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12/30/04: Anybody that doesn't want to get killed best clear on out the back The computer gets stronger every day. I have reloaded my music (albeit with a 300 song discrepancy), my pictures, my old emails, and my other assorted old files. It hasn't crashed yet, although I'm sure it'll be just a day or two before it does. I am going to enjoy that time. RIP Jerry Orbach. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy and he was a master at straddling the line between truly embarrassing, terrible acting and really enjoyable acting. Just an old-fashioned dude beating the odds and succeeding in a modern world. I've never seen one minute of any of the "Law & Order" shows, but I've seen him in movies and I went to junior high with his son Chris. Chris could fucking act, too. He played Mr. Whiteside when we did "The Man Who Came to Dinner" in 8th grade and it was a freaking tour de force. The rest of us could barely memorize lines, but Chris was up there busting out some legitimate acting skills. I always wondered why he never made it in the business himself. My condolences to the Orbach family. The boss gave us the day off tomorrow (Thurs), and acknowledged our hard work over the last month. Good bossing right there In the meantime, with apologies to Pete B., let's get started on the Verbungle.com Things of the Year for 2004. Perhaps there will be more. There's still another full day left after today. Sportsman of the Year: Grant Hill, Orlando, FL - I've always hated Duke but I've always liked Grant Hill. He's not only a really good guy, but he somehow doesn't reek of superiority like most of those dickheaded, squeaky-clean Dookies (Elton Brand also gets my respect). I was always a fan, but I had given up on him ever being a factor in the NBA again. So I've been tickled all season as he continues to play without pain. He's not the player he was five years ago, but he's plenty good enough. I hope he starts the all-star game. I was already rooting for Hill before I read an article on him in ESPN the Magazine last week in which I learned that not only has he had to deal with the well-documented ankle disasters, but he also nearly died from an infection after his most recent surgery. OK, he had won me over at that point, and then I learned that his wife, who has supported him through all his health problems, started feeling weak last year and was diagnosed with MS. What a struggle for these two. She's doing well, and you can read their story here as well. He gets bonus points for not mentioning God in any of the interviews I've seen. Entertainer of the Year: Clint Eastwood, Carmel, CA -
I haven't seen "Million Dollar Baby" yet, but I have heard nothing but great
things about it. This award is not just a lifetime achievement type dealie.
It's in recognition of what he's done in the last ten or twelve years, the years
that are usually quite unkind to major Hollywood players. Just that he's made "Unforgiven",
"Mystic River", and "Million Dollar Baby" after the age of 60 is a wonderful
achievement. "A Perfect World" wasn't bad, either. 74 and still getting the job
done. An inspiration. Most overrated show and host of the Year: "The Daily Show"/Jon Stewart, New York, NY - good show, funny host. Probably about one fiftieth as funny as generally accepted to be. And even though I took delight in his assault on Tucker Carlson on "Crossfire," he really came across like a smug, humorless asshole when you think about it for two seconds. Professional Athlete who most strongly resembles Hans Bungle (of the year): Jake Delhomme (pictured at right), Charlotte, NC - possible Halloween costume for next year. Professional Athlete who most strongly resembles D. Lee (of the year): Kobe Bryant, Los Angeles, CA - the facts are the facts. Band of the Year: My Morning Jacket, Louisville, KY - even though they didn't release a proper record this year, this is the band that has most moved me in 2004. Thanks to Eugene P. for getting me hooked and for buying me two CD's for Xmas. I truly believe that the singer guy, Jim James, is a unique talent. Of course, I said the same thing about Taylor Dayne. Hypocrite of the Year: Rush Limbaugh, New York, NY - a real-live New York City hillbilly Moment that made me mad but I can't really justify my anger (of the year): The Oprah car giveaway. Game of the Year: Two really good guys against Eugene and Hans, Capistrano, CA, 12/26/04 - when my brother and I went out to play hoops on the day after Xmas, we just wanted to get a few games of 1 on 1 in and call it a day. We had plans that afternoon and had only about an hour to squeeze in our game. We went to the nice courts right off the beach in Capistrano, and played a few games of low-stress one on one. We were getting ready to leave when two ballplayer guys showed up and started shooting around. We could tell they wanted to play 2 on 2, but we knew time was short so we went back to our car and prepared to take off. Then we saw we still had about 20 minutes to kill, so we walked back onto the court. Sure enough, one of the guys asked us if we wanted to play twos, and we got started right away. Unfortunately, we were ice cold, and both of these guys turned out to be real good players. They went up 11-1 in a game to 15 (win by two), leaving us panting and looking stupid. It was at this point that the parking cops came by the court and started writing up tickets. We had assumed since it was Sunday we didn't have to pay, so now we had to sprint to the muni-meter ticket dispenser thing and put that ticket on the dashboard. After this short break, we came back refreshed. Eugene started hitting threes (actually worth two), and I started playing with the desperate aggressiveness of the over-30 warrior. We made backdoor cuts for