows that he wouldn’t settle for anything but winning championships, dominating games and becoming basketball’s undisputed greatest player of all time. It’s also common knowledge that his competitive nature extended beyond the basketball court to his gambling, golf and business ventures. The man refused to accept anything but absolute victory, and he has all the money, fame and adoration that can be heaped upon a single athlete. All of these factors would fit together seamlessly to confirm his legendary status except for one glaring inconsistency: his wife looks like Michael Jackson. I don’t get it either.

Things I will never laugh at . . .
1. Someone who asks me if I’m working hard or hardly working.
2. Someone wearing a flowery Hawaiian necklace who says he just got Lei’d.
3. Any movie involving a Wayans brother.
4. The Family Circus.
5. Tim “The Toolman” Taylor. Never has someone been so aptly nicknamed.

Speaking of tools . . .
Commercial jingles have always been used by marketers as insidious ways of getting songs stuck in the heads of unsuspecting customers, but never have two jingles been so strong at the same time. BK’s Tendercrisp Bacon Cheddar Ranch is one of the all-time campiest, most memorable TV jingles, but I’m not sure if it can get a stranglehold on someone’s mind quite like AutoZone’s “Parts” song. If I see the AutoZone commercial, I know that four hours later I’ll still be humming, “Parts, parts, give me more parts, at AutoZone you can find the right parts” while I’m sitting in religion class. If these jingles went head-to-head for stick-in-the-head superiority, it would be like Ali-Frazier all over again.

I’m just saying . . .
“It's time to prove to your friends that you're worth a damn. Sometimes that means dying, sometimes it means killing a whole lot of people.” --Dwight from Sin City

I think thefacebook is a lot like Mark Wahlberg in Fear. It starts off new and exciting and quickly morphs into something that scares the hell out of you.
Because thefacebook can quickly turn into thestalkerbook, I’ve developed a brief set of rules to govern facebook interactions . . .
1. Thou shalt not poke someone if thou dost not know them extremely well. A general guideline to keep in mind: If you would be comfortable walking up to a person and physically poking them, you may poke them electronically. If not, please keep your pokes to yourself.
2. Thou shalt not make social plans via thefacebook’s messaging system. This is what telephones and face-to-face conversations are for.
3. Thou shalt not use a phone number gained from reading a person’s profile. Just like looking up someone’s number on the university Web site or getting it by some other covert means, using thefacebook to score digits is creepy.
4. Thou shalt not ask people whom you don’t know to be your facebook friends. You should at minimum have spoken to a person and be sure that he or she knows who you are.
5. Thou shalt not feel bad about fighting creepy behavior on thefacebook. If someone isn’t really your friend, reject his or her offer. If you want to be a little more clever about it, accept the person, wait a month, and remove them. They probably won’t even notice.

Just for good measure . . .
If I had to pick a character out of Sin City to have my back, I would pick Mickey Rourke’s character Marv. Bruce Willis’ character is a close second, while Clive Owen’s brings up the rear. For the girls, Jessica Alba comes in as the runaway winner. Alexis Bledel of Gilmore Girls (not that I watch that . . . ) wins in a startling upset for second place, followed by Brittany Murphy, Rosario Dawson and James King.

I’m just saying . . .
Kramer: “I’ve got a lot of things in the hopper.”
Jerry: “You’ve got a hopper.”
Kramer: “Oh, I’ve got a hopper. A big hopper.”

I feel exactly the same way. I’m out for now.

Life in the big city

2005-04-03T23:45:00.000-07:00

I’m back from the weekend in Kansas City, and it was a rousing success. I’ll now commence boring you with a few the details . . .

1. Miller pronounces “masochism” as “machoism.” The kid is something else.
2. Miles also didn’t know that the Kansas City that is home to the Royals and Chiefs is in Missouri.
3. Patches insisted that we were in the South as soon as we crossed the Iowa-Missouri border.
4. The guy who sold us liquor had “FUCK” tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand and “OFF!” on his left. Apparently the liquor store’s owner didn’t feel that this was inappropriate for an employee whose primary responsibility is working with customers. I’m inclined to agree with him.
5. Kansas City has some enormous mansions, and there was a tantalizing rumor going around that George Brett lived in a neighborhood we drove through. That’s just a feather in the city’s cap. On a semi-related note, the footage of George Brett exploding out of the dugout, his hair blowing back and his face displaying the most fierce rage I’ve ever seen at a baseball game never gets old for me.
6. Kansas City has a lot of crazed homeless folks. This is not such a feather in the cap. It’s more of a black eye actually.
7. Kelly Clarkson’s radio play drastically reduces outside of the Des Moines area. This gives me hope, but it also makes me wonder who is in charge of ramming her songs down Central Iowa’s throats. I think Paula Abdul is someone involved.
8. I learned a trick that taught me how to look really cool when lighting matches. I’m sure this will come in handy any day now.
9. Being a hotel security guard has to rank just below being John Daly’s AA sponsor and just above being Mike Tyson’s prison bitch on the occupational hierarchy. These guys have no real authority, get no real respect, and have to wear ridiculous uniforms to work. It’s just like being a member of the New Orleans Hornets.
10. Mitchell called 911 to report a 17-year-old in a black Cavalier with poorly done homemade window tint. The kid was being a jackass, but the poorly done window tint was grounds enough for an arrest in my opinion.

In theory . . .
I’ve formulated a new theory contending that Oregon Trail is an instructional tool that teaches elementary school children how to be jaded, heartless and cruel business executives. Much like in the workplace, being a good person in the OT just doesn’t go very far. Here are a few examples . . .

1. In true “Kill em all, let God sort em out” fashion, pounding out a grueling pace while doling out meager rations is the quickest way to get ahead. Never mind that little Jimmy has cholera and your wife has typhoid; it behooves you to just keep plugging away. Broken leg? Walk it off. Snake bite? Tough break. Two of your oxen died while trying to ford a 12-foot deep river? Better luck next time. Just make sure you’re in the office on Saturday morning.
2. Ignoring the advice of Brody from Mall Rats is never a good idea, but the creators of Oregon Trail must have missed the “Waste not, want not” memo. When hunting, killing rabbits is harder than Mike Ditka after taping a Levitra commercial, while shooting buffalo is as easy as getting Paris Hilton in front of a video camera. (As an aside, when her T-Mobile Sidekick got hacked and her messages were made public, one of them was from former MTV VJ Simon Rex, who texted her, “U are the best fuck ever.” First of all, that’s a really charming, classy gesture on his part. Second, if she’s hooking up with D-list pseudo-celebs like Simon Rex, can The Miz of Real World/Road Rules Challenge fame be far behind?) I don’t know where I’m really going with this, other than saying that the game teaches kids to kill whatever is easiest, throw whatever they can get out of it into the wagon, and leave the rest to rot. It’s obvious that white people developed this software.
3. In the OT, whoever has the most money wins, and having skills is no match for being a banker and buying everything you need. Unfortunately, this mirrors the real world, where talentless rich people like Ashlee Simpson get their own TV shows and free tickets to the Orange Bowl, while poor people like me get to have the taillights kicked out of their 1989 Mercury Grand Marquises. But I’m not bitter.

