Tuesday, June 30, 2009
They Come in Threes
You thought it was bad news when Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died on the same day? Then I've got some more bad news. Barack Obama, Bruce Springsteen, and Tom Cruise, among others all died on Monday--at the exact same time!
Nicey-Nice
There are many things I don't understand. String theory. Ventriloquists. Laundry machines. The list goes on and on, and can be found in its entirety on my other blog, http://thingsthatwillschultzdoesntunderstand.blogspot.com.
But there's one thing that really puzzles me. Why are sports columnists so nice? Sure, you get the occasional crab apple like Jason Whitlock or Bill Simmons. But most wouldn't criticize a player, a coach, or even a whole team, even if said team stomped on a bag full of orphan puppies.
Yes, they will occasionally go after the easy targets. Everyone wants to read another column about how T.O is a distraction or how Donald Sterling is a dope. We get it. People like Owens and Sterlings are the clown princes of the sport, and they deserve every bit of mockery they get.
But rarely, if ever, will a columnist criticize a serious player. Ask a sportswriter if so-and-so's washed up, and they'll respond by saying, "Oh no, he's got another two or three good years in him," even if he's rolling out onto the field in a wheelchair. Ask them if so-and-so is a bust, and they'll say, "Oh no, he needs a little more time," even if so-and-so has yet to learn the fundamentals of holding a bat with both hands.
This extends to newbies as well as veterans. In fact, it especially applies to newbies, new players as well as new coaches. Read any ESPN or SI story about a newly hired coach. It's always about how they're a "perfect fit," and that they've "changed the atmosphere." Never mind that they go 1-81 in their first season.
Sportswriters are special softies when it comes to the draft. Nobody wants to be the idiot who mocked a future superstar as a "bust." So they play it safe. Chad Ford, in his recent review of the NBA Draft, gave 27 out of 30 teams an A or a B. 27 out of 30! 90% of teams drafted either "excellent" or "above average"! And this in a draft year when the Charlotte Bobcats seriously considered taking me with their pick!
Things didn't work out between me and Charlotte, unfortunately. Larry Brown and I have two different approaches to the game. Under his approach, players play basketball. Under mine, I sit back on the couch and collect million dollar checks every weekend.
Anyway...I simply don't understand it. Why can't sportswriters grow a pair, to speak vulgarly? It'd do them good. And it'd make them more popular. Guys, the only reason you exist is to create controversy. Everyone knows Tiger Woods is the greatest golfer, Kobe and LeBron the greatest basketball players, and Tom Brady the greatest quarterback. We don't need Jack McCallum or Ric Bucher to tell us that.
Stir things up! Tell us why Chris Andersen is the greatest man to ever palm a basketball. Explain exactly how the Bengals are going to shock us all and win the Super Bowl. Tear down some myths--even LeBron isn't perfect. Be iconoclastic! Be exciting! Above all, be mean.
But there's one thing that really puzzles me. Why are sports columnists so nice? Sure, you get the occasional crab apple like Jason Whitlock or Bill Simmons. But most wouldn't criticize a player, a coach, or even a whole team, even if said team stomped on a bag full of orphan puppies.
Yes, they will occasionally go after the easy targets. Everyone wants to read another column about how T.O is a distraction or how Donald Sterling is a dope. We get it. People like Owens and Sterlings are the clown princes of the sport, and they deserve every bit of mockery they get.
But rarely, if ever, will a columnist criticize a serious player. Ask a sportswriter if so-and-so's washed up, and they'll respond by saying, "Oh no, he's got another two or three good years in him," even if he's rolling out onto the field in a wheelchair. Ask them if so-and-so is a bust, and they'll say, "Oh no, he needs a little more time," even if so-and-so has yet to learn the fundamentals of holding a bat with both hands.
This extends to newbies as well as veterans. In fact, it especially applies to newbies, new players as well as new coaches. Read any ESPN or SI story about a newly hired coach. It's always about how they're a "perfect fit," and that they've "changed the atmosphere." Never mind that they go 1-81 in their first season.
Sportswriters are special softies when it comes to the draft. Nobody wants to be the idiot who mocked a future superstar as a "bust." So they play it safe. Chad Ford, in his recent review of the NBA Draft, gave 27 out of 30 teams an A or a B. 27 out of 30! 90% of teams drafted either "excellent" or "above average"! And this in a draft year when the Charlotte Bobcats seriously considered taking me with their pick!
Things didn't work out between me and Charlotte, unfortunately. Larry Brown and I have two different approaches to the game. Under his approach, players play basketball. Under mine, I sit back on the couch and collect million dollar checks every weekend.
Anyway...I simply don't understand it. Why can't sportswriters grow a pair, to speak vulgarly? It'd do them good. And it'd make them more popular. Guys, the only reason you exist is to create controversy. Everyone knows Tiger Woods is the greatest golfer, Kobe and LeBron the greatest basketball players, and Tom Brady the greatest quarterback. We don't need Jack McCallum or Ric Bucher to tell us that.
Stir things up! Tell us why Chris Andersen is the greatest man to ever palm a basketball. Explain exactly how the Bengals are going to shock us all and win the Super Bowl. Tear down some myths--even LeBron isn't perfect. Be iconoclastic! Be exciting! Above all, be mean.
Do You Like Scary Movies?
A perfectly decent list of the "Top 20 Movie Monsters." I haven't seen enough monster movies to compile my own top twenty--I tend to shriek and cover my eyes at anything scarier than Marlon Brando--but I can make a couple criticisms of my own. That's my specialty, really; tearing down other people's ideas.
First, I approve of number one. In terms of pure scariosity, the Xenomorph has no peer. One Xenomorph has the same fright factor as a million of them; more so, even. "Aliens" might have been the better movie, but "Alien" was scarier.
Second, does Bruce, the Great White from Jaws, really count as a monster? To quote many an internet nerd, "That's debatable." I think anything that can be found in nature doesn't count as a monster. A monster needs a touch of the supernatural. You can't take a normal, everyday thing, blow it up by a factor of 10, and call it a monster. Otherwise I would have long since sold my script for "The Hazelnut from Hell."
Third, I have no idea who or what the Giant Claw is, but I want to see that movie so bad. The thing looks like an acid dream of Mr. Rogers. The name is the crowning absurdity. Giant Claw! So simple, yet so poetic.
Fourth, no matter how scary the titular thing of "The Thing" was, it can't compare to Wilford Brimley. And if you're not the scariest thing in your own movie--especially a movie named after you--you can't make the list.
Fifth, oh my God, the Pale Man.
Sixth, the Sarlaac is quite good, but it got a lot less frightening in the late 90s digital recasting. The original Sarlaac was ominous; a big, spiky pit in the ground. Who knows what lurks down there? Well, George Lucas, never one to overvalue the magic of the unknown, gave us the answer. And it look like a giant fanged phallus. Terrifying, but not in a good way.
Seventh, that's really all, but I wanted to stretch the list out a little longer. It's either that or go back to reading "A Bright Shining Lie." It's a good book, certainly. But reading any book about Vietnam for a sustained period of time will depress you beyond measure. I just want to go listen to some Doors tapes and dream about my girl in Saigon.
First, I approve of number one. In terms of pure scariosity, the Xenomorph has no peer. One Xenomorph has the same fright factor as a million of them; more so, even. "Aliens" might have been the better movie, but "Alien" was scarier.
Second, does Bruce, the Great White from Jaws, really count as a monster? To quote many an internet nerd, "That's debatable." I think anything that can be found in nature doesn't count as a monster. A monster needs a touch of the supernatural. You can't take a normal, everyday thing, blow it up by a factor of 10, and call it a monster. Otherwise I would have long since sold my script for "The Hazelnut from Hell."
Third, I have no idea who or what the Giant Claw is, but I want to see that movie so bad. The thing looks like an acid dream of Mr. Rogers. The name is the crowning absurdity. Giant Claw! So simple, yet so poetic.
Fourth, no matter how scary the titular thing of "The Thing" was, it can't compare to Wilford Brimley. And if you're not the scariest thing in your own movie--especially a movie named after you--you can't make the list.
Fifth, oh my God, the Pale Man.
Sixth, the Sarlaac is quite good, but it got a lot less frightening in the late 90s digital recasting. The original Sarlaac was ominous; a big, spiky pit in the ground. Who knows what lurks down there? Well, George Lucas, never one to overvalue the magic of the unknown, gave us the answer. And it look like a giant fanged phallus. Terrifying, but not in a good way.
Seventh, that's really all, but I wanted to stretch the list out a little longer. It's either that or go back to reading "A Bright Shining Lie." It's a good book, certainly. But reading any book about Vietnam for a sustained period of time will depress you beyond measure. I just want to go listen to some Doors tapes and dream about my girl in Saigon.
Dem Bones
Can creationism and evolution co-exist? I think we have our answer, and that answer is "No, not in a million years." Or in 234 years, the creationist equivalent of a million-year era. I do, however, have a hankering to see the Creationist museum for myself. I would have a few choice questions to ask. Namely: if God is an intelligent designer, why did he make Gilbert Gottfried?
Der Chokolattbombe
First, a mea culpa: this story is nearly five years old. But it's too good to pass up. It's a story about chocolate. About explosions. And about Nazis. Wasn't it John Updike who said that all good drama comes from those three ideas?
Monday, June 29, 2009
Bizarre Google Search
That gives me an idea for a Bizarre Google Search. How about a search for "lunch, interrupted"?
You see? Exactly what I'm talking about.
You see? Exactly what I'm talking about.
Pete Wentz: America's #1 Backpfeifengesicht
Courtesy Cracked, I give you 10 foreign words that would add a great deal to the English language. Who among us hasn't wished for a little nunchi? True, knowing what the word means doesn't equate to actually having it. But it would make it much easier to explain yourself:
"Sorry, honey! Didn't realize your folks wouldn't appreciate that joke about the rabbi, your dad being a rabbi and all. Guess it's just my lack of nunchi."
I'm also very fond of sgiomlaireachd, which is not the sound of a laryngitic Scotsman coughing up a lung. It's a Gaelic word meaning "When people interrupt you at meal time." As 1) someone who loves food and 2) a complete and unreconstructed misanthrope, I know the feeling.
I'll be settling down to lunch with a nice new book, and all of a sudden, some jerk comes walking up and tries to talk to me! Thankfully, I have a way of dealing with these unwanted intruders. I pretend that I'm a Russian grad student incapable of speaking English. Works like a charm! Although I think some of my high school friends are starting to see through my ruse...
"Sorry, honey! Didn't realize your folks wouldn't appreciate that joke about the rabbi, your dad being a rabbi and all. Guess it's just my lack of nunchi."
I'm also very fond of sgiomlaireachd, which is not the sound of a laryngitic Scotsman coughing up a lung. It's a Gaelic word meaning "When people interrupt you at meal time." As 1) someone who loves food and 2) a complete and unreconstructed misanthrope, I know the feeling.
I'll be settling down to lunch with a nice new book, and all of a sudden, some jerk comes walking up and tries to talk to me! Thankfully, I have a way of dealing with these unwanted intruders. I pretend that I'm a Russian grad student incapable of speaking English. Works like a charm! Although I think some of my high school friends are starting to see through my ruse...
Snack Attack
I find this story outrageous. "Couple accused of assault using Cheetos"? Everyone knows Cheetos are useless in a fight. Don't be fooled by their club-like shape; they shatter on impact and, what's worse, they leave a greasy orange residue all over your hands.
No, when it comes to snack-based warfare, give me a bag of Bugles any day. Their wide, flared ends are perfect for bludgeoning, while the pointed end makes for a useful stabbing weapon. Plus, no one actually eats Bugles anyway, so you don't have to feel guilty about wasting food.
No, when it comes to snack-based warfare, give me a bag of Bugles any day. Their wide, flared ends are perfect for bludgeoning, while the pointed end makes for a useful stabbing weapon. Plus, no one actually eats Bugles anyway, so you don't have to feel guilty about wasting food.
To Tell the Truth
This is an an old article, but like fine wine and good cheesecake, it has aged well. A.J. Jacobs of A.J. Jacobs fame tries out Dr. Brad Blanton's concept of "Radical Honesty."
Radical Honesty, for those of you not up on your pscychobabble, is an attempt to tell the truth and nothing but. No whoppers, no fibs, not even the littlest white lies. Your friend bugging you? Tell them about it! Upset with your spouse? Tell them about it! Police asking if you know anything about the seven mutilated corpses buried in your backyard? Tell them about it!
As you might guess, the results aren't pretty. The truth hurts, especially when it's delivered like this:
I have a business breakfast with an editor from Rachael Ray's magazine. As we're sitting together, I tell her that I remember what she wore the first time we met -- a black shirt that revealed her shoulders in a provocative way. I say that I'd try to sleep with her if I were single. I confess to her that I just attempted (unsuccessfully) to look down her shirt during breakfast.
Yeesh. I think a little selective truth might be in order. Just because you lust after someone doesn't mean you're obliged to tell them about it. Or does it? Am I being dishonest if I don't call everyone I ever had a crush on and confess the truth? Maybe I should do that. Sounds like a fun way to spend an evening. Now, if I can just find their phone numbers...
Hey, I already feel more liberated! Maybe this Radical Honesty thing has something going for it. Let me get a few things off my chest:
-I have yet to return my freshman roommate's copy of "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich"
-I sometimes pretend to have read a book, when in reality I only skimmed the Wikipedia summary
-Sometimes, I pretend to be happy, but in reality, I am not
-Sometimes I do things, but I do not want to do them
Whew! How's that for some bracing honesty. Look out, world! Here comes a new Will Schultz. A more honest Will Schultz. A Will Schultz who isn't afraid to admit he cried watching "Babe II: Pig in the City"!
Radical Honesty, for those of you not up on your pscychobabble, is an attempt to tell the truth and nothing but. No whoppers, no fibs, not even the littlest white lies. Your friend bugging you? Tell them about it! Upset with your spouse? Tell them about it! Police asking if you know anything about the seven mutilated corpses buried in your backyard? Tell them about it!
As you might guess, the results aren't pretty. The truth hurts, especially when it's delivered like this:
I have a business breakfast with an editor from Rachael Ray's magazine. As we're sitting together, I tell her that I remember what she wore the first time we met -- a black shirt that revealed her shoulders in a provocative way. I say that I'd try to sleep with her if I were single. I confess to her that I just attempted (unsuccessfully) to look down her shirt during breakfast.
Yeesh. I think a little selective truth might be in order. Just because you lust after someone doesn't mean you're obliged to tell them about it. Or does it? Am I being dishonest if I don't call everyone I ever had a crush on and confess the truth? Maybe I should do that. Sounds like a fun way to spend an evening. Now, if I can just find their phone numbers...