layups. We stole the ball. And we sliced away at the lead. As Eugene went up for a layup, the bigger of the two guys, who was probably 6'3" 250, came down on poor Eugene's neck, probably breaking it in several places. But he kept playing, and we actually took the lead at 14-13. They tied it, and then we had a couple of two-point shots to win it but couldn't connect. Finally, they took the lead and then won it when the big guy buried a turnaround in my face. But our parking violation-inspired comeback deserves recognition, and so here it is. Putz of the Year: George W. Bush, Crawford, TX - he just does every little thing wrong. And this Iraq war is going to be remembered as a colossal fuckup. The only bright side about his reelection is that he will have to deal with his own mess. I'll say we'll have major troop allotments in Iraq through 2007, when we'll semi-quietly pull out, claiming a victory for democracy despite the fact that the country is obviously still in complete turmoil. Runners-up: Mel Gibson, Curt Schilling, David Stern. More Harm Than Good? Award - Michael Moore, New York, NY - I want to like you but you make it very hard. Man of the Year: Let the readers decide. Woman of the Year (besides the wife): Likewise, please make your own suggestions. *** OK, here is IMAGE #27 for those of you still playing the GISG. Answers at noon, I suppose. 12/29/04: Finally I took my computer in to COMP USA on November 8th, 2004. I got my computer back (welcome back!) on December 28th of that same year. Here are some things that happened between November 8th and December 28th: -A Tsunami killed over 56,000 people -Vince Carter missed a game with food poisoning, and left another with a cramp -Donald Rumsfeld said that Flight 93 was shot down -Pete Brush handed out his annual Petey Awards -Pretty much everybody handed out their year-end awards -I called COMP USA to check on the status of my computer about a dozen times, without ever receiving a call back -I worked approximately 25 days at approximately 57% effort, which works out to about 14 and a quarter actual days worked -I took a vacation -Christmas came and went -Oh, and Thanksgiving, too. I forgot about that already. -Osama issued some new messages. Nothing encouraging. -To everyone's dismay, Diamond Dan Kois discontinued his blog -To everyone's disbelief, Wooderson, Pink, and Slater sued Richard Linklater -Jason Giambi's testimony got leaked, and it took down a few big names when it came out -Some guy in the bar used the "Don't be next" line on me as he exited the men's room, to my complete amusement -Lindsay Lohan and Wilmer Valderrama broke up -The Jets and Vikings began their annual joint procession towards heartbreak -Ukraine had a bogus election, got it overturned, and had another election with a different result -Grant Hill played in every one of his team's games except one, and averaged almost 20 a night -A lot of people died in Iraq -Some famous people died, too. Sometimes famous people's deaths are the only ones that get noticed. -The Don Cheadle NFL ads came back. Again. -Numerous other things happened. Feel free to list a few. Anyway, I point these out as a way of showing that it took far too long for them fuckers to fix my machine. I should have just handed it over to Joe Monkeyweb with some scissors and let him take a crack at it. The wait was way too long and information was way too hard to come by, and those are just two of the reasons I added Toshiba (who did the repairs) and COMPUSA (who organized the whole thing and refused to help me in any way once I had dropped off my laptop) to the boycott list. Please understand that the boycott list is a fluid thing; just because you are on there today doesn't mean I won't remove you if you clean up your act. As I was awaiting my computer today at the COMPUSA service window, I started thinking about the down arrow key that had fallen off my keyboard. I temporarily decided that if a) My computer worked and b) they remembered to ship back my power supply along with the unit and c) they decided to attach a new down arrow key even though I had forgotten to ask them to, I would remove both COMPUSA and TOSHIBA from my list. And sure enough, all three of those things came to pass. I was happy, especially that they went the extra mile with the down arrow key. But somehow, I couldn't bring myself to remove them from the list. The service in general was just so shoddy that I couldn't do it. 7 weeks is too long to fix a computer. Fuck them. Let them wallow on the boycott list together and figure out where all their business has gone. Anyway, I am grateful to have my computer back and I have started reloading it with all the stuff I backed up onto CDs. Somehow my iTunes collection now has 300 less songs than are in my iPod. I gotta figure that out. But that's for another day. No GISG today. Too tired for that. All my cool year-end stuff should be coming soon. Been too busy the last few days. For an appetizer, here is the final scorecard on my 2004 resolutions. 2005 will be better. I promise. 12/28/04: My Kind of Town Hello, you no-comment-leaving motherfuckers. I must admit I missed you all/both. I hope you had a great holiday break and you feel invigorated as you return for another year of thankless shit-sacking. I don't even know what to say about the Tsunami. It's one of the worst events I can remember, and it's somehow even more frustrating because there's nobody to blame. Although I'm sure some villains will emerge in the coming months. In the meantime, here is a brief list of ways we can all help. To be honest, I have been a little bit news-deprived over the last few days in California, so I haven't read much about it or seen any of the video or photographs. I'm not sure I want to. Now I'm back in NYC, freezing my well-tanned ballz off.