You heard it here first . . .

I went to the movies tonight with Mitchell and Peewee, and Sin City is hands down the best movie I’ve seen all year. It’s visceral, blood-drenched and bullet-riddled, but it’s just beautifully done. Well, I guess it’s as beautifully done as a movie that features a graphic depiction of Bruce Willis ripping a guy’s package off with his bare hands can be. It’s based on the Frank Miller graphic novels (comic books to the layperson) which I’m going to go check out pretty soon. The movie was just too good for the comic not to be equally well done. Also, I’m trying to get my hands on Claudio Sanchez’s Coheed and Cambria comic that mirrors that band’s four-part sci-fi concept albums, but it isn’t easy to find. Since I’ve just about reached my word limit for talking about comic books without officially giving up hopes of ever touching a girl, I’ll stop. But Sin City comes highly recommended from me.

As a consolation prize . . .
Baseball’s opening day is tomorrow, but the Sox and Yanks kicked off their seasons tonight with the Yanks nailing the Sox 9-2 in the Bronx. It just stings a lot less after last October.

I’m just saying . . .

Terrence Mann’s monologue near the end of Field of Dreams gives me goosebumps. Actually, the last half hour of that movie almost chokes me up every time I watch it. It’s cheesy and emotional, but somehow it gets to me every time. It can’t get much better.

Just so you know . . .
If chewing on pens is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

You probably already knew this but . . .
A necromancer is a person who communicates with the dead in hopes of predicting the future. I thought it was a person who romanced the dead. I guess that shows what I know.

That’s all for tonight. More on Sin City, baseball, and the minutia of my life to come.

Treasure Chest

2005-04-01T11:00:00.000-08:00

Well, it is April Fool’s Day, but there is no fooling involved with what I’m about to tell you: Kenyon and I went on a he-date to see Nick Cage in National Treasure last night at the dollar theater. My verdict: I am forever changed. I think the title of the movie refers to the fact that the movie itself is a national treasure on the level of the Statue of Liberty and Mark Paul Gosselaar.
Just so there is no confusion, National Treasure is not a good movie per se. It is, however, an entertaining movie. There is an incredible difference, but I think that’s pretty intuitive. Regardless, I enjoyed the movie quite a bit.

I mean, has there ever been a treasure hunting movie that isn’t entertaining? I can’t get enough of them. In the spirit of The Goonies and the Indiana Jones Trilogy, National Treasure delivers implausible action, laugh-out-loud dialogue and, most importantly, Nick Cage’s enigmatic hairline.

The fact that Cage gets cast in action movies just baffles me. I could be way off, but I’m guessing that the casting process goes something like this:

Casting director: “We just spent big money on this picture, so we’re going to need an alpha male lead to really push the action. We need someone who is strong, courageous, charismatic and athletic for this role.”
Casting assistant: “Colin Farrell’s doing some art film, Will Smith is shooting Men in Black 13, Heath Ledger is back on Oxy Contins, that Ryan kid from the OC only has one facial expression and Cruise and Travolta wouldn’t touch this picture if L. Ron Hubbard himself was directing.”
Casting director: “All right, fuck it. Get Cage on the phone.”
Casting assistant: “You don’t mean that. Be reasonable!”
Casting director: “Hello, Nick, hey I loved your work in Guarding Tess! I tell ya, do we have a role for you!”

One more thing that kind of creeped me out about this movie (other than the whole hairline fiasco, which diverted my attention so much that I had a hard time following the plot at times) was the Jon Voight-Nick Cage father-son realtionship. Voight played Cage’s father in the film, and Voight is Angelina Jolie’s father in real life. All of a sudden I flashed back to Cage and Jolie making out in “Gone in 60 Seconds” and it all seemed a little too incestuous. Not that that has stopped her before. Zing. But I digress . . .

Here’s a quick Top 5 list of things that bug me . . .
1. People who spell definitely DEFINATELY
2. How I can name current and past cast members of the Real World as if they are my actual friends but I can’t name all the planets in the solar system without that humiliating mnemonic device
3. Guys who are constantly putting on Chapstick
4. Guys who cut pictures of hot women out of Maxim and tape them to their walls. We get it, you like girls.
5. Portugal

I’m just saying . . .

"Don't have anything in your life that you can't walk away from in 30 seconds."-- De Niro in "Heat"

I’m off for Kansas City this weekend, so unless I get ambitious, you won’t hear from me until Sunday at the earliest. In the meantime, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

A question or two . . .

2005-03-31T19:37:00.000-08:00

Here are a few burning questions that I have been pondering lately . . .

Does anyone actually subscribe to the services in those annoying commercials offering ringtones and cell phone backgrounds? Is it really worth $3.99 a month to have a picture of rims as your cell phone wallpaper or to have your Trillville ringer go off in the middle of a class? I’d like to think it isn’t.

What’s uglier, Rodney Dangerfield’s golf swing in Caddyshack, Nuke LaLoosh’s (Tim Robbin’s) pitching delivery in Bull Durham or Jared Leto’s post-beating face in Fight Club? I’m leaning towards Keanu Reeves’ performance in The Replacements, but I’m willing to entertain arguments.

What do you suppose Scoonie Penn is doing right now? And what about Penn of Penn and Teller? Most importantly, what is Mike Penn doing with his life at this point? Nothing good I’d venture. I’m seriously starting to question whether the Penn is in fact mightier than the sword.

When will the first initial/first syllable of the last name nickname become so passé that it stops being used? I’m hoping soon. I can think of ARod, KRod, IRod, CWebb, JWill and AMarsh right of the top of my head, and I’m sure there are a handful more out there. The jury is still out on whether we can add CMurder to that list. After all, I doubt his last name is actually Murder, but he is in prison for that exact offense, so we’ll just have to weigh our options. I’ll just say this: give me Pistol Pete, Hot Rod Williams, Wimp Sanderson, Bum Phillips, PacMan Jones and SweetPea Whitaker over KMart any day of the week.

Is Steven Seagal as indestructible in real life as he is in his movies? If so, who would win in a rooftop karate grudge match between him and Chuck Norris? And is it even possible for those two to be in the same frame without the film spontaneously combusting? These are the things keeping me up at night.