Hey, I already feel more liberated! Maybe this Radical Honesty thing has something going for it. Let me get a few things off my chest:
-I have yet to return my freshman roommate's copy of "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich"
-I sometimes pretend to have read a book, when in reality I only skimmed the Wikipedia summary
-Sometimes, I pretend to be happy, but in reality, I am not
-Sometimes I do things, but I do not want to do them
Whew! How's that for some bracing honesty. Look out, world! Here comes a new Will Schultz. A more honest Will Schultz. A Will Schultz who isn't afraid to admit he cried watching "Babe II: Pig in the City"!
Shot Through the Head, And You're to Blame
Hey, turns out that getting shot in the head isn't that bad. I ought to try it myself! I'll let you know how it goes.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
God N' Guns
From the Book of Smith & Wesson, Chapter 7, Verses 12-14
And the Lord God did spoke, and on spaking he spaketh thus: Wheresoever two or three are gathered in my name, I will be among them. But wheresoever two or three are gathered in my name, and at least one of them is packing heat, I will be so among them it won't even be funny.
Amen.
And the Lord God did spoke, and on spaking he spaketh thus: Wheresoever two or three are gathered in my name, I will be among them. But wheresoever two or three are gathered in my name, and at least one of them is packing heat, I will be so among them it won't even be funny.
Amen.
Bad Dog
I've heard of this dog that was so ugly...
How ugly was he?
He was so ugly that his mirror earns hazard pay!
How ugly was he?
He was so ugly that his mirror earns hazard pay!
Twofer
Interesting comparison of two guys who couldn't be more different: Jerry Siegel, co-creator of Superman, and Miguel Cervantes, author of "Don Quixote." I never realized that Cervantes--one of the world's first and greatest novelists--was actually kind of a loser.
This article gives me a little hope, though. Siegel only had one good idea in his life--but that idea turned into Superman. Maybe one of my stupid ideas is actually brilliant! Time to get to work on my "Echidna Man" comic.
This article gives me a little hope, though. Siegel only had one good idea in his life--but that idea turned into Superman. Maybe one of my stupid ideas is actually brilliant! Time to get to work on my "Echidna Man" comic.
Dunk-A-Palooza
For your viewing pleasure, I present the "Top 10 In-Game Dunks of All Time." I was particularly impressed by Tom Chambers's jam. Just goes to show that not all white basketball players have the hops of an arthritic elephant.
The clip also has one of my new favorite quotes: "It don't count if you dunk on a European!"
The clip also has one of my new favorite quotes: "It don't count if you dunk on a European!"
In-N-Out
People in California swear by In-N-Out Burgers. No, I don’t mean that as a figure of speech. They literally swear by those burgers. If you go to court in California, you will be asked to place your hand on an In-N-Out burger and swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but, so help you God. Perjurers are punished by being scalded alive in giant grease traps. Naturally, I had to try these magic burgers. I have never been a burger man myself, but hey, food is food. That’s the sort of reasoning that once led me to eat an entire large pizza all by myself.
There was an In-N-Out Burgery (not to be confused with In-N-Out Buggery, which is a whole different story) just down the street from University Village, so, naturally, we had to try it. We stopped in there yesterday evening in pursuit of the perfect burger. I ordered my usual—cheeseburger with a side of fries. In-N-Out boasts a “secret menu”; that is, you say the magic words (“Extra Onion” or “Animal Style” something like that) and get a little something extra, free of charge. I didn’t try it. I worried I would say the wrong thing and end up with sliced sheep intestine on my burger.
I’ll say one thing for In-N-Out: they are punctual. As opposed to Five Guys, where geological epochs can pass while you wait for your burger, we got our patties in under two minutes. But was it worth the wait? In a burger—or in any kind of food—the first impression is everything. It makes or breaks the meal. For instance, if you get a bowl of goulash and immediately think “This looks like cat vomit,” well, that pretty much blows the rest of the meal, doesn’t it?
My burger, alas, did not make a good impression. It did not offer a firm handshake, failed to look me in the eye, and dressed inappropriately for the occasion. Woops, sorry there. I mean, it looked kind of…small. Five Guys Burgers are the size of frisbees. You have to apply your ketchup by the gallon and your mayo by the quart. The In-N-Out Burger, by contrast, nearly vanishes in its paper sleeve. I spent five minutes unwrapping the damn thing before I finally got to the burger. It was like one of those disappointing Christmas presents, where you start with a big box only to find a series of progressively smaller boxes ending in a package of underwear.
But wait—there’s more! Each burger comes with In-N-Out’s super-secret ranch dressing, the recipe of which is so classified that nobody knows it. This makes it very difficult to reproduce. The dressing has a rather unpleasant pinkish color. It looks like the burger died a horrible death on the bun, oozing out its lifeblood before expiring. This was not a good way to begin a meal.
In the end, though, appearance must take a back seat to taste. A burger should rise and fall on its moist juicy deliciousness mmmmrgghghhhhh…sorry, I was briefly overcome by drool. I’m sad to report that the In-N-Out burger failed to live up to expectations. I took my first bite and got a mouthful of lettuce, ranch sauce, and tomato. The second bite turned out the same. Third bite—still no burger. Had I ordered something off the Secret Menu by accident? Had I twitched my wrist or jerked my head in a way that the cashier interpreted to mean, “Hey, I want two slices of bread and sauce, but no burger”?
Turns out that In-N-Out burgers are apparently squashed to the thickness of a penny before serving. I did some quick calculations. Of the seventeen bites I took, only nine contained any burger whatsoever! Now, granted, I’m making those numbers up. But they seem reasonable. It’s not like the burger was that great anyway; it tasted kind of dry. The whole thing put me in mind of the old Borscht Belt joke: The food was terrible! And the portions were so small!
Yeah, I’ll probably go back there again before I leave California. But I will go under protest. I will eat their burger and fries—but in my heart, I won’t enjoy it. In-N-Out Burger, you are dead to me. You hear? Dead to me!
There was an In-N-Out Burgery (not to be confused with In-N-Out Buggery, which is a whole different story) just down the street from University Village, so, naturally, we had to try it. We stopped in there yesterday evening in pursuit of the perfect burger. I ordered my usual—cheeseburger with a side of fries. In-N-Out boasts a “secret menu”; that is, you say the magic words (“Extra Onion” or “Animal Style” something like that) and get a little something extra, free of charge. I didn’t try it. I worried I would say the wrong thing and end up with sliced sheep intestine on my burger.
I’ll say one thing for In-N-Out: they are punctual. As opposed to Five Guys, where geological epochs can pass while you wait for your burger, we got our patties in under two minutes. But was it worth the wait? In a burger—or in any kind of food—the first impression is everything. It makes or breaks the meal. For instance, if you get a bowl of goulash and immediately think “This looks like cat vomit,” well, that pretty much blows the rest of the meal, doesn’t it?
My burger, alas, did not make a good impression. It did not offer a firm handshake, failed to look me in the eye, and dressed inappropriately for the occasion. Woops, sorry there. I mean, it looked kind of…small. Five Guys Burgers are the size of frisbees. You have to apply your ketchup by the gallon and your mayo by the quart. The In-N-Out Burger, by contrast, nearly vanishes in its paper sleeve. I spent five minutes unwrapping the damn thing before I finally got to the burger. It was like one of those disappointing Christmas presents, where you start with a big box only to find a series of progressively smaller boxes ending in a package of underwear.
But wait—there’s more! Each burger comes with In-N-Out’s super-secret ranch dressing, the recipe of which is so classified that nobody knows it. This makes it very difficult to reproduce. The dressing has a rather unpleasant pinkish color. It looks like the burger died a horrible death on the bun, oozing out its lifeblood before expiring. This was not a good way to begin a meal.
In the end, though, appearance must take a back seat to taste. A burger should rise and fall on its moist juicy deliciousness mmmmrgghghhhhh…sorry, I was briefly overcome by drool. I’m sad to report that the In-N-Out burger failed to live up to expectations. I took my first bite and got a mouthful of lettuce, ranch sauce, and tomato. The second bite turned out the same. Third bite—still no burger. Had I ordered something off the Secret Menu by accident? Had I twitched my wrist or jerked my head in a way that the cashier interpreted to mean, “Hey, I want two slices of bread and sauce, but no burger”?
Turns out that In-N-Out burgers are apparently squashed to the thickness of a penny before serving. I did some quick calculations. Of the seventeen bites I took, only nine contained any burger whatsoever! Now, granted, I’m making those numbers up. But they seem reasonable. It’s not like the burger was that great anyway; it tasted kind of dry. The whole thing put me in mind of the old Borscht Belt joke: The food was terrible! And the portions were so small!
Yeah, I’ll probably go back there again before I leave California. But I will go under protest. I will eat their burger and fries—but in my heart, I won’t enjoy it. In-N-Out Burger, you are dead to me. You hear? Dead to me!
Saturday, June 27, 2009
The Quiz Bowl Draft
Mark Jones: Welcome to the fifth annual Quiz Bowl Draft! I’m here with Stuart Scott at the IHOP off of I-95, site of the previous four drafts. Quite a crowd we’ve got here today, eh, Stu?
Stuart Scott: Absolutely, Mark. The Quiz Bowl fans are out in force—must be at least three, maybe more. Also, Mark, I should note that I am now contractually obligated to end every sentence with booyah, so: booyah!
Jones: And my condolences about your wife, Stu.
Scott: Thanks, Mark. She was a lovely woman. Such a bitter tragedy, for so wonderful a person to die so young. Booyah!
Jones: Before the draft begins, let’s bring in analyst Jay Bilas for his take on this year’s draft. Jay?
Jay Bilas: Thanks, Mark. This year’s class is almost as long in talent as they are short in personal hygiene. I was just back in the green room, and let me tell you, the place smelled like a hog rendering plant.
Jones: Jay, what are the needs of the New York Neutrinos, the team with the number one pick?
Bilas: They need someone who knows a lot of trivia.
Scott: And how about the number two team, the Detroit Volts?
Bilas: They need someone who knows a lot of trivia.
Scott: And the Miami Sea Slugs?
Bilas: Either a polished big man with a lethal post-up game and a strong perimeter shot, or someone who knows a lot of trivia.
Jones: And here comes the Quiz Bowl League Commissioner, Gary Bettman, who handles the QBL during the NHL off-season. And the on-season too, I should mention.
Gary Bettman: Welcome to the fifth annual Quiz Bowl Draft. Let’s get this the hell over with, so we can pretend it never happened. With the first pick of the Quiz Bowl Draft, the New York Neutrinos select Alan Coney.
Jones: Very safe pick there. Here comes Coney, and, my, he sure is a big fella. What would you say, Stu—250 pounds?
Scott: 275, at the very least.
Jones: Oh, my. I’ve never seen a draftee eat their jersey before. Jay, what can you tell us about Coney?
Bilas: He’s a very old school player. And by that I mean he is an old player who goes to school. He’s twenty-five, I think, and spent the last several years living in his mom’s basement. But don’t overlook his skills. This guy boasts incredible hopitude, immense bouncebackability, tremendous bonusosity, and stupendous stupendorousness.
Jones: Coney has already worked out a starting contract with the Neutrinos: $500 or a lifetime supply of Cheetos, whichever costs more.
Scott: From the looks of him, I’d say the Cheetos.
(They chuckle)
Bettman: With the second pick, the Detroit Volts select James Tobin-Smith. No, don’t shake my hand. I just washed it.
Jones: This one’s a bit of a risk for Detroit. As a sophomore, Tobin-Smith suffered a season-ending injury to his buzzer hand while playing an intense game of Guitar Hero. That cost him a whole year. Since then, he’s struggled to live up to his promise, but nobody denies that he has potential. Let’s go to Erin Andrews for an interview with the newest member of the Volts.
Andrews: James, how does it feel for society to finally validate your pathetic and meaningless existence?
Tobin-Smith: Hngghh…you’re a girl (Sniggers)
Jones: For more on Tobin-Smith, let’s go to the one, the only, Dick Vitale.
DICKIE V: A REAL PTPER MAALOX MASHER DIAPER DANDY TRIFECTA TRIFECTA PTPER BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYBBBBBBB-
(He is abruptly cut off)
Jones: (softly) Sweet Jesus.
Scott: Mark, can I say one thing about this pick? Booyah.
Bettman: The Miami Sea Slugs have traded the number three pick to the Texas Instruments in exchange for two packs of “Magic: The Gathering” cards and a half-used gift certificate to Taco Bell. With the third pick, the Texas Instruments select Adrian Nathanson.
Jones: Nathanson, known to most college fans by his nickname “The Retainer.” Jay—what’s the word on Adrian?
Bilas: His college career was a little underwhelming, but he tested great at the combine. He powered 15 of 20 toss-ups, correctly identified 8 of 10 oblique Star Wars references, and knew the lyrics of just about every Weird Al song you can imagine. A real workout warrior, this guy.
Scott: He’s going to have his change his jersey in the QBL, though. The Instruments already have someone wearing number 1 1 2 3 5 8 13.
Jones: Now let’s go to Erin Andrews, to spare us further footage of Jay’s freakishly elongated face.
Andrews: Adrian, how do feel about critics who say you’re a fatty, fatty two-by-four who can’t fit through the kitchen door?
Nathanson: I…I…I…(starts gasping and grabs for inhaler)
Scott: Truly sad. Booyah.
Bettman: With the fourth pick, the Los Angeles Clippers select Mike Mullaley. This is the first pick for the Clippers since their move to the QBL from the NBA.
Jones: Owner Donald Sterling hoping for more luck in Quiz Bowl than he had in basketball. I have to say—who would’ve seen that whole Blake Griffin decapitation thing coming? Not me.
Scott: Mullaley’s an interesting choice. He spent two years playing in the XQBL before it folded last September. He picked up a reputation as a dirty player—the kind of guy who can dish out wedgies as well as take them.
Bettman: Mike is not here today. He said he had a date with his girlfriend. Our scouts indicate that he’s at home right now, playing BioShock and drinking Mountain Dew.
Jones: We covered Mullaley’s training regimen last week on ESPN270. Apparently, he starts every day with a six pack of Mountain Dew, before washing that down with another six pack of Tab.
Scott: Let’s see if Dickie V can shed some light on this pick.
DICKIE V: -BBBBEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-
(He is abruptly cut off)
Jones: (softly) Merciful God in heaven.
Bettman: With the fifth pick, the Portland Epic Failblazers select Christopher DeChellis. I need a drink.
Scott: The Epic Failblazers had a rather disappointing season last year. They almost made the playoffs, but forfeited their last couple games after their rivals, the Chicago Red Bulls, shoved the entire team into a locker and left them there.
Jones: And here comes DeChellis now. Uh-oh. Bad sign. His shirt doesn’t have any food stains on it. Bilas, what can you say about DeChellis?
Bilas: He had some character issues in college. Apparently, he’s a well-adjusted human being, enjoys going to parties, and has a life outside of Quiz Bowl. You can see why he makes coaches so nervous.
Jones: DeChellis, of course, is best remembered for that epic 200 point, 8 power performance in the Big Dance last March.
Scott: Ironically, that was the only dance most of these players have ever been to.