Remind me again why people live in places where it gets all cold in the winter?
We got off the plane and had a typically delightful NYC experience -- the car we
reserved, which we were assured (four times) was "5 minutes away," ended up
being 45 minutes late. The company in question has been duly added to the VBL at
right, along with some other recently enshrined luminaries. Ah, New York, you
old scoundrel. How I missed you. It was about 15 degrees out and people
were yelling at each other and stuff wasn't running quite as it should be.
Welcome home, son. The limo supervisor dude who we demanded to speak to
put it in perspective when he told us "It's not a life or death situation." He
followed that up with, "You could have found alternate means of transportation."
Thanks, pal. I told him I had forgotten my scooter or I would have done just
that. The customer is always right, except in New York City.
The year is coming to an end, and when all is said and done I'd say it was a real yeary year. Some good, some bad. Lots of interesting stuff happened. We will have some commentary on 2004 in the coming days. We'll update last year's resolutions (it won't be pretty), make some new, less ambitious ones for 2005 (if that's possible), and, inspired by Pete and countless other online superstars, we will weigh in with some year-end honors of our own. We also plan on shaking up this here internet site in the near future. I have at least two ideas in mind, which I will announce publicly at some point this week. Most likely, neither of them will come to pass. That's our M.O. here at www.verbungle.com. We build you up and then we let you down. We can't help ourselves. We're just that lazy. But right now just some bizniz and then some sleep. Perhaps you saw my glowing review of the State of California (#35). Now that the trip is over and I'm back in the filth and hostility of my home city, I am tempted to boost that score even higher, maybe to a 26.23674976 or so. I really loved it out there. I must remind myself that part of what I loved was not working and having the freedom to do whatever I wanted when I rolled out of bed at 11am every day. Usually that meant playing hoops, and as you can see in the enlargeable shot at right, playing 7 out of 8 days has been kind to my game and my vertical. My poor brother in law was not ready for my daily assaults on the rim. By the way, that stirring snapshot is available on a verbungle.com T-shirt for a limited time only. You'd be a sucker not to get one. Speaking of merchandise: JP, I haven't forgotten your bumper sticker. I just want to think up a good slogan and/or image to make it something worth sticking somewhere. Suggestions are welcome. It'll go out by the end of the week. When last we posted, weren't we still playing the GISG? Where the hell were we? I think you were trying to solve IMAGE #25 when you grew bored of the whole exercise. You can chew on that one for awhile and you can also attempt IMAGE #26 if you're the kind of tough-minded bastards I suspect you may be. There was a lot of shit that occurred to me while I was in California, but I have forgotten it all and it's probably just as well. So that's the story here. A lot more to come and I hope everybody got every damn thing they wanted for Xmas / Chanukah / Kwanzaa, etc. You deserved it, ya know. 12/24/04: Merry Christmas to all Christians and other people who like getting stuff I woke up around 5am the last two nights, sweating out the final scenes of long, plot-driven bad dreams. There was a guy I used to work with, let's all him Don, who was a real man's man. Don was from Mississippi and he smoked too many cigarettes and he ate too much red meat and he was probably an alcoholic. He loved to sit outside at a nice sidewalk cafe, drinking scotch and watching pretty girls go by. He had a deep voice and a southern accent and he was completely out of place in New York, living among millions of neurotic self-doubters, all trying to figure out who they were and what they were supposed to be. He was as straightforward a person as you'll ever meet, and he couldn't have been more comfortable in his own skin.. One thing I always got a kick out of about Don was his dreams. They were all mini-action-adventure movies, where he would be a James Bond type, sipping martinis in a tuxedo and then swinging on a rope over shark infested waters while spraying the bad guys with machine gun fire. He loved those dreams. And they were a perfect representation of who he was. No dreams about his mother or childhood bullies or oversleeping and missing a Psychology final. Just rock 'em-sock 'em Indiana Jones stuff for Don. Well, I had a Don dream Wednesday night and I didn't like it one bit. A bunch of co-workers and I were riding the subway to some kind of office get-together when a guy came up and started hassling us. There were like ten of us, so we felt pretty confident telling him to step off. But then he pulled out a gun and opened fire. One co-worker, who we'll call Lee, got hit six times. Everybody else scattered around the subway car, except me. I tried to step forward to help Lee, and I took a bullet right in the base of my spine. It didn't hurt, but I could tell it was in a very dangerous place. The shooter got off at the next stop, and we all started tending to Lee. He was literally full of holes; if you had handed him a glass of water and he took a sip, it would have started pouring out of him like in the cartoons. After we got Lee into an ambulance, a few of us took off in