If Roy Williams is in fact the NCAA version of Sisyphus, is anyone else hoping that the boulder runs him over again this year? Count me in.

Did you know that Dennis Haskins grew a mustache after Saved by the Bell’s run came to an end to avoid being typecast into Mr. Belding-esque roles for the rest of his career? What kind of career he was expecting to have after the show is beyond me, but I respect his tactics nonetheless.

Have you heard the following songs: Straylight Run – Existentialism on Prom Night, Jimmy Eat World – Night Drive, Bright Eyes – The First Day of My Life, Snow Patrol – Grazed Knees, Frou Frou – Let Go, The Shins – Caring is Creepy? I’d imagine you have since none of them are that new or obscure. If you haven’t yet, I highly recommend them. They all have a very relaxed, eerie beauty to them.

In the new McDonald’s McGriddles commercial, a very important question is raised. Is the girl in the commercial trying to get the guy to like her or is she just trying to eat his breakfast? I don’t know jack about girls and (surprise, surprise) I can’t read her signals. Why are these things so complicated?

Many of these questions may never be answered, but it never hurts to ponder them.

On to bigger and better things . . .
If I wanted to hear a neverending string of clichés rattled off by a one-trick pony commentator in a faux scream, I would just tune in to watch Dick Vitale during March Madness. If I wanted to hear the bitter rumblings of a grudge-holding curmudgeon, I’d make sure not to miss a Billy Packer broadcast. If I wanted to hear every second of the tournament described as having, “an atmosphere that is absolutely electric” or “”dripping with emotion that is downright palpable,” it would be a toss-up between listening to Jim Nantz and Gus Johnson. With their proclivity to give enthusiastic accounts of even commonplace events, they could make even my daily walks to class sound riveting.

On the other hand, if I wanted to get an insightful yet unique perspective, I’d have to look no further than Bill Raftery. He’s my boy.

As a side note, whoever signed Dick Vitale to appear not only on ACC broadcasts and SportsCenter but also on Pontiac, DiGiorno and Hooters commercials needs to die. Now. I cannot stress this strongly enough.

Just to pay the bills . . .

If one could get paid for playing video games by day and watching romantic comedies by night, my roommate Miller would be rich, bitch. He’d have enough money to feed Latrell Sprewell’s family, finance the Shawn Kemp Paternity Suit Defense Fund and pay Darius Rucker to serenade him during every meal. On second thought, it seems that anyone with $3.99 or a Tendercrisp Bacon Cheddar Ranch could hire DRuck’s singing services.

On a related note, I thought it was established in the mid-90s that Darius Rucker is not Hootie. Much like Steely Dan and Jethro Tull are not the names of actual people but of bands as a whole, Hootie is just part of a band name. Even though I thought everyone was aware of this, I think this somewhat important fact has been forgotten. Roy Jones Jr. said it best and repeated it countless times in his rap song: “Y’all musta forgot!”

Just so you know . . .
I’ve been to prom three times (twice after I graduated from high school) and have behaved like an ass on 66.6 percent of these occasions (rounded down). It’s also sad that my post-graduate prom work was my worst.

I'm just saying . . .

I'm a little concerned that my buddy Goff and Luke Perry's character from 90210 have similar catch phrases. I find this very telling, but you be the judge . . .
"May the bridges I burn light the way."--Dylan McKay
"We'll burn that bridge when we come to it."--Erik Goff

Eerie. That's it for me.

A seven nation army couldn't hold me back

2005-03-30T00:04:00.000-08:00

I’m going to Wichita, far from this opera forever more
I’m going to work the straw, make sweat drip out of every pore

Well, I finally found out where the first base of my Air Force career is, and, you guessed it, it’s in Wichita. I’ve never been there, but I know one thing for sure: The first person to make a “I don’t think you’re in Kansas anymore,” joke when I come home to visit is no longer my friend. It’s just not good business to rely on The Wizard of Oz for your comedy, so be warned.

Wichita is also the home of Wichita State University, so a moratorium might also need to be called on Shocker jokes at some point, but I’ll handle that on a case-by-case basis.

Even though Wichita is just going to be a stop-off before I go to flight training, I’m banking on making the most of my time there. I’ll probably end up getting my private pilot license, playing some golf, and trying to learn how to cook for myself. I’ll either learn or report to UPT weighing in at 140 lbs., so I’m really hoping I can expand my repertoire beyond scrambled eggs and turkey sandwiches.

On dangerous part about moving to southern Kansas (Wichita is only a few miles north of Oklahoma) is the proximity to all things related to The South. Hopefully I can prevent any changes to my speech patterns, which is something I was unable to do during my time at boot camp in Florida. I’m pretty sure in just over a month living with guys who went to school at Arkansas, South Florida, Southern Alabama and Clemson, my speech dropped by about 10 words per minute. There’s just no helping it when everyone you live with sounds like Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade after drinking an entire bottle of NyQuil. You know you have a problem when you can’t say a three syllable word in less than seven seconds, and it’s also never a good sign when “SirIdunno, I’lltrytadobetternexttom” is a two-word sentence.

Strangely enough, I find girls with a southern accent unbelievably appealing. This may or may not be directly related to my feelings for Cameran from Real World San Diego, but either way I love those Southern Belles.

I don’t know exactly when or for how long I’ll be in Wichita, so for now I’m just playing the waiting game once again.

In theory . . .
If nothing else, the Terri Schiavo case has cemented a theory of mine that is quickly becoming a hard and fast rule: If Jesse Jackson comes out in support of something, I have already aligned myself against it. It never fails. I don’t know if he was born with a moral compass that was wildly askew or if it was just left next to power lines too long and got ruined, but he couldn’t be more clueless. North is this way Jesse . . .that’s it.

The details of my life are quite inconsequential, but since I have nothing better to do, I’ll continue to do what has derailed so many of my social engagements: I’ll just talk about me. A lot.