Bettman: With the sixth pick, the Toronto Compsognathi select—sweet! My time’s up! Kiss my Canuck-loving ass goodbye, you dweebs. I’m off to the lab to tend to my hideous Ovechkin-Crosby mutant hybrid.
Jones: While we wait for Assistant Commissioner Isiah Thomas to show up and complete his community service hours, let’s recap. Jay?
Bilas: All right, Mark. First, Jim Carrey takes a day off from work and decides to go to the beach. On the train there he meets Kate Winslet, who has blue hair and looks really hot. They get romantically involved, but then Kate has her memory of Joel—that’s Jim Carrey—erased, and so…
Scott: I hate to interrupt, Jay, but that doesn’t sound like the draft.
Bilas: No, I’m recapping “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” I saw it on AMC last night and thought it was really, really good.
Jones: But we’re at the Quiz Bowl Draft!
Bilas: Yeah, but this draft is hella boring.
(Pause)
Scott: Point taken. Continue.
Bilas: So then Frodo shows up…
Stuart Scott: Absolutely, Mark. The Quiz Bowl fans are out in force—must be at least three, maybe more. Also, Mark, I should note that I am now contractually obligated to end every sentence with booyah, so: booyah!
Jones: And my condolences about your wife, Stu.
Scott: Thanks, Mark. She was a lovely woman. Such a bitter tragedy, for so wonderful a person to die so young. Booyah!
Jones: Before the draft begins, let’s bring in analyst Jay Bilas for his take on this year’s draft. Jay?
Jay Bilas: Thanks, Mark. This year’s class is almost as long in talent as they are short in personal hygiene. I was just back in the green room, and let me tell you, the place smelled like a hog rendering plant.
Jones: Jay, what are the needs of the New York Neutrinos, the team with the number one pick?
Bilas: They need someone who knows a lot of trivia.
Scott: And how about the number two team, the Detroit Volts?
Bilas: They need someone who knows a lot of trivia.
Scott: And the Miami Sea Slugs?
Bilas: Either a polished big man with a lethal post-up game and a strong perimeter shot, or someone who knows a lot of trivia.
Jones: And here comes the Quiz Bowl League Commissioner, Gary Bettman, who handles the QBL during the NHL off-season. And the on-season too, I should mention.
Gary Bettman: Welcome to the fifth annual Quiz Bowl Draft. Let’s get this the hell over with, so we can pretend it never happened. With the first pick of the Quiz Bowl Draft, the New York Neutrinos select Alan Coney.
Jones: Very safe pick there. Here comes Coney, and, my, he sure is a big fella. What would you say, Stu—250 pounds?
Scott: 275, at the very least.
Jones: Oh, my. I’ve never seen a draftee eat their jersey before. Jay, what can you tell us about Coney?
Bilas: He’s a very old school player. And by that I mean he is an old player who goes to school. He’s twenty-five, I think, and spent the last several years living in his mom’s basement. But don’t overlook his skills. This guy boasts incredible hopitude, immense bouncebackability, tremendous bonusosity, and stupendous stupendorousness.
Jones: Coney has already worked out a starting contract with the Neutrinos: $500 or a lifetime supply of Cheetos, whichever costs more.
Scott: From the looks of him, I’d say the Cheetos.
(They chuckle)
Bettman: With the second pick, the Detroit Volts select James Tobin-Smith. No, don’t shake my hand. I just washed it.
Jones: This one’s a bit of a risk for Detroit. As a sophomore, Tobin-Smith suffered a season-ending injury to his buzzer hand while playing an intense game of Guitar Hero. That cost him a whole year. Since then, he’s struggled to live up to his promise, but nobody denies that he has potential. Let’s go to Erin Andrews for an interview with the newest member of the Volts.
Andrews: James, how does it feel for society to finally validate your pathetic and meaningless existence?
Tobin-Smith: Hngghh…you’re a girl (Sniggers)
Jones: For more on Tobin-Smith, let’s go to the one, the only, Dick Vitale.
DICKIE V: A REAL PTPER MAALOX MASHER DIAPER DANDY TRIFECTA TRIFECTA PTPER BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYBBBBBBB-
(He is abruptly cut off)
Jones: (softly) Sweet Jesus.
Scott: Mark, can I say one thing about this pick? Booyah.
Bettman: The Miami Sea Slugs have traded the number three pick to the Texas Instruments in exchange for two packs of “Magic: The Gathering” cards and a half-used gift certificate to Taco Bell. With the third pick, the Texas Instruments select Adrian Nathanson.
Jones: Nathanson, known to most college fans by his nickname “The Retainer.” Jay—what’s the word on Adrian?
Bilas: His college career was a little underwhelming, but he tested great at the combine. He powered 15 of 20 toss-ups, correctly identified 8 of 10 oblique Star Wars references, and knew the lyrics of just about every Weird Al song you can imagine. A real workout warrior, this guy.
Scott: He’s going to have his change his jersey in the QBL, though. The Instruments already have someone wearing number 1 1 2 3 5 8 13.
Jones: Now let’s go to Erin Andrews, to spare us further footage of Jay’s freakishly elongated face.
Andrews: Adrian, how do feel about critics who say you’re a fatty, fatty two-by-four who can’t fit through the kitchen door?
Nathanson: I…I…I…(starts gasping and grabs for inhaler)
Scott: Truly sad. Booyah.
Bettman: With the fourth pick, the Los Angeles Clippers select Mike Mullaley. This is the first pick for the Clippers since their move to the QBL from the NBA.
Jones: Owner Donald Sterling hoping for more luck in Quiz Bowl than he had in basketball. I have to say—who would’ve seen that whole Blake Griffin decapitation thing coming? Not me.
Scott: Mullaley’s an interesting choice. He spent two years playing in the XQBL before it folded last September. He picked up a reputation as a dirty player—the kind of guy who can dish out wedgies as well as take them.
Bettman: Mike is not here today. He said he had a date with his girlfriend. Our scouts indicate that he’s at home right now, playing BioShock and drinking Mountain Dew.
Jones: We covered Mullaley’s training regimen last week on ESPN270. Apparently, he starts every day with a six pack of Mountain Dew, before washing that down with another six pack of Tab.
Scott: Let’s see if Dickie V can shed some light on this pick.
DICKIE V: -BBBBEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-
(He is abruptly cut off)
Jones: (softly) Merciful God in heaven.
Bettman: With the fifth pick, the Portland Epic Failblazers select Christopher DeChellis. I need a drink.
Scott: The Epic Failblazers had a rather disappointing season last year. They almost made the playoffs, but forfeited their last couple games after their rivals, the Chicago Red Bulls, shoved the entire team into a locker and left them there.
Jones: And here comes DeChellis now. Uh-oh. Bad sign. His shirt doesn’t have any food stains on it. Bilas, what can you say about DeChellis?
Bilas: He had some character issues in college. Apparently, he’s a well-adjusted human being, enjoys going to parties, and has a life outside of Quiz Bowl. You can see why he makes coaches so nervous.
Jones: DeChellis, of course, is best remembered for that epic 200 point, 8 power performance in the Big Dance last March.
Scott: Ironically, that was the only dance most of these players have ever been to.
Bettman: With the sixth pick, the Toronto Compsognathi select—sweet! My time’s up! Kiss my Canuck-loving ass goodbye, you dweebs. I’m off to the lab to tend to my hideous Ovechkin-Crosby mutant hybrid.
Jones: While we wait for Assistant Commissioner Isiah Thomas to show up and complete his community service hours, let’s recap. Jay?
Bilas: All right, Mark. First, Jim Carrey takes a day off from work and decides to go to the beach. On the train there he meets Kate Winslet, who has blue hair and looks really hot. They get romantically involved, but then Kate has her memory of Joel—that’s Jim Carrey—erased, and so…
Scott: I hate to interrupt, Jay, but that doesn’t sound like the draft.
Bilas: No, I’m recapping “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” I saw it on AMC last night and thought it was really, really good.
Jones: But we’re at the Quiz Bowl Draft!
Bilas: Yeah, but this draft is hella boring.
(Pause)
Scott: Point taken. Continue.
Bilas: So then Frodo shows up…
Thriller
I don't have much to say about the unfortunate death of Michael Jackson. Undeniably, his reign as King of Pop was a long and fruitful one. He put out one of the greatest albums of all time--"Thriller"--and perhaps the greatest music video--"Thriller," again. Yes, he had his down moments (accusations of child molestation, and "The Girl Is Mine" chief among them), but hey, no icon is perfect.
Jackson's death reminds me of one of the oddest moments of my childhood. My next-door neighbors had an old-timey Nintendo system, the kind where you had to blow on the cartridges to get them working. One of our favorite games was, and I kid you not, "Michael Jackson's Adventure." Or something to that effect.
You played as the Great Gloved One. Under your control, Michael moonwalked his way through construction yards, haunted mansions, and even a space station, effortlessly dispatching villains with his trademark style. You could even get a power-up that transformed Jackson into a missile-blasting rocket-propelled robot. I feel compelled to repeat: I kid you not.
Jackson's death reminds me of one of the oddest moments of my childhood. My next-door neighbors had an old-timey Nintendo system, the kind where you had to blow on the cartridges to get them working. One of our favorite games was, and I kid you not, "Michael Jackson's Adventure." Or something to that effect.
You played as the Great Gloved One. Under your control, Michael moonwalked his way through construction yards, haunted mansions, and even a space station, effortlessly dispatching villains with his trademark style. You could even get a power-up that transformed Jackson into a missile-blasting rocket-propelled robot. I feel compelled to repeat: I kid you not.
Ear-ly Warning
What on earth could this mean? All I know is this: you can expect "fish ears" to start appearing on the menus of fancy restaurants around the globe.
A Day at the Mall
Today I visited Brea Mall, the best, worst, and only mall in the town of Brea. I went in the company of a couple other interns. They stopped in at the Apple Store; one intern’s computer had busted, necessitating a trip to the friendly folks at Apple. I wasted a couple minutes wandering around the store. If you’ve never been inside an Apple boutique—it’s basically where techno-geeks go when they die.
The iPods and iPhones and iMinis sit on iTables, while iCustomers wander around iGawking at the giant wall-mounted iMacs. It’s all very interactive. For instance, you can go over to one of the iMacs and start surfing the web! Though you probably shouldn’t visit porn sites. I found that out through painful experiences. Never have I gotten so many angry looks from complete strangers.
Or…you can pick up an iPod and start rockin’ out to some…Dave Brubeck? Well, that’s what was playing on the one I grabbed. It was one of those mini hot pink nanos that look like a stick of chewing gum. It offered a wide variety of tunes, including, but not limited to, Journey, Marvin Gaye, and Tchaikovsky (acknowledged as the Marvin Gaye of 19th century Russia). I started out with a little Madonna. When one of the other interns came walking by I quickly flipped to a Miles Davis track, in order to preserve my credibility as a pretentious cretin.
But after a couple minutes of loitering, I felt the urge to get out and stretch my legs. Time for some mall walking! I wanted to find out what it’s like to be an old person. Mall walking, as we all know, is the national pastime for people above the age of sixty. What do they find so appealing about it? Is it the sights, sounds, and smells of the mall? Is it the feel of the wind in what’s left of their hair? Is it because mall-walking gives them an opportunity to mingle with the younger generation? Or is it due to some primal instinct, some natural urge as uncontrollable as the desire to eat and to mate?
Personally, I think it’s the smell of Cinnabon that gets them up and shuffling. But that’s only my opinion.
I didn’t look at a directory; direction is the antithesis of mall-walking. When you mall-walk you must be completely unguided. You must travel by instinct alone; it’s like fire-walking, only with less chance of burning your hallex to a cinder. I began by puttering to Macy’s and back. This gave me the courage to attempt a longer putter, this time puttering all the way to the Nordstrom’s across the food court. In order to give my puttering a more authentic feel, I made sure to hitch up my pants several inches too high.
I puttered past all sorts of wonderful sights. The Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory…Mrs. Field’s Cookies…a half-eaten grape popsicle someone had dropped on the floor. I spent five minutes puttering around a fountain in the center of the mall. After completing at least a dozen laps, I started to get funny looks from the shady guys working the $2 sunglass kiosks. I decided the time was ripe to make my exit, so I puttered away, stage left. I also puttered past a booth with a sign reading “Cash for Gold!” I puttered up and offered two of my fillings in exchange for some quick cash. They refused, which was just as well, given my fillings are made of stainless steel.
That was enough adventure for one day, though. I had gotten valuable practice for my future career as an old person. Allow me to list a few “Do’s” and “Don’t’s” of mallwalking:
DO shuffle like an extra in a zombie film
DON’T express anything that could be mistaken for pleasure
DO bump into potted plants and benches
DON’T bump into people, especially heavily muscled guys in wifebeaters
DO wander into boutiques like a gnat wandering into a bug zapper
DON’T eat a grape popsicle you found on the floor
That about covers it. Not much else happened worth noting. We ate a nice little Italian place; we were the only customers in a restaurant built to seat half the population of Milan. I enjoyed a delicious Fiorentino (Italian for “cheese”) pizza. And so ended my day. More mediocre adventures to come!
The iPods and iPhones and iMinis sit on iTables, while iCustomers wander around iGawking at the giant wall-mounted iMacs. It’s all very interactive. For instance, you can go over to one of the iMacs and start surfing the web! Though you probably shouldn’t visit porn sites. I found that out through painful experiences. Never have I gotten so many angry looks from complete strangers.
Or…you can pick up an iPod and start rockin’ out to some…Dave Brubeck? Well, that’s what was playing on the one I grabbed. It was one of those mini hot pink nanos that look like a stick of chewing gum. It offered a wide variety of tunes, including, but not limited to, Journey, Marvin Gaye, and Tchaikovsky (acknowledged as the Marvin Gaye of 19th century Russia). I started out with a little Madonna. When one of the other interns came walking by I quickly flipped to a Miles Davis track, in order to preserve my credibility as a pretentious cretin.
But after a couple minutes of loitering, I felt the urge to get out and stretch my legs. Time for some mall walking! I wanted to find out what it’s like to be an old person. Mall walking, as we all know, is the national pastime for people above the age of sixty. What do they find so appealing about it? Is it the sights, sounds, and smells of the mall? Is it the feel of the wind in what’s left of their hair? Is it because mall-walking gives them an opportunity to mingle with the younger generation? Or is it due to some primal instinct, some natural urge as uncontrollable as the desire to eat and to mate?
Personally, I think it’s the smell of Cinnabon that gets them up and shuffling. But that’s only my opinion.
I didn’t look at a directory; direction is the antithesis of mall-walking. When you mall-walk you must be completely unguided. You must travel by instinct alone; it’s like fire-walking, only with less chance of burning your hallex to a cinder. I began by puttering to Macy’s and back. This gave me the courage to attempt a longer putter, this time puttering all the way to the Nordstrom’s across the food court. In order to give my puttering a more authentic feel, I made sure to hitch up my pants several inches too high.