pursuit of the shooter. A doctor joined our little
The dream seemed to go on for hours; we were looking for the shooter, I was checking my wound, and we were getting updates on Lee (last word was that he was going to pull through). It was a very stressful and unpleasant dream, and I'm sure it was inspired by reading this grotesque editorial glorifying Bernhard Goetz, which I discovered by reading this page, which I found through Pete. Fun how the internet works sometimes. All day after that dream I felt a little melancholy. The wife and the bro-in-law slept through the entire afternoon, so I went to their parents' community center and shot baskets by myself. It was an absolutely perfect day, maybe 75 degrees and not a cloud to be found. I wanted to play some real ball, but it was only me, so I just shot there on the the unused court of the empty community center. I can remember plenty of December twenty-thirds growing up in the city where all I wanted was a place to play ball. Now I've got a dozen places and nobody to play with. I was talking to myself as I shot around, doing the old "Make this shot from the top of the key or your whole family gets killed" routine. Then, "OK, because he is so confident you'll miss again, the evil warlord has decided to give you ONE MORE CHANCE to hit this shot from the top of the key, just to mock you. If you miss again, the family dies." You know how that goes. I played Around the World, that stupid shooting game where you shoot once from each spot around the key, and you can "chance it" if you miss. Then if you miss again you go back to the beginning. My friend Brian used to beat the shit out of me at this game in college, except then I would make him shoot the final shot from directly under the basket, facing the free throw line. He could never hit that shot for some reason. But he was a sport about it and he'd only whine for about an hour when I came back to beat him. Shooting by yourself can be fun for awhile, but I eventually grew bored and went home. On the walk back from the community center, I called my pops to see how we was doing. He seemed OK, although his dog is acting very weird, like it might be sick. My pop told me it was cold in NYC, and that he remembers a time, many years ago, when he was in Florida for vacation. He took a morning dip in the Atlantic, then caught a plane to LA for some sort of business meeting. He got off the plane in LA and found himself in Santa Monica late that afternoon, so he decided to take another swim. He hit both oceans in one day. I fully support doing silly stuff like that, even if it's just so forty years later you can tell your kid about it. It was good to talk to him. Then last night we saw "House of Flying Daggers". I am not a big martial arts movie kind of guy, and I was sort of dreading sitting through two plus hours of finely choreographed fight scenes. I find the whole thing gets old pretty quickly. Then, within the first ten minutes of sitting down to watch the movie, I found myself totally immersed in the damn thing. Then, within another fifteen minutes, I was bored and wanted it to end. There were a couple of amazing scenes, but it was a lot of CGI and a pretty corny love story and the action scenes got redundant after a while. I'd give it a 17.8 on the VRS. Then last night I had a dream that I was at work and my boss got called away for a meeting. He asked me to fill in for him, line producing the shows we were taping. It's something I've done before. Anyway, the shows are four segments long and we had done one of the four when my boss had to leave. So we started getting ready for segment two, but crazy shit kept happening. First, the talent screwed up multiple times and we had to keep starting over. Then I got distracted by one of the production managers coming into the control room to ask me a question about champagne. The question could have waited, but I decided to answer it right there and then and it took about ten minutes while the entire crew waited for me. Then there was an enormous ruckus right outside the control room. I went over to open the door, and I shit you not, there was