1. I have unintentionally Maced myself twice, which is a testament to my undeniable brilliance.
2. On a semi-related note, I misspelled the name of Mase the rapper in my “Welcome Back”-themed ISU Daily column last September. This just goes to show that I’m whiter than you are.
3. At one point in my life, I had listened to Green Day’s “Dookie” more than any other album. Now, I’d have to say that Alkaline Trio’s “From Here to Infirmary” has snagged that coveted top spot.
4. I don’t think I could date a girl with one of those symmetrical lower back tattoos. And if I did, I wouldn’t like it. It’s just too unoriginal.
5. I’m sure that last statement led to a broken hearts for a legion of ladies with tattooed lumbars. They must be just devastated.
6. If Kenny Loggins did the soundtrack, I like the movie.
7. “Kate and Leopold” is the best time-travel romantic comedy I’ve seen this month. Hats off.
8. If I got to pick anyone to be my MTV “Made” coach, it would have to be Rick Pitino. From what I’ve heard, he could tell his players that the world is flat and they would believe him. At first I thought that was pretty standard for people who went to school in Kentucky, but further research reveals that it’s actually a testament to his credibility. I wouldn’t want Rick to be my coach for anything that is his specialty, which rules out basketball and slicking his hair back in a fashionable manner. That would just be too easy. Also I wouldn’t want him to teach me something like the art of charming women, because A) I already know the world’s greatest pickup line and B) that’s just clichéd. No, I think I would have to choose Rick Pitino to coach me in my quest to become the world’s finest Etch-a-Sketch caricaturist. This is two-fold . . .
A) There is no way in hell that I could be any worse at this going in. Decent diagonal lines and curves are an absolute impossibility for me.
B) Rick can’t fail, so my overwhelming ineptitude in this area would probably send him over the edge once and for all. I can see it now . . .
Rick and I are on a pier as I proposition couples passing by to pose for a caricature. A few oblige, but are soon taken aback with horror as I show them the shoddiness of my work and explain that Rick is responsible for making me better. Rick feels their doubting looks and starts to tense up. After three days without so much as an iota of improvement on my part, Rick finally snaps, resorts to strangulation, throws the Etch-a-Sketch into the water and goes back to coaching Louisville to Final Fours. I have no idea why I would want this to happen, but I think the comedy of the situation speaks for itself.
9. If I could trade lives with anyone for just one day, I would make the switch with Pauly Shore. After experiencing the living hell that his life must be for 24 hours, getting my own life back will seem like winning the lottery.
10. “I ain’t passed the bar, but I know a little bit.”

I’m just saying . . .
It’s all too true . . .
A surefire way for a man to instantly lose his credibility: owning more than one cat.

Say it ain’t so . . .
The new Bachelor is Jerry O’Connell’s brother. As if one O’Connell in the spotlight isn’t enough? Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I implore you.
More on this travesty later . . .

And you know it . . .
Rugged men claim Cool Hand Luke as their favorite movie.

I’m just saying . . .
“Hell no, man, we got our butts kicked. Thirty seconds. We went like this. He went like that. I said to Hollywood, ‘Where’d he go?’ Hollywood says, ‘Where’d who go?’”

I'll call you . . .

2005-03-29T10:02:00.000-08:00

Here is a brief list of the most demeaning nicknames men can have . . .

1. Bubbles
2. Jellybean
3. Princess
4. SweetPea
5. Jennifer

Ok then.

It all started out so innocently . . .

2005-03-28T22:07:00.000-08:00

Well, since I don’t have to get up early to do my usual Tuesday Air Force routine, I’ve decided to take this time to write down a couple things that have been my mind lately. I’ll try to keep this short and sweet, just like Sylvester Stallone.

Speaking of Sly, I can't say enough about the guy. First, he's been in most of the truly great movies in history, and I will not argue about that. On a related note, I bought "Victory", a film about a ragtag gang of Allied POWs playing soccer against the German All-Stars, and it might be the best thing to ever happen to me. Not only does Pele have several speaking parts, but Sly stops a potential game-winning goal by those Nazi bastards and does this awkward celebratory jig that is second to nothing I have ever seen. If for nothing else, do yourself a favor and buy this movie for those ten seconds of pure Stallone joy. Otherwise, just ask me to watch it with you. I'll be hard-pressed to turn you down.
Second, Stallone routinely scores in the genius range on standarized IQ tests.
Third, he knocked out Apollo Creed and Clubber Lang, not to mention dropping Ivan Drago in Moscow in front of the entire Polit Bureau on Christmas Eve to teach those Godless commies what America is all about. He even singlehandedly ended the Cold War.
He is, hands down, a man ahead of his time.

On to things non-Sly related . . .
March Madness is already up there on my list of things I am in love with, right alongside early morning golf, Flying Burritos and Natalie Portman. Last weekend vaulted it into the stratosphere of the 1996 Packers, my dog Bo and Christian Laettner. It was unbelievable.

Illinois-Arizona
One of the best comebacks I've seen in a long time. The only thing keeping this from being one of the hands-down, all-time greats was the lack of a hero rising to the occasion and making the shot of the lifetime at the buzzer. For that reason and that reason alone, the Tyus Edney full-court drive, the Bryce Drew three and of course (head and shoulders above everything, mind you) the Christian Laettner foul line turnaround against Kentucky are still my top three tourney game moments. Just behind those include Laettner's 17-foot leaner at the buzzer to beat UConn, Tate George's game-winner against Clemson and Rumeal Robinson's three against Illinois in 1989. That's about as far back as I can remember. Howeer, I do remember watching Laettner hit his famous 1992 shot while I was watching basketball alone in my grandparents' basement while the rest of the family was upstairs having Easter dinner. I was 9 years old when it happened, and the fact that a 9-year-old decided that watching basketball was important enough to ditch Easter festivities probably says something about me. But who cares.
The fact that Lute Olson has brought the end-of-game shakiness from Iowa to Arizona is a little bit of a consolation for him leaving, but it doesn't excuse what happened at all. Hitting zero field goals, committing four turnovers and allowing three three-pointers in the final 3:26 of a Regional Final is about the only way for a team to blow a 15-point lead. Lucky for Arizona, they were just the men for the job.

UNC-Wisconsin
My homestate Badgers made a valiant effort, but they were just outmanned. UNC looked as if they only cared at times, and when those times arose they ripped off 10-point spurts like they were playing against a team of 5-foot-8 high schoolers with asthma. The Badgers knew they couldn't play a fast tempo game, and 88-82 is exactly the type of score they wanted to avoid. Regardless, hats off to the boys from Madison. They made the Big Ten look strong. The only downside of the game was that one of the commentators (I want to say it was CBS sideline reporter and former NFL defensive back Solomon Wilcots) compared Sean May to a running back, tight end and quarterback before the game was ten minutes into the second half. I'll bet the over for football references if May and Paul Davis square off in the national title game no matter what the odds are set at.

Kentucky-Michigan State
I want to first say that Patrick Sparks might be the ugliest basketball player in the country. I just wanted to get that out there. Smashed-in-the-face-with-a-shovel ugly or not, the last-second three he hit was unbelievable. I stood about 18 inches from the TV when they showed the enhanced replay close-up and I still couldn't tell if he was on the line or not. It was a solid call to send it to OT though. You just can't make a call like that if it isn't 100 percent clear that he was on the line. But speaking of the enhanced replay: How do they even do that? I will never cease to be amazed by TV technology. If someday this type of technology becomes feasible for use in pick-up games, I will be the first one onboard. I can just see my buddy Drinkall throwing out the red flag on a disputed sideline catch that gets a completion overruled, only to send my buddy Danimal into an absolute Michael Douglas in Falling Down-esque meltdown right there on the field. I can see his technical foul face already.