I puttered past all sorts of wonderful sights. The Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory…Mrs. Field’s Cookies…a half-eaten grape popsicle someone had dropped on the floor. I spent five minutes puttering around a fountain in the center of the mall. After completing at least a dozen laps, I started to get funny looks from the shady guys working the $2 sunglass kiosks. I decided the time was ripe to make my exit, so I puttered away, stage left. I also puttered past a booth with a sign reading “Cash for Gold!” I puttered up and offered two of my fillings in exchange for some quick cash. They refused, which was just as well, given my fillings are made of stainless steel.
That was enough adventure for one day, though. I had gotten valuable practice for my future career as an old person. Allow me to list a few “Do’s” and “Don’t’s” of mallwalking:
DO shuffle like an extra in a zombie film
DON’T express anything that could be mistaken for pleasure
DO bump into potted plants and benches
DON’T bump into people, especially heavily muscled guys in wifebeaters
DO wander into boutiques like a gnat wandering into a bug zapper
DON’T eat a grape popsicle you found on the floor
That about covers it. Not much else happened worth noting. We ate a nice little Italian place; we were the only customers in a restaurant built to seat half the population of Milan. I enjoyed a delicious Fiorentino (Italian for “cheese”) pizza. And so ended my day. More mediocre adventures to come!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Bizarre Google Search
In honor of a recent NBA trade, I give you the Bizarre Google Search for "the big aristotle":
That hurts. It really does.
That hurts. It really does.
HOT OSCAR BUZZ
As an Oscar nerd, I feel compelled to comment on AMPAS's decision to expand the field of Best Picture nominees from five to ten. My initial reaction: why, that's silly! My second reacton: hmmm, maybe it's not as silly as I thought.
The Academy needed to do something, obviously, if they wanted to keep the Oscars from going the way of the Miss America pageant. Each year brought lower and lower ratings. I think that my roommate and I were the only people who watched this year's telecast from beginning to end.
This move will probably bring in some new viewers. More nominees means that more popcorn movies can make the cut. If they had picked ten nominees last year instead of five, "The Dark Knight" would have gotten a nod. "Iron Man" too, most likely. Big name nominees equals more viewers. No one tunes in to watch "Capote" duke it out with "The Aviator." They want to see Batman win some statues.
The decision also marks an end to the ghettoization of animated films--probably. The last (and only) animated film to receive a Best Picture nomination was 1991's "Beauty and the Beast." Nothing since then--not "Toy Story," not "The Incredibles," not even "Wall-E." But I can't imagine a high-quality film like "Up" being left out of the new, expanded field. Again, that means more viewers. People love Pixar films. They'll watch the Oscars, if only to catch a few clips from their favorite animated movie.
But this is only a start. If the Oscars really want to win back viewers, they have to start trimming fat from the telecast. Academy officials need to plant a time bomb beneath the stage. It'll be rigged to the host's mike. If he can't wrap it up in less than four hours, the whole theater goes sky-high. Agreed? At the very least, this plan will rid the world of the increasingly reptilian Jack Nicholson.
The Academy needed to do something, obviously, if they wanted to keep the Oscars from going the way of the Miss America pageant. Each year brought lower and lower ratings. I think that my roommate and I were the only people who watched this year's telecast from beginning to end.
This move will probably bring in some new viewers. More nominees means that more popcorn movies can make the cut. If they had picked ten nominees last year instead of five, "The Dark Knight" would have gotten a nod. "Iron Man" too, most likely. Big name nominees equals more viewers. No one tunes in to watch "Capote" duke it out with "The Aviator." They want to see Batman win some statues.
The decision also marks an end to the ghettoization of animated films--probably. The last (and only) animated film to receive a Best Picture nomination was 1991's "Beauty and the Beast." Nothing since then--not "Toy Story," not "The Incredibles," not even "Wall-E." But I can't imagine a high-quality film like "Up" being left out of the new, expanded field. Again, that means more viewers. People love Pixar films. They'll watch the Oscars, if only to catch a few clips from their favorite animated movie.
But this is only a start. If the Oscars really want to win back viewers, they have to start trimming fat from the telecast. Academy officials need to plant a time bomb beneath the stage. It'll be rigged to the host's mike. If he can't wrap it up in less than four hours, the whole theater goes sky-high. Agreed? At the very least, this plan will rid the world of the increasingly reptilian Jack Nicholson.
...Sits in the Old Gum Tree
So Men At Work ripped off an Australian kid's song to write "Down Under"? Hell, that's nothing. Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" is simply their "You Give Love a Bad Name," flipped backwards. "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" is a note-for-note rip-off of an English schoolyard rhyme. And "Whip It?" It's just Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, slightly sped up. It's true! Swear to God!
Brent?
Hell hath no fury like a cheesehead scorned.
Seriously, though, Brett Favre needs to put up or shut up, preferably the latter. He retires; he unretires. He wants to play for the Bucs; no, he wants to play for the Vikings. He wants to play wide receiver. He wants to play baseball. He wants a trillion-dollar signing bonus. He wants to be a real boy...
Brett! Come back to earth, Brett! There are a few people out there who still love you! Retire with dignity, and let yourself be put out to stud in order to breed the next generation of quarterbacks. It worked out fine for Joe Montana, and it'll work for you.
Seriously, though, Brett Favre needs to put up or shut up, preferably the latter. He retires; he unretires. He wants to play for the Bucs; no, he wants to play for the Vikings. He wants to play wide receiver. He wants to play baseball. He wants a trillion-dollar signing bonus. He wants to be a real boy...
Brett! Come back to earth, Brett! There are a few people out there who still love you! Retire with dignity, and let yourself be put out to stud in order to breed the next generation of quarterbacks. It worked out fine for Joe Montana, and it'll work for you.
Because They Got High
Strange...I always thought that koalas were the druggies of the marsupial world.The signs were there: lethargy, irritability, long hours spent napping. Turns out I thought wrong. Who would've suspected wallabies?
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Bizarre Google Search
In honor of a certain upcoming move that shall remain nameless, I'd like to conclude the day with a Bizarre Google Search for "more than meets the eye"
:
*Snicker*
:
*Snicker*
A Trip to the Getty Villa
If you visit south California, you to have go to Los Angeles whether you like it or not. That’s the cold hard truth. Everything in southern California revolves around L.A.; everyone either lives in the city, or lives somewhere else in a desperate attempt to get out of the city. Sooner or later, then, you’ll wind up in the City of Angels. Why fight it? That’s why I went up to L.A. this weekend. I went with four other Nixon Library interns—Ben, Drew, Sam and Corrie.
The last time I visited L.A. was during my brief stint on Jeopardy. I didn’t get to see much of the city; I spent most of the time at the hotel in Universal City, at the taping location in USC’s Galen Center, or on the bus between the two. My only views of the city came through the window of that bus. I don’t remember much of it. I only recall that every day we passed by the headquarters for Vivid Entertainment. For those of you who don’t know, Vivid Entertainment produces “adult videos”—porn, in short. We always giggled as we drove by.
Our plan was to visit the Getty Museum and then…well, our plans stopped with the Getty Museum. We would wing it from there. Corrie was kind enough, and brave enough, to drive us into the city. Driving in Los Angeles takes a very special kind of skill. Specifically, it demands the ability to merge into a space the size of a walk-in closet while traveling fifty or sixty miles per hour. Only the suicidal drive in Los Angeles. Coincidentally, everyone in Los Angeles is suicidal. That’s why the freeway is always jam-packed with cars.
The Getty Museum stands on a cliff overlooking the big, blue wet thing some people call the Pacific. Before becoming a museum, the Getty Museum belonged to a Mr. Getty. He had a first name, I think, but I don’t have the energy to check Wikipedia. Mr. Getty became unbelievably wealthy thanks to his oil business. What he did with the oil, I don’t know, but he managed to make several gazillion dollars doing it. One day Mr. Getty realized that he was letting his money go to waste. You can only enjoy money by spending it, and Mr. Getty resolved to spend, spend, spend. And spend he did. He purchased approximately 90% of all ancient artifacts discovered in the modern era. An archaeologist would uncover a piece of broken shale that might have once served as a plate; seconds later, a Getty representative would swoop down and buy the piece for several thousand dollars.
Getty blew through a lot of money this way. Nonetheless, he put together a formidable collection of ancient crap. After sorting through his collection and tossing out all the useless stuff—for instance, the tiny chips that might either be flakes from an Etruscan axe or an archaeologist’s dandruff—Mr. Getty decided to display his goods in public. That is not a euphemism for flashing. Rather, it’s a euphemism for founding a museum. Mr. Getty created the world-famous Getty Museum, which draws at least five or six visitors every year. Usually more. Today it got five more visitors: the Nixon interns!
Recently, the museum underwent a few revisions. The management called in an architectural tag team from Boston to make some changes around the place. And by God, did they ever make those changes. The new exterior is meant to look like an archaeological dig. A layer of heavy gray marble covers the ground; here and there stand little pools of water. The next layer up is stone; don’t ask me what kind of stone, because I forgot it five seconds after the docent told us the name. Above that is a layer of concrete, molded to have the texture and patterns of wood. Then comes another layer of marble. It really did look like some half-excavated quarry. The only thing missing was a bunch of dumpy archaeologists with brushes and pith helmets. Incidentally, do people wear pith helmets any more?
The inside of the museum resembles a Roman villa. Sadly, there was no vomitorium, but the rest of the interior looked accurate. I say “looked” accurate because I have no idea what a real Roman villa ought to look like. There should be slaves somewhere, I suppose, and maybe a couple vestal virgins. I looked hard—no sign of any vestal virgins, or vestal women of any kind for that matter.
Out front is an enormous garden. Like shrubs? Then you’ll love the Getty villa’s garden, which boasts more shrubs than you can shake a stick at. It has every kind of shrub imaginable. Granted, that’s not much; not even the world’s most creative man could imagine more than two or three kinds of shrub. A few varieties of herb add spice to the shrubbery; no pun intended, of course. There was tarragon, thyme, and I think I even saw a sprig of basil. Perhaps I just imagined it.
Oh yes, there’s also a bit of artwork in the Getty Villa. Mr. Getty did not waste his millions, not at all. He managed to lay his hands on every piece of rock or marble ever touched by Roman hands. We spent an hour or two wandering around the second story of the villa, home to the largest collection of Roman artifacts outside of Rome. I made up that fact just now, but it may be the truth for all I know. It certainly seems possible.
My favorite piece was a small stone tablet that, according to the accompanying plaque, honored the memory of “Helena.” But, the plaque continues, we aren’t sure if Helena was a girl—or a girl’s dog. Rather a big difference there, I must say. I also enjoyed gawking at the miniature Roman jewelry. Each piece was roughly the size of a midget june bug on a diet, yet, within that space, the Roman artist crammed a gorgeously detailed etching. You had to look hard to see it, though. I nearly blew out my corneas straining to see a teeny-tiny cameo carving of a Roman archer.
But I’ve rambled enough! My God, this took more than a week to write. At this rate, I’ll finish writing about my Orange County escapades sometime next decade.
The last time I visited L.A. was during my brief stint on Jeopardy. I didn’t get to see much of the city; I spent most of the time at the hotel in Universal City, at the taping location in USC’s Galen Center, or on the bus between the two. My only views of the city came through the window of that bus. I don’t remember much of it. I only recall that every day we passed by the headquarters for Vivid Entertainment. For those of you who don’t know, Vivid Entertainment produces “adult videos”—porn, in short. We always giggled as we drove by.
Our plan was to visit the Getty Museum and then…well, our plans stopped with the Getty Museum. We would wing it from there. Corrie was kind enough, and brave enough, to drive us into the city. Driving in Los Angeles takes a very special kind of skill. Specifically, it demands the ability to merge into a space the size of a walk-in closet while traveling fifty or sixty miles per hour. Only the suicidal drive in Los Angeles. Coincidentally, everyone in Los Angeles is suicidal. That’s why the freeway is always jam-packed with cars.
The Getty Museum stands on a cliff overlooking the big, blue wet thing some people call the Pacific. Before becoming a museum, the Getty Museum belonged to a Mr. Getty. He had a first name, I think, but I don’t have the energy to check Wikipedia. Mr. Getty became unbelievably wealthy thanks to his oil business. What he did with the oil, I don’t know, but he managed to make several gazillion dollars doing it. One day Mr. Getty realized that he was letting his money go to waste. You can only enjoy money by spending it, and Mr. Getty resolved to spend, spend, spend. And spend he did. He purchased approximately 90% of all ancient artifacts discovered in the modern era. An archaeologist would uncover a piece of broken shale that might have once served as a plate; seconds later, a Getty representative would swoop down and buy the piece for several thousand dollars.
Getty blew through a lot of money this way. Nonetheless, he put together a formidable collection of ancient crap. After sorting through his collection and tossing out all the useless stuff—for instance, the tiny chips that might either be flakes from an Etruscan axe or an archaeologist’s dandruff—Mr. Getty decided to display his goods in public. That is not a euphemism for flashing. Rather, it’s a euphemism for founding a museum. Mr. Getty created the world-famous Getty Museum, which draws at least five or six visitors every year. Usually more. Today it got five more visitors: the Nixon interns!
Recently, the museum underwent a few revisions. The management called in an architectural tag team from Boston to make some changes around the place. And by God, did they ever make those changes. The new exterior is meant to look like an archaeological dig. A layer of heavy gray marble covers the ground; here and there stand little pools of water. The next layer up is stone; don’t ask me what kind of stone, because I forgot it five seconds after the docent told us the name. Above that is a layer of concrete, molded to have the texture and patterns of wood. Then comes another layer of marble. It really did look like some half-excavated quarry. The only thing missing was a bunch of dumpy archaeologists with brushes and pith helmets. Incidentally, do people wear pith helmets any more?
The inside of the museum resembles a Roman villa. Sadly, there was no vomitorium, but the rest of the interior looked accurate. I say “looked” accurate because I have no idea what a real Roman villa ought to look like. There should be slaves somewhere, I suppose, and maybe a couple vestal virgins. I looked hard—no sign of any vestal virgins, or vestal women of any kind for that matter.
Out front is an enormous garden. Like shrubs? Then you’ll love the Getty villa’s garden, which boasts more shrubs than you can shake a stick at. It has every kind of shrub imaginable. Granted, that’s not much; not even the world’s most creative man could imagine more than two or three kinds of shrub. A few varieties of herb add spice to the shrubbery; no pun intended, of course. There was tarragon, thyme, and I think I even saw a sprig of basil. Perhaps I just imagined it.
Oh yes, there’s also a bit of artwork in the Getty Villa. Mr. Getty did not waste his millions, not at all. He managed to lay his hands on every piece of rock or marble ever touched by Roman hands. We spent an hour or two wandering around the second story of the villa, home to the largest collection of Roman artifacts outside of Rome. I made up that fact just now, but it may be the truth for all I know. It certainly seems possible.