West Virginia-Louisville
I just have one thing to say to the Cards: You almost got Pittsnogled. Consider yourself very fortunate.

I'm seeing Illinois by 3 over Louisville and North Carolina by 2 over Michigan State, with the game only staying that close because Tom Izzo outcoaches Roy Williams by about seven points. He will take Roy behind the woodshed, but the ACC-loving CBS commentators will do everything short of asking Williams to the prom during their coverage. It makes me queasy just thinking about it. Feel free to go against these picks though, because my record in this tournament is such that it pretty much makes me the New Orleans Hornets of bracketology.

Here is a very brief list of ways to get a girl to hate you no matter what the circumstances. Don't doubt me on this one, I have some experience . . .

1. End each sentence you say to her with a condescending "Princess" or "Sweetheart."
For example: "Whatever, Princess" or "Don't flatter yourself, Sweetheart." She'll love it.
2. Hint, even in a way would be imperceptible to any man on the planet, that you aren't absolutely head-over-heels in love with either children or puppies. She will look at you as if you're the antichrist.
3. Mention that you want to be a pilot because, "It presents me with the opportunity to kill the most people in the shortest amount of time." Other buzzwords and useful phrases include "carpetbomb," "collateral damage," and "professional killer." At least it works for me.

Here's the long-promised list of songs that I love but am too embarrassed to claim as favorites. I'll call this section "Guilty Pleasures."

The Elite . . .
5. The Cranberries - Linger
4. Blessid Union of Souls – Hey Leonardo
3. Peter Cetera - The Glory of Love
2. Real McCoy – Another Night
1. Merril Bainbridge - Mouth

Just missing the cut:
Len – Steal My Sunshine
LFO – Every Other Time
Annie Lennox – Walking on Broken Glass, Turn Around (Bright Eyes)
Journey – Don’t Stop Believing
Dead Eye Dick – New Age Girl
Virginia Gentlemen – Cecilia
The Cranberries – Zombie
Vitamin C – Graduation Song
Train – Meet Virginia, Drops of Jupiter
Tal Bachman – She’s So High
New Radicals – Get What You Give

I'm not proud of that list, nor am I proud of how easily I came up with it.

On to bigger and better things . . .
Kenyon and I have a date to see Nick Cage in "National Treasure" this Friday at the dollar theater. People who use the spelling "theatre" to describe a place to watch a movie really bug me. It's just such a presumptuous way of spelling it. Just like people who spell "honor" and "color" with a "u". They are no friends of mine. But anyhow, I'm looking forward to seeing the movie for the same reason I look forward to seeing any of Nick Cage's work: I foolishly hold onto that small glimmer of hope that Cage might revert to the accent he used in Con Air, thus making me officially able to die a happy man. Or boy, depending on your outlook on that matter. Anyway, hearing another line like "Put . . . the bunny . . . back . . . in the . . . box" out of Cage's mouth and I will probably be happy for months.

I'm just saying . . .
Now that baseball season is just around the corner and the Red Sox have lifted The Curse, the Cubs think it's their turn. I find this hilarious. After all, it's only T-minus 50 games until Kerry Wood and Mark Prior are still on the shelf with arm trouble, Todd Hollandsworth has to donate a kidney just to be batting his weight, and TheTroy Hawkins throws a punch at a Sun-Times beat writer after blowing his third straight save.

Now that the Sox are off the schneid, it just makes me happy that I baseball’s strongest remaining curse will be the one spewing out of Dusty Baker's mouth every time Rey “The One-Man Rally Killer” Ordonez strides to the plate with two on and two out. That's how you know it's spring.

No, I'm letting you know . . .
"It seems like I win every week ... and I do!"-- Stu Feiner

Til next time . . .

Victory

2005-03-27T06:31:00.000-08:00

"But Hatch, if we leave now, we lose so much more than just a game."

When in Rome

2005-03-25T22:35:00.000-08:00

No, the title of this post isn't referencing the Ron Burgundy quote or the Olsen twins movie of that same title. I personally feel that "When in Rome" makes "New York Minute" look weak by comparison, but seeing as it was made during the Mary-Kate anorexia/cocaine era, I'm willing to forgive "NYM". After all, M-K has to feel pretty insecure, what with Ashley being way, way cuter than she is. That would be a tough pill for any twin to swallow I'd imagine.

Instead, this post's title references the kick ass '80s band named When in Rome, whose hit "The Promise" is a great song. Sappy but great, which sums up the '80s pretty succintly. But that's why I love them.

To keep the When in Rome train rolling, those three words are possibly the most overquoted in recent memory. Anchorman, while very funny, has been beaten to death by ceaseless misquotations and poor imitations by people who sound nothing like Will Ferrell. The thing is, Will Ferrell could say almost any phrase in the English language and it would sound funny. He's just naturally gifted that way. It's kind of like how Anthony Hopkins could say anything and make it sound creepy, or Jimmy Fallon could say anything and make himself sound like a pussy.

If you don't believe me, just picture the follwing actors delivering the following line:

Will Ferrell: "I'm going down to the Home Depot to buy a claw hammer and some lumber."
Verdict: Hilarious. He's probably telling this to an attractive woman while wearing a shirt that's too tight and trying to hide the fact that he's driving a Dodge Caravan.

Anthony Hopkins: "I'm going down to the Home Depot to buy a claw hammer and some lumber."
Verdict: Creepy. He's going to club someone with the hammer, build them a coffin and bury them alive.

Jimmy Fallon: "I'm going down to the Home Depot to buy a claw hammer and some lumber."
Verdict: What a pussy. You don't believe him, but even if he bought the entire tool section, it wouldn't make up for his feminine shoes, frosted hair and obvious lack of a Y chromosome.

Here's a short list of a couple of recent movies that have also been quoted to death.

1. Old School - That and everything else Ferrell has done recently
2. Napoleon Dynamite - Never have I witnessed a movie that is so dull to watch but so funny in hindsight. I don't quite know how to feel about it.
3. Dumb and Dumber - The movie never gets old, but hearing people say "Kick his ass, C-Bass" definitely does.
4. Zoolander - It's one of my favorite movies, but enough is enough.
5. Top Gun - Mostly it's just me doing it.

In my mind, there's nothing funnier than an obscure movie quote told at exactly the right time. Except maybe watching Real World and Road Rules alums surrender their last shreds of dignity in the Inferno II. Will someone please get The Miz a job so he can stop eating worms and going through obstacle courses for a living? I did those things in 3rd grade and it's not something that I would choose to make a career of.