My favorite piece was a small stone tablet that, according to the accompanying plaque, honored the memory of “Helena.” But, the plaque continues, we aren’t sure if Helena was a girl—or a girl’s dog. Rather a big difference there, I must say. I also enjoyed gawking at the miniature Roman jewelry. Each piece was roughly the size of a midget june bug on a diet, yet, within that space, the Roman artist crammed a gorgeously detailed etching. You had to look hard to see it, though. I nearly blew out my corneas straining to see a teeny-tiny cameo carving of a Roman archer.
But I’ve rambled enough! My God, this took more than a week to write. At this rate, I’ll finish writing about my Orange County escapades sometime next decade.
Caveat Emptor
Warning: Reading this story may cause a sudden and irreversible loss of faith in human intelligence.
The World's Most Honest Twitter Feed
11:51 AM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
1:04 PM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
3:30 PM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
7:23 PM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
10:04 PM: Will Schultz is discontinuing his twitter feed
1:04 PM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
3:30 PM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
7:23 PM: Will Schultz is updating his twitter feed
10:04 PM: Will Schultz is discontinuing his twitter feed
Nothing But the Tooth
When it comes to awesome new technology, the military has nothing on dentistry. This invention will turn a mundane visit to the dentist into a thrilling sci-fi adventure straight outta Star Wars!
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Insult to Injury
This is a bit like charging a hanged man for the cost of the rope. Or, in more graphic terms, billing a man eaten by a alligator for the gator's dental care.
Papa Roach
The morning began like any other. I woke up a little before eight, rolled out of bed, whacked my skull on the nightstand, and resolved for the eighth day in a row to move that damn thing a few inches to the left. Then came a delicious breakfast of Honey Bunches of Oats—pardon me, “Honey & Oat Mixers with Almonds.” That’s what you call the Target knock-off version of HB of O. You think that sounds silly? How about their version of Cheerios, “Small Oat-and-Wheatish Crunch Cereal Shaped in a Form Resembling the Lowercase Version of the Letter ‘O’ ”?
But I digress. I finished up breakfast in my usual manner; I licked the bowl clean, then I licked the spoon clean, and I finished by licking clean the book I was reading. An intern can’t afford to waste food. I stumbled over to the bathroom for a hearty round of toothbrushing. As I stood in front of the sink, blinking and squinting like crazy, I saw something in the mirror…something on the floor behind me. I froze. My God, I thought, that can’t be a…
OH MY GOD A COCKROACH AAAAAARGGGHH!
I am ashamed to admit that I leapt at least five feet into the air—straight up. I swear that I nearly cracked my head on the ceiling. Dr. J has nothing on me. I then beat a strategic retreat from the bathroom. Like General Lee at Petersburg, I found myself forced to give up prime territory to the enemy. The bathroom now lay in enemy hands. Or enemy…whatever it is cockroaches have instead of hands.
Immediately, I began plotting my return. First, I reached for my cockroach gun. Then I realized I didn’t have one. This was followed by the realization that such things do not actually exist. Cut me some slack; just ten minutes before, I had been lying in bed dreaming about H.R. Haldeman. You can’t expect me to get my brain in gear that quickly. I’m not a machine!
But I pride myself on being a strategic thinker. My brain sprang into action like a big…springing…thing. I developed an ingenious strategy, based on the many years I spent playing StarCraft. First, I would build up a supply of Drones. Then, I would order one of these Drones to mutate into a Spawning Pool. The next and final step: the irresistible Zerg Rush. Again, though, this plan came to nought. As I feared, it required more Vespense gas.
Finally, I summoned up every little bit of my meager courage and decided to face my fears head-on. I grabbed approximately ten feet of paper towel, took a deep breath, and plunged forward into hostile territory. Then came something I did not expect. The cockroach moved. Specifically, it moved right towards me. I reacted by doing the “Cockroach Dance.” You take two steps to the left, two steps to the right, and a thousand steps backward while flailing your arms and squealing like a little girl.
What followed was a game of cat-and-mouse that, while hilarious in retrospect, seemed like a matter of life-and-death at the time. Yes, I know very, very, very few people are killed by cockroaches. As far as “lethal animals” go, cockroaches rank somewhere between dust mites and unicorns. Even if the cockroach escaped, it probably wasn’t going to come back later and kill me. But I didn’t want to take that chance. There’s a first time for everything. I didn’t want my obituary to begin, “DIED TODAY. Young intern at the Nixon Library, mangled to death by a cockroach in his bathroom.”
I triumphed, though, through a mix of pluck, brains, and double-ply paper towel. As I flushed by nemesis away, I felt a sense of elation, mingled with exhaustion. Victory never tasted so sweet. And so, pumped up from the battle, I prepared for another day at the office.
But I digress. I finished up breakfast in my usual manner; I licked the bowl clean, then I licked the spoon clean, and I finished by licking clean the book I was reading. An intern can’t afford to waste food. I stumbled over to the bathroom for a hearty round of toothbrushing. As I stood in front of the sink, blinking and squinting like crazy, I saw something in the mirror…something on the floor behind me. I froze. My God, I thought, that can’t be a…
OH MY GOD A COCKROACH AAAAAARGGGHH!
I am ashamed to admit that I leapt at least five feet into the air—straight up. I swear that I nearly cracked my head on the ceiling. Dr. J has nothing on me. I then beat a strategic retreat from the bathroom. Like General Lee at Petersburg, I found myself forced to give up prime territory to the enemy. The bathroom now lay in enemy hands. Or enemy…whatever it is cockroaches have instead of hands.
Immediately, I began plotting my return. First, I reached for my cockroach gun. Then I realized I didn’t have one. This was followed by the realization that such things do not actually exist. Cut me some slack; just ten minutes before, I had been lying in bed dreaming about H.R. Haldeman. You can’t expect me to get my brain in gear that quickly. I’m not a machine!
But I pride myself on being a strategic thinker. My brain sprang into action like a big…springing…thing. I developed an ingenious strategy, based on the many years I spent playing StarCraft. First, I would build up a supply of Drones. Then, I would order one of these Drones to mutate into a Spawning Pool. The next and final step: the irresistible Zerg Rush. Again, though, this plan came to nought. As I feared, it required more Vespense gas.
Finally, I summoned up every little bit of my meager courage and decided to face my fears head-on. I grabbed approximately ten feet of paper towel, took a deep breath, and plunged forward into hostile territory. Then came something I did not expect. The cockroach moved. Specifically, it moved right towards me. I reacted by doing the “Cockroach Dance.” You take two steps to the left, two steps to the right, and a thousand steps backward while flailing your arms and squealing like a little girl.
What followed was a game of cat-and-mouse that, while hilarious in retrospect, seemed like a matter of life-and-death at the time. Yes, I know very, very, very few people are killed by cockroaches. As far as “lethal animals” go, cockroaches rank somewhere between dust mites and unicorns. Even if the cockroach escaped, it probably wasn’t going to come back later and kill me. But I didn’t want to take that chance. There’s a first time for everything. I didn’t want my obituary to begin, “DIED TODAY. Young intern at the Nixon Library, mangled to death by a cockroach in his bathroom.”
I triumphed, though, through a mix of pluck, brains, and double-ply paper towel. As I flushed by nemesis away, I felt a sense of elation, mingled with exhaustion. Victory never tasted so sweet. And so, pumped up from the battle, I prepared for another day at the office.
Balancing Act
"Welcome to Thomas Cook airlines, sir!"
"Hey, thanks. Uh, I've got my ticket right here..."
"Let me see. Very good, sir. Just one thing I ought to tell you."
"Oh?"
"Your ticket says first class, but I'm afraid you've been bumped down a bit."
"Bumped down? Bumped down to what? Business? Coach?"
"No, ballast."
"Hey, thanks. Uh, I've got my ticket right here..."
"Let me see. Very good, sir. Just one thing I ought to tell you."
"Oh?"
"Your ticket says first class, but I'm afraid you've been bumped down a bit."
"Bumped down? Bumped down to what? Business? Coach?"
"No, ballast."
Bizarre Google Search
In honor of the last post, let's do a Bizarre Google Search for "infuriated letter of complaint":
That might be worth writing your congressman about.
That might be worth writing your congressman about.
Virgin Territory
The world's best complaint letter? They report, you decide. I particularly like the line "The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird."
Mini-Review: Watergate
Late in the summer of 1974, as the nation suffered through the final days of the Watergate scandal, President Nixon made a last-ditch attempt to salvage his presidency. He called Governor George Wallace of Alabama and implored him to put pressure on Alabama representative Walter Flowers. Flowers sat on the House Judiciary Committee; Nixon hoped that Wallace could persuade the congressman to vote “nay” on the impending articles of impeachment against the president.
But by this time, everything was going against Nixon, and Wallace’s response was simple: no. On hearing this, a crushed Nixon hung up the phone, turned to chief of staff Al Haig, and sighed “Well, Al, there goes the presidency.”
This sorry scene, with the president reduced to dialing for support like some county commissioner, appears near the end of Keith Olson’s wonderful book “Watergate.” Olson’s book is the story of a powerful man who utterly destroyed himself. In his tidy two-hundred page volume, Olson shows how Nixon committed suicide by a thousand cuts, his presidency dissolving into a haze of stupidity and venality.
The scandal did not spring from the empty air. John Dean famously described the Watergate cover-up as “a cancer on the presidency.” Perhaps malaria would have made a more fitting comparison. The Nixon White House was a fever swamp, where corruption flourished and cover-ups were accepted as part of the culture. In the basement of the White House lurked the Plumbers, frantically trying to plug the leaks oozing from the Oval Office. Up above, H.R. Haldeman, John Dean, and other Nixon cronies schemed to wiretap the phones of hostile reporters.
Other, more sinister horrors stalked the corridors of power. Perhaps the most frightening was the so-called Huston plan. A not-so-half-baked scheme proposed by White House aide Tom Huston, it called for a massive program of electronic surveillance against Nixon’s “enemies.” And Nixon treated nearly everyone like an enemy. The Huston plan even called for the internment of troublemakers like those who protested against the Vietnam War. The Huston plan never went into effect, but its very existence is chilling.
Among all this, a “third-rate burglary” at the Democratic National Headquarters in the Watergate Hotel hardly seemed noteworthy. Indeed, Olson notes how the White House went in cover-up mode almost reflexively. It was business as usual in the ultra-paranoid, ultra-suspicious Nixon administration. Nixon’s operatives simply assumed a cover-up was in order. For them, telling the truth was never even an option.
That lit the fuse that would end up blowing Richard Nixon and all his men sky-high. Olson’s book is a story of missed opportunities. Nixon had many, many chances to simply come clean. Had he stepped forth at the very beginning of the scandal, admitted wrongdoing, and fired a couple of his aides, he might have survived. Yet he refused to give up anything willingly. The press, the courts, and Congress had to force every admission out of him. This amounted to a steady drip-drip-drip of damaging stories, a political form of Chinese water torture for the president.
First, he refused to say anything about the matter. Then, he acknowledged the existence of the White House taping system, but rejected calls to release the tapes. Eventually he relented and published the transcripts. But that wasn’t enough; he had to release the tapes themselves. And still he held back. It wasn’t until late in 1974 that he released all the tapes, including the infamous “Smoking Gun.” He could have released the tapes in one fell swoop, but instead dragged out the painful process for months and months. Not even the hardiest presidency could survive the strain.
Nixon, in Olson’s book, remains a fairly enigmatic figure. That is not at all surprising. Great historians have devoted thousands of pages to our thirty-seventh president and have never succeeded in pinning him down. One can hardly expect Olson to capture the essence of Nixon in a book the size of a paperback detective novel. He sketches out the essentials of Nixon: a very intelligent man, certainly, but solitary to the point of reclusive, and bitter to the point of paranoia.
More disappointing is Olson’s failure to explore the peripheral characters of Watergate. Each receives only a few sentences of description. This makes it difficult to fathom their motivations. Why, for instance, was Haldeman so devoted to Nixon? Why did Dean turn on the president? Why didn’t John Ehrlichman do the same? And why, oh why did anyone allow G. Gordon Liddy to do anything? Again, we have to take into account Olson’s purpose. This is not the definitive book on Watergate, nor does it claim to be.
It simply offers a succinct overview of the whole case from beginning to end. Olson arranges everything meticulously, chronicling names, dates, and places with the precision of a Rose Mary Woods. The book’s greatest strength is the attention it gives to the media. Each White House action is paired with a reaction from the press. Over time, the reader watches the last traces of support for Nixon fade away. Many newspapers defended him at the beginning of the scandal. By the end, even the rabidly right-wing Manchester Union Leader called for his head.
Watergate defies an easy explanation. Can you capture it in one sentence, one paragraph, one book even? No. Not at all. But you can try. And Keith Olson had made an excellent try in his book “Watergate.”
But by this time, everything was going against Nixon, and Wallace’s response was simple: no. On hearing this, a crushed Nixon hung up the phone, turned to chief of staff Al Haig, and sighed “Well, Al, there goes the presidency.”
This sorry scene, with the president reduced to dialing for support like some county commissioner, appears near the end of Keith Olson’s wonderful book “Watergate.” Olson’s book is the story of a powerful man who utterly destroyed himself. In his tidy two-hundred page volume, Olson shows how Nixon committed suicide by a thousand cuts, his presidency dissolving into a haze of stupidity and venality.
The scandal did not spring from the empty air. John Dean famously described the Watergate cover-up as “a cancer on the presidency.” Perhaps malaria would have made a more fitting comparison. The Nixon White House was a fever swamp, where corruption flourished and cover-ups were accepted as part of the culture. In the basement of the White House lurked the Plumbers, frantically trying to plug the leaks oozing from the Oval Office. Up above, H.R. Haldeman, John Dean, and other Nixon cronies schemed to wiretap the phones of hostile reporters.
Other, more sinister horrors stalked the corridors of power. Perhaps the most frightening was the so-called Huston plan. A not-so-half-baked scheme proposed by White House aide Tom Huston, it called for a massive program of electronic surveillance against Nixon’s “enemies.” And Nixon treated nearly everyone like an enemy. The Huston plan even called for the internment of troublemakers like those who protested against the Vietnam War. The Huston plan never went into effect, but its very existence is chilling.
Among all this, a “third-rate burglary” at the Democratic National Headquarters in the Watergate Hotel hardly seemed noteworthy. Indeed, Olson notes how the White House went in cover-up mode almost reflexively. It was business as usual in the ultra-paranoid, ultra-suspicious Nixon administration. Nixon’s operatives simply assumed a cover-up was in order. For them, telling the truth was never even an option.
That lit the fuse that would end up blowing Richard Nixon and all his men sky-high. Olson’s book is a story of missed opportunities. Nixon had many, many chances to simply come clean. Had he stepped forth at the very beginning of the scandal, admitted wrongdoing, and fired a couple of his aides, he might have survived. Yet he refused to give up anything willingly. The press, the courts, and Congress had to force every admission out of him. This amounted to a steady drip-drip-drip of damaging stories, a political form of Chinese water torture for the president.