I'd hire the MIZ as an intern in about half a second, if only to find out who actually hooks up with who (whom?) behind the scenes in these brothels the contestants stay in. It's my contention that every Inferno II contestant has slept with every other contestant of the opposite sex either directly or indirectly. That's keeping it all in the family. I would also posit that while MTV is busy getting footage of dramatic arguments and binge drinking, CT is hiding out in some bathroom cutting lines of coke, doing hundreds of push-ups and hatching a scheme to wrestle the crown of "Biggest loser in reality TV history" away from The Miz.

I don't know about you, but I'm often very bored in class. To pass the time, I have found the following games to be very entertaining. They can be played solo, but they are better with a partner in crime . . .

1. Picking out the guy in class who most looks like he would buy the One Tree Hill season on DVD and go out of his way to explain to the Best Buy cashier that it's a birthday present for his little sister.
2. Picking out the girl who looks most likely to go into porn. This might seem simple, but factors such as died hair, tattoos, provocative classroom apparel and good old fashioned low self-esteem can take a while to recognize.
3. Trying to bait your professor into an outburst by repeatedly referring him or her as Mr. or Ms. instead of Professor or Doctor. The looks on their faces are priceless.
4. Picking out the guy in the class who is most likely to grow a mustache as an adult.
5. Passing a note to a member of the opposite sex that says, "WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME" and having boxes named YES, NO and MAYBE for them to check.
6. Raising your hand in a crowded lecture hall to ask your Professor if you can be excused to go to the bathroom.
7. Asking a TA where the lecture hall's smoking section is
8. Picking out the guy in class most likely to start a story with the phrase, "Dude, I was so wasted last night . . . "
9. Sitting in the front row, trying to write down every single word the professor says, and repeatedly asking him or her to slow down.
10. Picking out the guy or girl in class who looks to be the closest to suicide. Doing this at an 8 a.m. lecture is like shooting fish in a barrel.

I'm just saying . . .
When my roommate Miller's alarm clock goes off in the morning, he will without fail let out this pained groan, as if to say, "Oh fuck, not another day." Does he wish he died in his sleep? Is his life so terrible that the prospect of facing the day is almost more than he can bear? One way or another, this can't be healthy.

Just for good measure . . .
Austin Croshere would average 18 points and 10 boards per game if the Pacers would get him some playing time. Yet they seem to think Fred Jones' 7 and 3 seem to be a better option. Inexplicable.

Yeah, I said it . . .
Christian Laettner just scored his 11,000th career point with little fanfare from the media or NBA higher-ups. Disgraceful. This man has done more for basketball since anyone since James Naismith (and looked damn good doing it, I might add) and this is the thanks he gets.

Didn't see that coming . . .
How about the Big Ten putting 3 in the Elite Eight? Add that to the fact that the Hawkeyes will play for the BCS title next fall (and lose to USC by about 60-75 points) and it's safe to say the Big 11 is back.

You heard it here first . . .
"I have three rules which I live by: Never get less than 12 hours sleep, never play cards with a guy who has the same first name as a city, and never go near a lady with a tattoo of a dagger on her hand. Now you stick with that, and everything else is cream cheese."
-- The basketball coach in "Teen Wolf"

To bring this thing to a merciful end, I just have one more topic to cover. His name is Drinkall. He's been one of my best friends for about as long as I can remember, and there is one main reason for this: He never ceases to make me laugh. There are a lot of people who I know that are good guys, nice guys, cool guys, but there are only a select few who I would characterize as truly interesting people. He is definitely that. If I mention an '80s movie or a trashy '90s alt/grunge song, he knows exactly what I'm talking about. If I talk about any sporting event that happened since 1990, we both probably watched it. And if I had to be in jail and pick out one cell mate who I could converse with and never get bored of, he would have to be at the top of that list. He has an inappropriate remark for just about every occasion, and you just can't put a price on that kind of stuff.

Later . . .

If ever you find me in an irreversible coma . . .

2005-03-25T06:06:00.000-08:00

. . . please pull the plug. No one deserves to live like Terri Schiavo. Except for maybe George Steinbrenner. I'd rig his ICU with an alarm clock-esque battery backup system so a blackout can't even get him off the hook. Wait . . . is everything in the hospital on an alarm clock-esque battery backup system? It would make sense.

Shifting gears, here are 5 Fearless predictions that just might tickle your fancy . . .

5. Don't sleep on my Brewers this season. They've got a good 60-65 wins in them.
4. When I finally get around to seeing Keanu Reeves in Constantine, I'm going to want to die. As a side note, can we just give Keanu his lifetime achievement award for consistently delivering his lines worse than any actor outside of a late night Skinemax movie? I don't see what's stopping us.
3. When Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson finally do break up, he's going to go for a smart, cool (albeit slightly less attractive) girl his second time around. I'm thinking something along the lines of Natalie Portman's character in Garden State. And Jessica will go for 50 Cent.
2. Speaking of Curtis Jackson, I have a sneaking suspicion that 50's "Candy Shop" won't catch on as the official jingle of Russell Stover's mall candy shops. It's just a hunch.
1. Everything Sylvester Stallone does (I'm looking your way Contender) will continue to be flawless and uplifting. Everything excluding Rocky V, Daylight and marrying Brigitte Nielsen. But let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

I'm out . . .

The GIMM is In

2005-03-24T00:42:00.000-08:00

Even though I keep hovering my mouse cursor over the bottom right portion of my computer screen, I cannot bridge the unfathomable gap between what my computer says the date is (March 24) and what is happening outside my window.

It's snowing. Hard. And it's almost April. Iowa is officially in the process of becoming worse than flyover country. It's treading dangerously close to becoming henceforth known as The Land God Forgot. Maybe I'm just bitter at March already because my NCAA bracket is so totally destroyed that I have to sheepishly admit that yes, I have Georgia Tech winning the national title and, yes, I am aware that they lost in the second round. But the snow doesn't help.

I'm just not OK with late March snowstorms. That's excessive. That's inappropriate. In the words of Paul Shirley, a former Iowa State Cyclone and current Phoenix Sun benchwarmer and blogger, it's what you would call a GIMM. It stands for Gun In Mouth Moment. In short, these occur when a moment is so painfully frustrating, awkward or depressing that it will coerce any sane person with a firearm handy (I'm looking at you Heston) to seriously consider blowing the back of his head all over his apartment's linoleum.

As that beautiful image sufficiently sinks into your brains, let's shift gears. What's the point of all this ranting and raving? There isn't one, as usual, but it has gotten me thinking.

ATTENTION: BREAKING NEWS . . .