First, he refused to say anything about the matter. Then, he acknowledged the existence of the White House taping system, but rejected calls to release the tapes. Eventually he relented and published the transcripts. But that wasn’t enough; he had to release the tapes themselves. And still he held back. It wasn’t until late in 1974 that he released all the tapes, including the infamous “Smoking Gun.” He could have released the tapes in one fell swoop, but instead dragged out the painful process for months and months. Not even the hardiest presidency could survive the strain.
Nixon, in Olson’s book, remains a fairly enigmatic figure. That is not at all surprising. Great historians have devoted thousands of pages to our thirty-seventh president and have never succeeded in pinning him down. One can hardly expect Olson to capture the essence of Nixon in a book the size of a paperback detective novel. He sketches out the essentials of Nixon: a very intelligent man, certainly, but solitary to the point of reclusive, and bitter to the point of paranoia.
More disappointing is Olson’s failure to explore the peripheral characters of Watergate. Each receives only a few sentences of description. This makes it difficult to fathom their motivations. Why, for instance, was Haldeman so devoted to Nixon? Why did Dean turn on the president? Why didn’t John Ehrlichman do the same? And why, oh why did anyone allow G. Gordon Liddy to do anything? Again, we have to take into account Olson’s purpose. This is not the definitive book on Watergate, nor does it claim to be.
It simply offers a succinct overview of the whole case from beginning to end. Olson arranges everything meticulously, chronicling names, dates, and places with the precision of a Rose Mary Woods. The book’s greatest strength is the attention it gives to the media. Each White House action is paired with a reaction from the press. Over time, the reader watches the last traces of support for Nixon fade away. Many newspapers defended him at the beginning of the scandal. By the end, even the rabidly right-wing Manchester Union Leader called for his head.
Watergate defies an easy explanation. Can you capture it in one sentence, one paragraph, one book even? No. Not at all. But you can try. And Keith Olson had made an excellent try in his book “Watergate.”
Monday, June 22, 2009
Mockin' It
Proof of what I always suspected: NBA mock drafts are worthless. What's more, the people who compile the mock drafts hate them even more than I do. Poor Chad Ford. He must carry years of repressed self-loathing in his heart.
I suppose, though, I had better make a quick mock draft of my own. Here goes:
1. Los Angeles Clippers--Blake Griffin
2. Memphis Grizzlies--Blake Griffin, in the very reasonable hope that he will refuse to play for the Clippers
3. Oklahoma City Thunder--Ditto the above, only add "or the Grizzlies" to the end of the sentence
4. Sacramento Kings--Not even going to try this year, that's how depressed they are
5. Washington Wizards--Have been hearing good things about this Gilbert Arenas fellow
I suppose, though, I had better make a quick mock draft of my own. Here goes:
1. Los Angeles Clippers--Blake Griffin
2. Memphis Grizzlies--Blake Griffin, in the very reasonable hope that he will refuse to play for the Clippers
3. Oklahoma City Thunder--Ditto the above, only add "or the Grizzlies" to the end of the sentence
4. Sacramento Kings--Not even going to try this year, that's how depressed they are
5. Washington Wizards--Have been hearing good things about this Gilbert Arenas fellow
The Mail Always Gets...Whatever
Dear Mr and Mrs. Smith--
I would just like to apologize for my failure to deliver your letters for the past few days. I assure you that I made every effort to get your mail through. I was, however, distracted by more pressing issues; namely, why is it that some people's bellybuttons poke out, while others poke in? I have yet to resolve this question. As such, I apologize for any futures delays that may and will occur.
Sincerely,
Neil Goddard
I would just like to apologize for my failure to deliver your letters for the past few days. I assure you that I made every effort to get your mail through. I was, however, distracted by more pressing issues; namely, why is it that some people's bellybuttons poke out, while others poke in? I have yet to resolve this question. As such, I apologize for any futures delays that may and will occur.
Sincerely,
Neil Goddard
A Visit to Huntington Beach
Huntington Beach is a lot like Santa Monica beach, if you upped the sandiness quotient a little more. Visitors to Huntington Beach are advised to do some stretching beforehand; it’s a damn big beach to walk across. I needed to stop at leas four or five times to catch my breath, and once I had to lie down and take a quick nap. Got to save my energy and all that stuff, you know.
I had brought along one of my bath towels in hopes of passing it off as a beach towel. I don’t think anyone noticed. More importantly, I don’t think anyone cared. I had also greased myself up with liberal handfuls of SPF 50. And I don’t mean “liberal” in the Zell Miller sense. We’re talking full-blown, national health care, no war in Iraq, impeach Bush, tax the rich 100% Ted Kennedy-and-Barbara Boxer love child liberalism. My skin didn’t just absorb UV; it reflected it, turning me into a walking mirror. I caught one beachgoer admiring his reflection in my chest hair.
Question: what does a Nixon intern do at the beach? Answer: read about Richard Nixon. I spent the first hour munching on the last couple chapters of Keith Olson’s “Watergate” (mini-review forthcoming). Then, with Olson out of the way, I dove into Andrew Greeley’s “The American Catholic.” Do I know how to have fun or what? Again, this is why I don’t get invited to many parties.
Yet I could hear the ocean calling my name. “Will, Will,” I thought I heard it whisper, “you stupid pasty nerd, put down that multi-volume sociological study of American Catholicism and jump in the water.” How can I resist a siren song like that? Not me. I think I was born with water on my brain. Wait, that doesn’t sound quite right.
So I stripped my shirt off, causing everyone within a five beach-blanket radius to recoil in horror at the sight of my spindly arms and potbelly. I dashed the last half-mile or so to the water, took a deep breath, and plunged in. And died instantly of hypothermia. My core temperature dropped from a healthy 98.6 degrees to a frigid -500 within seconds. When I came up for air, I had to elbow aside a couple small iceberg floating nearby. I took a look down at my hands and saw they had turned a delightful shade of lilac rarely found outside a Crayola box.
Yet I persevered, not out of pride, but rather because my limbs had frozen into Will-flavored popsicles. You know what? After a few minutes, it wasn’t so bad. Oh, sure, my blood did coagulate into a Slurpee-like consistency. And my entire body went numb, as if I had been jabbed by a Novocain syringe the size of a baseball bat. But I still got used to it. Heck, if I could get used to living in a college dorm room, I could adjust to anything.
Most people, when they visit the shore, either 1) stay close to the beach and stand around in the shallows or 2) grab a boogie board, surfboard, or raft and take it way way out there. I’m too hyper for the first and too cowardly for the second. When I go to the beach I simply repeat the same process over and over again. I run head-on into the waves, flailing my arms and squealing like a ten year old at a Jonas Brothers concert. The wave then smacks me upside the head and turns me upside-down. After I finish wringing the saltwater and starfish out of my nose, I get up and do it all over again. It’s fun!
Eventually, though, I had to get out of the water. After taking a few minutes to chisel the ice off my joints I rejoined my fellow interns. We took a little stroll up the beach, decided we were hungry, and strolled back to the car. After forking over the $500 necessary to find a beachside parking spot, we took off for Huntington proper. Main Street was closed off; the town of Huntington was celebrating its 50th straight day without a shark attack.
Finding a parking spot in Huntington was an ordeal that makes one question the very concept of the automobile. We drove around the city at least five times, as if we were the entrants in the world’s slowest NASCAR competition. The countless bicyclists zigzagging across the road didn’t help matters. Apparently, millions of cyclists make their home in Huntington, and every single one possesses an intense death wish. How else to explain their near-suicidal navigation?
Huntington in full festival mode is truly a sight to behold. Little kiosks stood along every street, on every corner, down every alleyway. Some kiosks sat on top of other kiosks. I’m pretty sure I saw a kiosk down in one of the storm drains. Each one had a cheerful person handing out flyers for free Slurpees or free tattoos or free tattoos of Slurpees. I took a couple of each. You never know when you’ll need a nice big tattoo of a grape Slurpee covering your upper back.
We ate dinner at a restaurant called BJ’s, and I confess I giggled a little at the name. OK, I giggled quite a lot. I sat down to dinner in a state of near-hysterics, actually. Dinner was fine. What really mattered, though, was the dessert. BJ’s specializes in something called a “pizookie.” This sounds somewhat like an unspeakably obscene sex act performed by a Thai prostitute for forty bhat. In reality, though, the name simply combines the words “pizza” and “cookie.” As a college student, I highly favor both foods. I would live on pizza and Oreos, if it didn’t mean dying at age thirty with a heart the size of Manny Ramirez’s head.
Hungry after a hard day of reading about Nixon, we ordered giant-size pizookie, a massive cookie cake piled high with two cows worth of ice cream. It arrived at our table at approximately 6:50 PM. By 6:53 PM it had all but vanished. I was the last one to give up; for five minutes I kept scraping the bottom of the pan with a spoon, searching desperately, hungrily, maniacally, for one last fragment of chocolate chunk cookie. Never have I felt such sympathy with the cookie monster.
Everything that came after the pizookie was an anti-climax. We watched the sun set over Los Angeles; it really looks beautiful refracted through the L.A. smog. As it dipped down over the horizon, it swelled until it looked like a massive tangerine about to squash Venice Beach. Eventually it vanished and left us standing in the dark. The only sound was the waves lapping at the bottom of the pier. That, and me, grumbling that someone had taken my share of the pizookie. Truly an enchanted ending to a magical day.
I had brought along one of my bath towels in hopes of passing it off as a beach towel. I don’t think anyone noticed. More importantly, I don’t think anyone cared. I had also greased myself up with liberal handfuls of SPF 50. And I don’t mean “liberal” in the Zell Miller sense. We’re talking full-blown, national health care, no war in Iraq, impeach Bush, tax the rich 100% Ted Kennedy-and-Barbara Boxer love child liberalism. My skin didn’t just absorb UV; it reflected it, turning me into a walking mirror. I caught one beachgoer admiring his reflection in my chest hair.
Question: what does a Nixon intern do at the beach? Answer: read about Richard Nixon. I spent the first hour munching on the last couple chapters of Keith Olson’s “Watergate” (mini-review forthcoming). Then, with Olson out of the way, I dove into Andrew Greeley’s “The American Catholic.” Do I know how to have fun or what? Again, this is why I don’t get invited to many parties.
Yet I could hear the ocean calling my name. “Will, Will,” I thought I heard it whisper, “you stupid pasty nerd, put down that multi-volume sociological study of American Catholicism and jump in the water.” How can I resist a siren song like that? Not me. I think I was born with water on my brain. Wait, that doesn’t sound quite right.
So I stripped my shirt off, causing everyone within a five beach-blanket radius to recoil in horror at the sight of my spindly arms and potbelly. I dashed the last half-mile or so to the water, took a deep breath, and plunged in. And died instantly of hypothermia. My core temperature dropped from a healthy 98.6 degrees to a frigid -500 within seconds. When I came up for air, I had to elbow aside a couple small iceberg floating nearby. I took a look down at my hands and saw they had turned a delightful shade of lilac rarely found outside a Crayola box.
Yet I persevered, not out of pride, but rather because my limbs had frozen into Will-flavored popsicles. You know what? After a few minutes, it wasn’t so bad. Oh, sure, my blood did coagulate into a Slurpee-like consistency. And my entire body went numb, as if I had been jabbed by a Novocain syringe the size of a baseball bat. But I still got used to it. Heck, if I could get used to living in a college dorm room, I could adjust to anything.
Most people, when they visit the shore, either 1) stay close to the beach and stand around in the shallows or 2) grab a boogie board, surfboard, or raft and take it way way out there. I’m too hyper for the first and too cowardly for the second. When I go to the beach I simply repeat the same process over and over again. I run head-on into the waves, flailing my arms and squealing like a ten year old at a Jonas Brothers concert. The wave then smacks me upside the head and turns me upside-down. After I finish wringing the saltwater and starfish out of my nose, I get up and do it all over again. It’s fun!
Eventually, though, I had to get out of the water. After taking a few minutes to chisel the ice off my joints I rejoined my fellow interns. We took a little stroll up the beach, decided we were hungry, and strolled back to the car. After forking over the $500 necessary to find a beachside parking spot, we took off for Huntington proper. Main Street was closed off; the town of Huntington was celebrating its 50th straight day without a shark attack.
Finding a parking spot in Huntington was an ordeal that makes one question the very concept of the automobile. We drove around the city at least five times, as if we were the entrants in the world’s slowest NASCAR competition. The countless bicyclists zigzagging across the road didn’t help matters. Apparently, millions of cyclists make their home in Huntington, and every single one possesses an intense death wish. How else to explain their near-suicidal navigation?
Huntington in full festival mode is truly a sight to behold. Little kiosks stood along every street, on every corner, down every alleyway. Some kiosks sat on top of other kiosks. I’m pretty sure I saw a kiosk down in one of the storm drains. Each one had a cheerful person handing out flyers for free Slurpees or free tattoos or free tattoos of Slurpees. I took a couple of each. You never know when you’ll need a nice big tattoo of a grape Slurpee covering your upper back.
We ate dinner at a restaurant called BJ’s, and I confess I giggled a little at the name. OK, I giggled quite a lot. I sat down to dinner in a state of near-hysterics, actually. Dinner was fine. What really mattered, though, was the dessert. BJ’s specializes in something called a “pizookie.” This sounds somewhat like an unspeakably obscene sex act performed by a Thai prostitute for forty bhat. In reality, though, the name simply combines the words “pizza” and “cookie.” As a college student, I highly favor both foods. I would live on pizza and Oreos, if it didn’t mean dying at age thirty with a heart the size of Manny Ramirez’s head.
Hungry after a hard day of reading about Nixon, we ordered giant-size pizookie, a massive cookie cake piled high with two cows worth of ice cream. It arrived at our table at approximately 6:50 PM. By 6:53 PM it had all but vanished. I was the last one to give up; for five minutes I kept scraping the bottom of the pan with a spoon, searching desperately, hungrily, maniacally, for one last fragment of chocolate chunk cookie. Never have I felt such sympathy with the cookie monster.
Everything that came after the pizookie was an anti-climax. We watched the sun set over Los Angeles; it really looks beautiful refracted through the L.A. smog. As it dipped down over the horizon, it swelled until it looked like a massive tangerine about to squash Venice Beach. Eventually it vanished and left us standing in the dark. The only sound was the waves lapping at the bottom of the pier. That, and me, grumbling that someone had taken my share of the pizookie. Truly an enchanted ending to a magical day.
Bizarre Google Search
Let's see what a search for "fire brigade" turns up. I'm expecting something suitably whimsical and wacky:
Further proof that Paul is dead, I suppose.
Further proof that Paul is dead, I suppose.
Lightning Never Strikes Twice
Breaking news: Man stands in giant field holding a big metal pole and gets struck by lightning.
Dead Eyes...Like a Doll's Eyes
Turns out that sharks hunt like serial killers. Does that mean they take messages from their dog, drive creepy unmarked vans, and target prostitutes? They're trickier than I thought.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Mini-Review: Red Dawn
“Red Dawn” is the cinematic equivalent of your moronic best friend. It’s so dumb, you have to wonder how it keep from tripping over its own feets. It’s loud, oblivious, and more than a bit obnoxious. But it manages to project a kind of cheery stupidity that you can’t help but like.
Perhaps I misspoke when I said “cheery,” because “Red Dawn” is one of the grimmest movies I’ve seen in quite a while. The plot sounds like something hammered out by a hack writer with fifteen minutes to go til the deadline. Come to think of it, that’s probably exactly how it happened.
“Red Dawn” begins with the biggest bang imaginable—World War III. The Soviets, having grown tired of simply growling at us from across the pond, decide to settle the matter once and for all. The opening credits end, and five minutes later Soviet paratroopers begin dropping out of the sky into Dirtburg, Colorado. Note: the town probably isn’t named Dirtburg. However, we had some trouble with the volume while watching the movie, so we had to fill in most of the dialogue ourselves. I would like to think that our homemade script was an improvement.
Why are the Soviets so intent on holding Dirtburg? Why do they drop half an army into a town with a population of exactly three? And the tanks—where do the Soviet tanks come from? The movie never really explains. The only real exposition comes halfway through, when a grizzled American pilot (played, grizzledly, by Powers Boothe) tells our heroes about how America got caught with its pants down. “They used strategic nukes on cities like Omaha and Kansas City,” he says, proof that the Soviets probably drew up their battle plan using a map of America, some darts, and a good deal of vodka.
Our heroes are a group of plucky high school students (played, pluckily, by people I care nothing about) flee to hills and become anti-Soviet guerrillas. Each comes equipped with a rifle, a puffy jacket, and different 80s-style haircut, probably so the audience can tell them apart. I didn’t learn their names until the end credits, when I found that one of our heroes was called “Aardvark.” Aardvark! That’ll send a chill down the Soviet spines.
These clowns name themselves the “Wolverines,” in honor of their high school football team. Thank God they didn’t attend nearby St. Stephen High School, home of the somewhat less-intimidating Screamin’ Mimis. The Wolverines engage the Soviets in a series of escalatingly absurd battles. First, they’re killing off individual Soviets; then they move on to attacking tanks; by the end of the battle, two Wolverines manage to pin down an entire Soviet division. If the film had gone on for another fifteen minutes, the guerrillas probably would have stormed the Kremlin and punched out Gorbachev.
All of this is seasoned with an extra helping of Hollywood-style grit. It’s the kind of movie where no one simply dies; they ham it up like a dinner theater amateur, flinging their arms out and shrieking while little blots of red appear all over their chest. They look like they’re lactating cranberry juice. One noble Wolverine meets his fate by charging into the line of fire, machine gun blazing, while shrieking (and I quote) “Graaabbaaaah!” He gets cut down in seconds. The film is as much mystery as action—how the hell do the Wolverines survive as long as they do?
The MPAA once judged “Red Dawn” the goriest movie ever made, in terms of on-screen deaths. I wasn’t counting, but that seems accurate. Someone bites the bullet every four or five seconds. They all die in the most interesting ways. One Russian gets skewered in the back by a Wolverine arrow; as he goes down, he shouts out, “Help me comrades! I’m dying!” Well, then why should they help you, Yuri?
The director and screenwriter, God bless their hearts, take the whole film the utmost seriousness. They never wink at the camera, never even acknowledge the utter absurdity of the everything going on. They treat it like a mission from God. The commies are coming and, by God, they will warn us about it! I expected to see the closing credits thank “The nice people at the John Birch Society for their valuable input.” I have never seen a less ironic movie. Even the films that appeared on Mystery Science Theater 3000 had more self-awareness than “Red Dawn.”
Yet that’s what makes it so goofily enjoyable. When the Wolverines attacked the Russians while screaming their battle cry—“Wolverines!” in case you wondered—I chuckled. When young guerrilla love blossomed between Girl Wolverine and Boy Wolverine (Aardvark, maybe?) I guffawed. And when one character, imprisoned in a Soviet re-education camp, implored his children to “Avenge me!” I laughed harder than I have in weeks. You can’t help but be amused by total crap like that.
Don’t take “Red Dawn” seriously, and you’ll enjoy the heck out of it. The directors might have missed the irony. Rest assured, the viewer won’t.
Perhaps I misspoke when I said “cheery,” because “Red Dawn” is one of the grimmest movies I’ve seen in quite a while. The plot sounds like something hammered out by a hack writer with fifteen minutes to go til the deadline. Come to think of it, that’s probably exactly how it happened.
“Red Dawn” begins with the biggest bang imaginable—World War III. The Soviets, having grown tired of simply growling at us from across the pond, decide to settle the matter once and for all. The opening credits end, and five minutes later Soviet paratroopers begin dropping out of the sky into Dirtburg, Colorado. Note: the town probably isn’t named Dirtburg. However, we had some trouble with the volume while watching the movie, so we had to fill in most of the dialogue ourselves. I would like to think that our homemade script was an improvement.
Why are the Soviets so intent on holding Dirtburg? Why do they drop half an army into a town with a population of exactly three? And the tanks—where do the Soviet tanks come from? The movie never really explains. The only real exposition comes halfway through, when a grizzled American pilot (played, grizzledly, by Powers Boothe) tells our heroes about how America got caught with its pants down. “They used strategic nukes on cities like Omaha and Kansas City,” he says, proof that the Soviets probably drew up their battle plan using a map of America, some darts, and a good deal of vodka.
Our heroes are a group of plucky high school students (played, pluckily, by people I care nothing about) flee to hills and become anti-Soviet guerrillas. Each comes equipped with a rifle, a puffy jacket, and different 80s-style haircut, probably so the audience can tell them apart. I didn’t learn their names until the end credits, when I found that one of our heroes was called “Aardvark.” Aardvark! That’ll send a chill down the Soviet spines.
These clowns name themselves the “Wolverines,” in honor of their high school football team. Thank God they didn’t attend nearby St. Stephen High School, home of the somewhat less-intimidating Screamin’ Mimis. The Wolverines engage the Soviets in a series of escalatingly absurd battles. First, they’re killing off individual Soviets; then they move on to attacking tanks; by the end of the battle, two Wolverines manage to pin down an entire Soviet division. If the film had gone on for another fifteen minutes, the guerrillas probably would have stormed the Kremlin and punched out Gorbachev.
All of this is seasoned with an extra helping of Hollywood-style grit. It’s the kind of movie where no one simply dies; they ham it up like a dinner theater amateur, flinging their arms out and shrieking while little blots of red appear all over their chest. They look like they’re lactating cranberry juice. One noble Wolverine meets his fate by charging into the line of fire, machine gun blazing, while shrieking (and I quote) “Graaabbaaaah!” He gets cut down in seconds. The film is as much mystery as action—how the hell do the Wolverines survive as long as they do?
The MPAA once judged “Red Dawn” the goriest movie ever made, in terms of on-screen deaths. I wasn’t counting, but that seems accurate. Someone bites the bullet every four or five seconds. They all die in the most interesting ways. One Russian gets skewered in the back by a Wolverine arrow; as he goes down, he shouts out, “Help me comrades! I’m dying!” Well, then why should they help you, Yuri?
The director and screenwriter, God bless their hearts, take the whole film the utmost seriousness. They never wink at the camera, never even acknowledge the utter absurdity of the everything going on. They treat it like a mission from God. The commies are coming and, by God, they will warn us about it! I expected to see the closing credits thank “The nice people at the John Birch Society for their valuable input.” I have never seen a less ironic movie. Even the films that appeared on Mystery Science Theater 3000 had more self-awareness than “Red Dawn.”
Yet that’s what makes it so goofily enjoyable. When the Wolverines attacked the Russians while screaming their battle cry—“Wolverines!” in case you wondered—I chuckled. When young guerrilla love blossomed between Girl Wolverine and Boy Wolverine (Aardvark, maybe?) I guffawed. And when one character, imprisoned in a Soviet re-education camp, implored his children to “Avenge me!” I laughed harder than I have in weeks. You can’t help but be amused by total crap like that.
Don’t take “Red Dawn” seriously, and you’ll enjoy the heck out of it. The directors might have missed the irony. Rest assured, the viewer won’t.
Mini-Review: Year One
Never before has so much comic talent been so wasted as in the new film “Year One.” You would think that a film directed by Harold Ramis and featuring comic talents like Hank Azaria, David Cross, and Paul Rudd would draw at least a few laughs. And it does—very, very, very few. I’ve laughed more at episodes of “24” than I did while watching “Year One.”
The plot, such as it is, involves two hunter-gatherers, Zed (Jack Black) and Oh (Michael Cera), who blah blah blah fart joke blah blah blah poop joke blah blah blah boobs.
All right, all right, I’ll make an effort to describe the plot, but I don’t know why. The screenwriters clearly didn’t do the same when writing the damn thing. Zed and Oh are cast out from their Stone Age village after Zed takes a bite of the Forbidden Fruit. The two Cro-Magnon clods then embark on a mildly zany adventure through a world populated by Biblical characters like Cain (David Cross), Abraham (Hank Azaria), and Isaac (Christopher Mintz-Plasse, formerly McLovin of “Superbad” fame).
Eventually, Zed and Oh wind up in Sodom. This, as you might guess, provides about 90% of the joke material for the film’s second half. I forgot to mention the love story, which is easy to do, as the script keeps forgetting about it as well. Zed and Oh have a very, very strong desire to know—in the carnal sense—village beauties Maya and Eema. But, unfortunately, those two have wound up as slaves of the Sodomites. Which leads to the film’s central drama: how many gay jokes can Jack Black possibly make?
The answer is too many. Far too many. Most of the humor comes from…well, that assumes there is humor, which is a very big jump to make. One memorable scene involves Michael Cera peeing on his own face. As I watched, I felt nothing except a tremendous sadness—for Michael Cera, for Harold Ramis, and for everyone involved in the making of this movie.
I think my visceral hatred of this film stems in part from my visceral hatred of Jack Black, the Human Fart Joke. The man would mug his way through a film about the Holocaust given half the chance. He can never turn off his goofy, off-the-wall persona, which I find unfortunate, given that I find Jack Black about as funny as emphysema. Michael Cera also comes out of the movie worse for wear. When will he hit puberty? And when he does, what will happen to his career?
Nearly all the best moments appear in the trailer, so you might as well save yourself two hours and ten bucks and watch that instead. A few scenes occasionally rise to the level of Monty Pythonesque absurdity I hoped for. David Cross proclaims a list of crimes punishable by stoning, which begins with “blasphemy” and “heresy” before veering into “hyperbole” and “syzgzy.” Abraham says of the Hebrews “a noble people, but not very good at sports.”
The audience laughed at those lines. The rest of the movie, not so much. Long stretches passed without the slightest chuckle from the viewers. Some scenes—particularly the indelible image of Jack Black licking human excrement—drew groans and muffled shrieks, but no guffaws or even giggles. And who, I ask, thought it was a good idea, let alone a funny one, to include a scene in which Michael Cera smears oil all over the chest of a hirsute High Priest? Not Harold Ramis, I hope. I expect better from the man who gave us “Stripes” and “Ghostbusters.”
Perhaps “Year One” is the inevitable endpoint of the current crop of juvenile comedies. In those films the characters only act like cavemen; here, they actually are club-wielding leopard-skin wearing troglodytes. The lowest common denominator humor remains. A fart joke in the twentieth century plays just the same as one in the first century. That doesn’t make it any funnier, though. “Year One” is the pinnacle of devolution. If nature tolerates only the survival of the fittest, then where on earth did this film come from?
BONUS: “Year One” was preceded by several trailers, most of which looked fairly terrible. I’ll give you a summary of each.
Zombieland, a terrible-looking movie about zombies killing humans.
Slayer, a terrible-looking movie about humans killing humans.
District 9, a terrible-looking movie about humans killing aliens.
Transformers 2, a terrible-looking movie about giant robots killing each other and a few humans to boot.
The Proposal, a terrible-looking movie that will likely end with the audience members killing themselves.
The plot, such as it is, involves two hunter-gatherers, Zed (Jack Black) and Oh (Michael Cera), who blah blah blah fart joke blah blah blah poop joke blah blah blah boobs.
All right, all right, I’ll make an effort to describe the plot, but I don’t know why. The screenwriters clearly didn’t do the same when writing the damn thing. Zed and Oh are cast out from their Stone Age village after Zed takes a bite of the Forbidden Fruit. The two Cro-Magnon clods then embark on a mildly zany adventure through a world populated by Biblical characters like Cain (David Cross), Abraham (Hank Azaria), and Isaac (Christopher Mintz-Plasse, formerly McLovin of “Superbad” fame).
Eventually, Zed and Oh wind up in Sodom. This, as you might guess, provides about 90% of the joke material for the film’s second half. I forgot to mention the love story, which is easy to do, as the script keeps forgetting about it as well. Zed and Oh have a very, very strong desire to know—in the carnal sense—village beauties Maya and Eema. But, unfortunately, those two have wound up as slaves of the Sodomites. Which leads to the film’s central drama: how many gay jokes can Jack Black possibly make?
The answer is too many. Far too many. Most of the humor comes from…well, that assumes there is humor, which is a very big jump to make. One memorable scene involves Michael Cera peeing on his own face. As I watched, I felt nothing except a tremendous sadness—for Michael Cera, for Harold Ramis, and for everyone involved in the making of this movie.
I think my visceral hatred of this film stems in part from my visceral hatred of Jack Black, the Human Fart Joke. The man would mug his way through a film about the Holocaust given half the chance. He can never turn off his goofy, off-the-wall persona, which I find unfortunate, given that I find Jack Black about as funny as emphysema. Michael Cera also comes out of the movie worse for wear. When will he hit puberty? And when he does, what will happen to his career?
Nearly all the best moments appear in the trailer, so you might as well save yourself two hours and ten bucks and watch that instead. A few scenes occasionally rise to the level of Monty Pythonesque absurdity I hoped for. David Cross proclaims a list of crimes punishable by stoning, which begins with “blasphemy” and “heresy” before veering into “hyperbole” and “syzgzy.” Abraham says of the Hebrews “a noble people, but not very good at sports.”
The audience laughed at those lines. The rest of the movie, not so much. Long stretches passed without the slightest chuckle from the viewers. Some scenes—particularly the indelible image of Jack Black licking human excrement—drew groans and muffled shrieks, but no guffaws or even giggles. And who, I ask, thought it was a good idea, let alone a funny one, to include a scene in which Michael Cera smears oil all over the chest of a hirsute High Priest? Not Harold Ramis, I hope. I expect better from the man who gave us “Stripes” and “Ghostbusters.”
Perhaps “Year One” is the inevitable endpoint of the current crop of juvenile comedies. In those films the characters only act like cavemen; here, they actually are club-wielding leopard-skin wearing troglodytes. The lowest common denominator humor remains. A fart joke in the twentieth century plays just the same as one in the first century. That doesn’t make it any funnier, though. “Year One” is the pinnacle of devolution. If nature tolerates only the survival of the fittest, then where on earth did this film come from?