I just swallowed the cylindrical back part of Bic pen and almost died. I couldn't begin to make this stuff up. The sick part is that this is the second time it has happened. I think I'll die of this someday.

OK, here's the play-by-play: I'm sitting here, chewing on the back of a pen (as is normal for me) when the unthinkable happens. I bite down too hard on the pen's body (I was about to write "pen's shaft", but the easily-made mistake of replacing that apostrophe with an i could really make for an awkward word pairing.) The pressure of the bite sends the small blue plastic pen end apparatus hurtling down my throat at tremendous speeds. I think the punching bag thing at the back of my throat has been bruised during this ordeal. Anyway, I am all of a sudden choking on a jagged piece of plastic as it begrudgingly inches down my esophagus. Not a fun trip. Not a fun trip at all.
When the dust settled and I realized that I wasn't going to die, I just sat here awhile, pondering the digestive process that I am now faced with. I'm thinking another not so fun trip is on the way.
Not so fun at all.

But for now, let's pick up the pieces and press on. Gulp . . .

So for your enjoyment, I've compiled a top 19 list (a top 10 wasn't sufficient) of the GIMMs that have made college career what it is today. And since the snow and my social aversion have kept me inside tonight, I've got nothing but time . . .

1. The events leading to the infamous Running to the Armory debacle.
2. Several mornings after "I can drink an entire bottle of Southern Comfort" episodes.
3. Any time I see Dick Vitale on TV.
4. Watching the Requiem for a Dream's bachelor party scene. Just give me the gun right now.
5. Favre's INT against Philly in the 2003 playoffs.
6. The seven minutes I spent in a Pontiac Grand Prix passenger seat trying to explain to a girl why she shouldn't want me as a boyfriend. It's sad mainly because I didn't have to lie.
7. Living in fear of retribution after the Breaking and Entering Photo Shoot (2002-current). One day not too long from now, I'll walk past someone on campus only to hear "Wait a minute, you're that kid who . . ." and the ass kicking will commence. My head is on a swivel.
8. Every time I have to explain to my roommate Miller a basic fact of life that everyone should know. For the record, Matt Damon is in Dogma, Johnny Damon is on the Red Sox; it's John Kerry, not Tom Kerry; and tying your own tie is a skill you'll eventually need to learn.
9. Being almost unable to walk and even less able to read during my 9 a.m. Meteorology final the morning after my 21st birthday. Not good times. Or good grades.
10. My first and last Tequila Night on Spring Break 2002.
11. Losing the Playstation national championship to Mitchell in NCAA Football 2003. I still say that paid off referees and Hail Marys were the only things that could stop my Fresno State Bulldogs that year.
12. Standing at attention for five hours during Air Force field training in-processing. My legs felt like jelly, but the hardest part was not laughing when an MTI forced a cadet to offer him a personal apology for how bad his haircut was. "Sir, I apologize for having the worst haircut in the entire encampment, Sir!"
13. Every time I drive for more than 20 minutes (my car doesn't have a CD player and I invariably end up hearing Destiny's Child on the radio 11 times an hour)
14. Hobbling home from a 6:00 a.m. Air Force PT session after rolling the shit out of my ankle. Black and purple are good colors for Rockies fans. They are not so fun for my lower extremities
15. Aaron Boone's home run in the 2003 ALCS.
16. Todd Blythe's ACL injury. However, it does make me the most athletic (OK, most physically able) member of the family currently enrolled at Iowa State. It's the small victories really.
17. Having to listen to Danimal's boyfriend voice during his phone conversations with his girlfriend. Never has masculinity been more viciously and repeatedly ripped away from someone I love.
18. Chaperoning my grandparents in the Atlanta airport in 2004. Let's just say folks with 140 years of combined age, two replaced hips and about ten metric tons of luggage are not easy to shepherd through a crowded terminal.
19. Meeting people who don't wear shoes to class, prefer white bread over wheat and laugh at Jay Leno's comedy. It's their funeral, but it kills a little bit of me too.

That pen thing might make that list, but I won't put it on because it's still new and traumatic. I'll need some time to gain perspective. There are many more moments that I probably forgot, and I'll list them when appropriate. That's all for now . . .

Hollywood Homicide

2005-03-15T22:52:00.000-08:00

To rip off Dave Coulier . . .

Me: Good evening ladies and gentlemen!
Crowd: (Applause)
Me: (Cut it out gesture)
Crowd: (Wild laughter)

Hollywood Homicide sounds more like something that should happen than the name of a movie, yet I'm watching it. I swear there are at least 30 times in the movie when Harrison Ford doesn't make eye contact with anything except for his cue cards. He looks so old that it's almost sad, kind of like watching Jordan limp up and down court at the MCI Centre wearing a Wizards jersey. He just shouldn't have gone out like that.

But anyways, why the hell did THE Harrison Ford agree to do this movie? He was in Star Wars for crying out loud. The movie's producers had to know that when he read the treatment and saw that he was working with Josh Hartnett and Master P that he wasn't going to try, yet they still cast him. They should be casting guys like Patrick Swayze and the guy who played Slider in Top Gun for these types of roles because A) they need the money, and B) they'll try like hell. It's not like they have Calista Flockhart and an upcoming role as an octogenarian Indiana Jones to fall back on.

But if there was one thing that kept Indy himself interested in making this horrific movie, it was the stellar screenwriting. For instance, the scene where he pointed at his incredibly average onscreen girlfriend and said in his signature gravelly voice, "Guys ain't like that . . . (dramatic pause) . . . they keep score." It doesn't get much better than that ladies and gents.

But I digress . . .

My life is going in all kinds of wrong directions, mostly caused by the fact that I am on spring break at my parents' house. And yes, I am 22 years old. All my buddies are in California and Jamaica, but I'm here in Home Sweet Bettendorf living large. I can watch movies on school nights, eat as many bowls of cereal as I want, and I don't even have to make my bed. This is shangri-frickin-la. I do love the cable package they have (OnDemand movies might be the best thing ever) and I love the dog, but my pitching arm is working on minimal rest after throwing the tennis ball around the yard with him all day. I might be undergoing an MRI as early as Thursday. But I could be on some beach talking to some vapid spring break chick with a 75 IQ and a .28 BAC, so I guess it's a toss up. I do hate fast women.

I filled out my NCAA brackets today, and oh was it glorious. I'm seeing some upsets, I'm seeing some down-to-the-wire games, I'm seeing some big name coaches named Lute Olson and Billy Donovan going out fairly early, and I'm loving every minute of it. March Madness seems to start later and later every year, and I'll be in serious danger of getting the shakes if they push it back any further next year.