BONUS: “Year One” was preceded by several trailers, most of which looked fairly terrible. I’ll give you a summary of each.
Zombieland, a terrible-looking movie about zombies killing humans.
Slayer, a terrible-looking movie about humans killing humans.
District 9, a terrible-looking movie about humans killing aliens.
Transformers 2, a terrible-looking movie about giant robots killing each other and a few humans to boot.
The Proposal, a terrible-looking movie that will likely end with the audience members killing themselves.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Bizarre Google Search
The day draws to a close...but there's always time for a Bizarre Google Search. Behold the results for "get it while you can":
Famous for hit songs like "Get Bark" and "Let it Pee."
Famous for hit songs like "Get Bark" and "Let it Pee."
I'm the Greatest
The Best Things That Have Happened To Me Today
1. The donuts I bought from Miss Donut & Bakery
2. This article in the New York Times
3. My afternoon nap
4. The sweet and sour pork I had for dinner
5. That History Channel show about conspiracies that I watched
1. The donuts I bought from Miss Donut & Bakery
2. This article in the New York Times
3. My afternoon nap
4. The sweet and sour pork I had for dinner
5. That History Channel show about conspiracies that I watched
La-La Land
Congratulations to the Los Angeles Lakers for their 15th NBA Title. For those of you counting at home, the Lakers have more titles than do the Detroit Pistons, San Antonio Spurs, and Chicago Bulls combined. They have fifteen titles; their cross-town rivals (or "rivals," as they are rivals in the sense that Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote are rivals) the L.A. Clippers have none.
This just goes to show. All you need to win a title is heart. And determination. And pluck. And grit. And one of the two best players in basketball. And a pair of All-Star forwards. And some talented role players. And a deep bench. And an enormous payroll. And perhaps the greatest coach in basketball history. Yes, any team really can win it all, provided that team is the Lakers.
This just goes to show. All you need to win a title is heart. And determination. And pluck. And grit. And one of the two best players in basketball. And a pair of All-Star forwards. And some talented role players. And a deep bench. And an enormous payroll. And perhaps the greatest coach in basketball history. Yes, any team really can win it all, provided that team is the Lakers.
Donuts!
Let me begin by saying how much I love donuts. I love donuts. Love them. Love them more than “Arrested Development.” More than Tyler Hansbrough. More than oxygen. If the devil offered me a donut for my soul I would say, not “Get thee behind me, Satan!” but “With or without sprinkles?” I will go to any lengths to get a good donut. Murder is a step too far, I suppose, but anything else goes, including most major and minor felonies.
North Carolina is not noted for its donuts. You have two choices: Dunkin’ Donuts or Krispy Kreme. Krispy Kreme is the local, homegrown product; people call you a traitor if you pick Dunkin’ Donuts. They call you a “Yankee” and pelt you with crullers. Yet I never really got a taste for Krispy Kreme. Their “Original Glazed” always tasted a little too light and airy. Plus, the glaze was a bit slimy. It made your hands stick together like some kind of mutant flipper.
Things are different in the O.C. No Dunkin’ Donuts; that’s a northeastern thing. Krispy Kreme? People out here have never heard the words. I was on my own. I had gotten a tip, though, that southern California has a great donut culture. It seems that Cambodians run the donut racket around here. And so I set off this morning in search of the nearest Cambodian-owned-and-operated donutery.
Thanks to the internet, I had found a place nearby called “Miss Donut and Bakery.” Who is Miss? Why does she run a donut shop? These questions, alas, remain unanswered. The place was within walking distance, but that’s a relative term in south California. To put it in Zen terms: everything is distant, nothing is close. It’s like a claustrophobic laid out the city plans.
Getting to the donut shop involved crossing several boulevards, always a dicey proposition. As usual, I made sure to update my will and testament before leaving the dorm. Don’t want to take any chances. I made it across the first three unscathed. At the fourth—State College Boulevard—I found safety crossing with a pair of old guys. I figured that the drivers would target them first.
The next half-hour passed pretty uneventfully. I walked, and walked, and walked and walked, then to change the pace I walked a little more. I followed that up with some walking. Then, to cool down, I did a little more walking. Then the cycle started over. I don’t know how Cal State Fullerton students get around if they don’t own a car. They must all have calf muscles the size of Christmas hams.
The scenery wasn’t too bad, though. A bunch of little neighborhoods sprawled out to my right. Most of them lay sheltered behind a series of big white walls. I felt like I was walking past a row of POW camps. I kept expecting to see a bag come flying over one of the walls, followed by a dirty guy in a ragged prisoner’s uniform. Now and then I crossed over a suburban side street. I could see little one-level houses painted, not in the usual O.C. pink-and-yellow pattern, but in more subdued blues and whites.
On the left, I saw Cal State Fullerton. God damn, but that’s a big campus. And it’s getting bigger. I passed by what must have been the mother of all parking garages. You could house an entire Panzer division in that thing. It stood at least five or six stories tall and covered an entire block. How many cars could it fit? 10,000? 20,000? A million? Maybe Gov. Schwarzenegger plans to ease the budget crisis by closing every state school except CSUF. That’s why they need so many parking spots.
As I walked, I started to think. It’s a thing I do sometimes when the mood strikes. We all know that young people want to live in NYC, right? No college students plans to go to Des Moines or Jacksonville after they graduate; they all dream about the Big Apple. Why is that? Maybe the culture; maybe the nightlife; maybe the romance of Gotham. I think it’s because you can walk most places in Manhattan. You don’t need to worry about a car. College students would live in Upper Cow’s Butt, Mississippi, if everything there was within walking distance.
After half an hour I finally arrived back in civilization, “civilization” being represented by KFC and Blockbuster. It’s not much of a civilization, but it’ll do. I found Miss Donut & Bakery in a little shopping center, right next to the tattoo parlor. I passed a guy with an American flag tattooed on the back of his neck. How, I ask, can you get more patriotic than that? Maybe if he had a screaming eagle tattooed on his forehead, I suppose.
Miss Donut & Bakery delivered on its name. I went there; I bought donuts; I went home and ate said donuts. Of course, I had to dither for a couple of minutes before finally picking out my donuts. They had a big display case overflowing with every type of donut imaginable. God, was it beautiful. I spent five minutes staring at a tray of jumbo long johns. In the process, I think I committed the cardinal sins of both gluttony and lust.
I consider the mission a success. I walked out of the bakery carrying a pair of chocolate donuts with chocolate frosting. Nothing fancy; just pure deliciousness. I managed to resist temptation all the way back to the dorm. After that, though, all bets were off. The donuts vanished a few minutes after I got home. Ah, donuts. Truly the food of the gods.
North Carolina is not noted for its donuts. You have two choices: Dunkin’ Donuts or Krispy Kreme. Krispy Kreme is the local, homegrown product; people call you a traitor if you pick Dunkin’ Donuts. They call you a “Yankee” and pelt you with crullers. Yet I never really got a taste for Krispy Kreme. Their “Original Glazed” always tasted a little too light and airy. Plus, the glaze was a bit slimy. It made your hands stick together like some kind of mutant flipper.
Things are different in the O.C. No Dunkin’ Donuts; that’s a northeastern thing. Krispy Kreme? People out here have never heard the words. I was on my own. I had gotten a tip, though, that southern California has a great donut culture. It seems that Cambodians run the donut racket around here. And so I set off this morning in search of the nearest Cambodian-owned-and-operated donutery.
Thanks to the internet, I had found a place nearby called “Miss Donut and Bakery.” Who is Miss? Why does she run a donut shop? These questions, alas, remain unanswered. The place was within walking distance, but that’s a relative term in south California. To put it in Zen terms: everything is distant, nothing is close. It’s like a claustrophobic laid out the city plans.
Getting to the donut shop involved crossing several boulevards, always a dicey proposition. As usual, I made sure to update my will and testament before leaving the dorm. Don’t want to take any chances. I made it across the first three unscathed. At the fourth—State College Boulevard—I found safety crossing with a pair of old guys. I figured that the drivers would target them first.
The next half-hour passed pretty uneventfully. I walked, and walked, and walked and walked, then to change the pace I walked a little more. I followed that up with some walking. Then, to cool down, I did a little more walking. Then the cycle started over. I don’t know how Cal State Fullerton students get around if they don’t own a car. They must all have calf muscles the size of Christmas hams.
The scenery wasn’t too bad, though. A bunch of little neighborhoods sprawled out to my right. Most of them lay sheltered behind a series of big white walls. I felt like I was walking past a row of POW camps. I kept expecting to see a bag come flying over one of the walls, followed by a dirty guy in a ragged prisoner’s uniform. Now and then I crossed over a suburban side street. I could see little one-level houses painted, not in the usual O.C. pink-and-yellow pattern, but in more subdued blues and whites.
On the left, I saw Cal State Fullerton. God damn, but that’s a big campus. And it’s getting bigger. I passed by what must have been the mother of all parking garages. You could house an entire Panzer division in that thing. It stood at least five or six stories tall and covered an entire block. How many cars could it fit? 10,000? 20,000? A million? Maybe Gov. Schwarzenegger plans to ease the budget crisis by closing every state school except CSUF. That’s why they need so many parking spots.
As I walked, I started to think. It’s a thing I do sometimes when the mood strikes. We all know that young people want to live in NYC, right? No college students plans to go to Des Moines or Jacksonville after they graduate; they all dream about the Big Apple. Why is that? Maybe the culture; maybe the nightlife; maybe the romance of Gotham. I think it’s because you can walk most places in Manhattan. You don’t need to worry about a car. College students would live in Upper Cow’s Butt, Mississippi, if everything there was within walking distance.
After half an hour I finally arrived back in civilization, “civilization” being represented by KFC and Blockbuster. It’s not much of a civilization, but it’ll do. I found Miss Donut & Bakery in a little shopping center, right next to the tattoo parlor. I passed a guy with an American flag tattooed on the back of his neck. How, I ask, can you get more patriotic than that? Maybe if he had a screaming eagle tattooed on his forehead, I suppose.
Miss Donut & Bakery delivered on its name. I went there; I bought donuts; I went home and ate said donuts. Of course, I had to dither for a couple of minutes before finally picking out my donuts. They had a big display case overflowing with every type of donut imaginable. God, was it beautiful. I spent five minutes staring at a tray of jumbo long johns. In the process, I think I committed the cardinal sins of both gluttony and lust.
I consider the mission a success. I walked out of the bakery carrying a pair of chocolate donuts with chocolate frosting. Nothing fancy; just pure deliciousness. I managed to resist temptation all the way back to the dorm. After that, though, all bets were off. The donuts vanished a few minutes after I got home. Ah, donuts. Truly the food of the gods.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Bizarre Google Search Q
All right, in deference to the peanut gallery, I give you a Bizarre Google Search for "Richard Milhouse Nixon." Et voila!
A startling likeness!
A startling likeness!
Friday, June 12, 2009
Vlad the Bad
OK, I haven't followed politics in a while, so please tell me: exactly when did Vladimir Putin resolve to personally creep out every man, woman, and child in Russia?
Dough!
Hey, folks! Welcome to CRAAAAZY Eddie's pizza shack! Our deals are almost as CRAAAAZY as our proprietor!
For just a buck fifty, you can get yourself a large pizza with any two toppings! For an extra five bucks we'll give you a box to carry it home in!
New low deal! Pay just six bucks, get three pizzas! For three bucks, you'll get six pizzas! Yes, we know that makes no sense! That's how CRAAAAZY we are!
Even better! Win yourself a FREE, LIFETIME SUPPLY of CRAAAAZY Eddie's pizza! All you gotta do is burn down that jerk pizza parlor across the road!
For just a buck fifty, you can get yourself a large pizza with any two toppings! For an extra five bucks we'll give you a box to carry it home in!
New low deal! Pay just six bucks, get three pizzas! For three bucks, you'll get six pizzas! Yes, we know that makes no sense! That's how CRAAAAZY we are!
Even better! Win yourself a FREE, LIFETIME SUPPLY of CRAAAAZY Eddie's pizza! All you gotta do is burn down that jerk pizza parlor across the road!
Blog Post Done at 10:56 in the Evening
There once was a woman named Annice
Who...wait, what does Annice rhyme with? "Piece"? Or "Nice"? And what the hell kind of name is Annice, anyway?
OK, I'll try again.
There once was a woman named Smoel
Who...gosh darn it, Smoel? Smoel? How am I supposed to rhyme something with "Smoel"? Bowl, anole, Joel? None of that works!
Ah, forget this whole limerick thing. Just read the damn story yourself.
Who...wait, what does Annice rhyme with? "Piece"? Or "Nice"? And what the hell kind of name is Annice, anyway?
OK, I'll try again.
There once was a woman named Smoel
Who...gosh darn it, Smoel? Smoel? How am I supposed to rhyme something with "Smoel"? Bowl, anole, Joel? None of that works!
Ah, forget this whole limerick thing. Just read the damn story yourself.
Almond Joy
To any of my readers with medical experience--can one suffer any side effects from eating too many almonds? Over the past week I have devoured two whole cans of almonds. Just the almonds--not the cans. I'm not that desperate for food. Yet.
Actually, don't answer that question. I'd rather not know. Better to die happy and full of almonds, than live a long life without them. I think Confucius said that. Or maybe I made that up just now. Yes, I think that's a little more likely.
Does this post have a point? Only this: almonds are delicious. Ignore them at your peril.
Actually, don't answer that question. I'd rather not know. Better to die happy and full of almonds, than live a long life without them. I think Confucius said that. Or maybe I made that up just now. Yes, I think that's a little more likely.
Does this post have a point? Only this: almonds are delicious. Ignore them at your peril.
Quik Update
Hey there, my loyal audience of at least two! Sorry for the sudden and unexpected changes around here. You'll notice that I've removed all of the post-California posts. This came after my boss pointed out that blogging about work, especially without permission, is a little rude. And boorish. And insensitive. I have to agree.
But does that mean this blog is dead? No--a thousand times no! I'll still be posting about life in Orange County, about books and movies, and about stupid crooks who get vaporized trying to steal nuclear reactors. Of course, it does mean less Richard Nixon. That, quite frankly, is a crime. I give you the following to make up for the coming Nixon deficit:
There! To quote Gabbo, "That oughtta hold the little bastards." Whenever you feel yourself in desperate need of a Nixon hit, return to this post and bask in the healing light of his jowls. It's the least I can do for you.
But does that mean this blog is dead? No--a thousand times no! I'll still be posting about life in Orange County, about books and movies, and about stupid crooks who get vaporized trying to steal nuclear reactors. Of course, it does mean less Richard Nixon. That, quite frankly, is a crime. I give you the following to make up for the coming Nixon deficit:
There! To quote Gabbo, "That oughtta hold the little bastards." Whenever you feel yourself in desperate need of a Nixon hit, return to this post and bask in the healing light of his jowls. It's the least I can do for you.
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