Did I mention I love March Madness? I have absolutley nothing to say to anyone who doesn't love the first two days of the tournament. I just don't acknowledge them as people. They are like people who didn't cry at "Where the Red Fern Grows" and didn't stand up and cheer when Louden pinned the Shute in "Vision Quest." They aren't Americans.

For the record, Harrison Ford just told a women he was interrogating, "Flip a coin, make some shit up, I don't care." WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN!?! He has to be hating himself right now. But Josh Hartnett must have really been working out for this movie. He looks great.

Speaking of looking great, I've been growing a mustache for all of break, so I'm feeling very strong. Get me a Camaro, a Van Halen tape and a case of Old Milwaukee and I'll be golden.

Well, that's about all for now. I don't want to miss the thrilling conclusion of the Ford/Hartnett megacomedramathriller that's winding down now. I'm just praying that Harrison drank his Ensure before he took on the final climax.

Til later haters . . .

Back for more

2005-03-14T13:45:00.000-08:00

I guess it bears mentioning that I am on Spring Break right now. Fittingly, I'm making the most of it writing about the minutia of my days, throwing a tennis ball around the yard with my dog Bo and sleeping 10 hours a day. It's been magical.

I think I'm going to add a few regular segments to my diatribes that should give them a little structure. Therefore, a What If? section, a Theory section and of course a List section will be appearing somewhat frequently. More on that later.

As for my first theory . . .
As much as it pains me to say this, I think Brett Favre and Apollo Creed will have very similar fates. In case you don't know, Brett Favre is my favorite athlete and one of my favorite people in the world, so his future really scares the hell out of me.
Here's the rundown:
Favre, like Creed, is not a kid anymore. He isn't as fast as he uysed to be, he isn't as durable, and he isn't immune to having his head separated from his torso. He also doesn't have his two All-Pro caliber guards to watch his back anymore. I can just see him fading back into what used to be a pocket when someone like white-trash Chris Hovan comes unblocked off the corner and chops our hero down on the field. Favre might be the first quarterback to actually die during the course of an NFL game, but so help me God, if I see anyone standing over him saying, "If he dies, he dies" I will go on a three state killing spree that will make Woody Harrelson and Juliette Lewis from "Natural Born Killers" look like missionaries. I have nightmares about this.

Can we call more a moratorium on Michael Jackson jokes? Yes, we know the guy probably molests children. Yes, we know he has had several plastic surgeries. And yes, we know that he is most likely certifiably insane. But jokes discussing every possible permutation of those factors have been made ad nauseum, so let's just agree to let it rest for a while. And yes Jay Leno, I realize that this means your monologue will only last for 45 seconds now. But another easy target isn't too far away I'm sure.

Just for good measure . . .
"I work at Kentucky Fried Chicken."
"You dont!"
"I do! I sell biscuits and gravy all over the southland!"

In case you forgot . . .
St. Patrick's Day is coming up in three short days. I know I'm trying to reign in my excitement, and I'm trusting you to do the same.

I'm just saying . . .
Any semi-serious scene in a movie would be better if Kareem Abdul-Jabbar were in it, giving a disapproving head shake to the movie's main character and then never appearing again.

Hell, why not . . .
Hitch is a pretty funny movie, if only because it renders the opportunity to shout "Title!" in a crowded theater 40 times without feeling bad about it. At least I didn't feel bad about it.

That's all for now.

First, I would just like to get to know you

2005-03-13T23:58:00.000-08:00

Q: What did the overweight polar bear do?
A: He broke the ice. Hi, I'm Andy and I'll be writing this Blog. As a quick note before we really kick things off together, I need to let you know that I'm not entirely comfortable with the term Blog. I think it sounds like a word that would be used to describe an alien race ("Since the Blog have invaded Pasadena, Kia Sephia sales are at an all-time low") or a euphemism for puke("The worst part of hosting a party is cleaning someone else's Blog off your carpet"), so I just won't use it.

With that having been said, and since we're on our maiden voyage together, there are a few things that we need to know about each other.

I love to write about anything and everything, but mostly about sports, music, bad television shows and movies, and the random and amazingly funny things that happen in the world on a daily basis. I've written for four newspapers, including the Quad-City Times, Bettendorf News, Iowa State Daily and Iowa State Gridiron. My ISU Daily columns are online at www.iowastatedaily.com. Just type in my name (Andrew Marshall) in the search box and you'll be on your way.

I have to warn you that I have the same nervous-talking affliction that plagued Lloyd Dobler in "Say Anything" and that I am an avid listmaker, so don't expect too many entries in paragraph form. I'm currently working on quite a few top ten lists that should appear on this site before too long, so here's a quick preview:

"Songs I love but am too embarrassed to claim as favorites" - Merril Bainbridge's "Mouth" is heading up the list

"Professional sports brothers you have to love" - Mark and Brent Price seem to spring to mind

"Movie characters I would love to eat dinner with" - Walter Sobcheck goes down to a photo finish with Lt. Commander Mike Metcalf. Walter's inapropriate outbursts earn him major points, but Metcalf's mustache quickly brings him within striking distance.

"Stars I'd love to kill" - Run and hide Michael Rappaport, run and hide.

On a lighter note . . .

-Most of the time I'll write about sports. For as clueless as I am with ladies, I am the exact opposite with sports. Oddly enough, that is a consolation to me.

-I rarely know what to say around the ladies, but there is some light at the end of that tunnel. This is three-fold.
1) In the words of Ed Stevens' brother Lloyd (who is a guest star on "Ed", one of my top 5 scripted TV shows of all time) I have the perfect look for the ladies. I'm not a 10, but no one wants to be a 10. It's better to be a 6. You're more accessible that way.
2) Girls who are my age are starting to get desperate, which boosts the odds for me. I don't know what it is, but along with being able to legally drink, females who turn 21 and are not in a meaningful relationship seem genetically predisposed to start getting terribly desperate. It's sad really. They all have this doe-eyed look and this sick desperation in their voices that lets you know that at the ripe old age of 21, they are seriously concerned about ending up alone.
3) I am privy to the number one all-time pick-up line. I'll tell you about it sometime.

Well, I'll tell you more about me next time, but as for now, I'll leave you with the top 5 quotes from Duke in Rocky IV. Please keep pin mind he is screaming and spitting while delivering almost all of these lines. Enjoy . . .

5. "He's cut!!!!! He's cut!!!!"
4. "You see? You see? He's not a machine, he's a man, he's a man.!"
3. "What's the matter with you guys!?! This is supposed to be an exhibition!"
2. "All your strength, all your power, all your love. Everything you've got. Right now! "
1. "You're gonna have to go through hell, worse than any nightmare you've ever dreamed. But when it's over, I know you'll be the one standing. You know what you have to do. Do it."

Thank you, Thank you . . .