Loverboy, performing a holiday concert for our company. There was a stage right next to the control room, and my fellow employees were crushing each other against it, pumping their fists as their souls were rocked. Beyond the mosh pit/first ten rows there were perhaps 100 more employees, doing aerobics to the Loverboy concert. They were all lined up in rows like high school gym class, and they were dancing and doing jumping jacks and stretching to the beat. I felt terrible to do it, but I knew we couldn't get our segment done with all this noise, so I gave them a "Guys...guys...GUYS" indicating they'd have to knock it off. They were in between songs, and Reno heard my request and made an "oops, my bad" face. "Oh, shit, are we disturbing you guys?" Mike Reno asked, noticing the control room for the first time. I am not kidding. Mike Reno was in my dream last night. And he felt guilty for rocking too hard. "Yeah, I'm really sorry, we're trying to do a segment here," I said. I didn't really want them to stop rocking. "Why don't you guys do one more song and then wrap it up, is that cool?" "Totally," Reno said, still feeling contrite. Then he counted off the next song and the band began to rock. I wish I could remember which tune it was. I guess I could lie and tell you it was "The Kid Is Hot Tonight" or "Only the Lucky Ones" but what's the point? Loverboy had come to rock my office, and that's exactly what they were doing. I stood in the doorway and watched them go at it. Sure, it was a nostalgia trip for most of the audience, and a sarcastic one at that. But Reno and the boys didn't let that stand in the way of a good time. They threw themselves into their performance as if it was 1982 -- the drummer in particular was making those crazy drummer faces like his head was about to pop right off the top of his neck -- and I found myself respecting them for it. As soon as the song ended, they started gathering up all their gear. No roadies, just Mike and the boys, disassembling the drum kits and the amps and the mike stand. The office workers all went back to their desks, and it was time for us to try to finally get our segment done. Before I got back to work, there was one final thing I felt I needed to do. "Mike," I said. Reno was in the corner, coiling some cable. He looked up. "Nice job, man," I said. "Thanks." I flashed him a heartfelt thumbs-up. He smiled and nodded respectfully, and then waved me off like, No problem, dude. This is what we do, man. Then he got back to work on the cable. But where will he be tomorrow? I wondered as I turned and hustled back into the control room. We'd be lucky to get this segment done before lunch. 12/22/04: New York Yankees, 2004 AL East Division Champions I know some of you hate it when I post about basketball, and I can understand that these must be difficult times for you. I am in the midst of a personal basketball renaissance of sorts, and the game is never far from my thoughts. Please bear with me until I sprain an ankle or something. If anyone enjoys the basketball posts, speak up and I won't discontinue them entirely. Perhaps I should color-code all the posts, so the sports-related stuff is in green. Maybe we'll try that out someday for kicks. Eventually, we'll have a different color for every topic so you can breeze past the stuff that doesn't interest you. Until then, you are going to have to pick and choose. Yesterday's Starbucks post had to be wrapped up in a hurry because the wife and mother in law got hungry and I had to shuffle on out the door so we could go home for dinner. Sorry for the typos and the poorly drawn arrow on the picture of the mall security guard toting a case of Coors on his Segway back to the office for a little holiday team-building session (!) As months drift by, I forget all about the fact that I live in a bulls-eye, and then I'm sitting around my wife's parents house paging through Time magazine and I come across this article, and I start feeling not so good. Who knew that terrorists were required by rule to give us a "heads-up?" Imagine the thinking of these clerics? "Yes, it says here that slaughtering civilians by the thousand is perfectly acceptable, provided you give them some notice." Killing, OK...killing without common courtesy, no good. Speaking of terrorism, doesn't the complete humiliation of Bernard Kerik fail to surprise you? It's not even that I was rooting against him or anything...I just feel like New Yorkers are not quite fit for national exposure. We manage to get things done in our dirty little city, but once you throw us on the big stage, our questionable way of life becomes obvious. New York is like a huge carpet, bulging noticeably with dust and slime that's been tucked underneath and set aside for removal on another day. It's no wonder Kerik got some on his chin. If you hate basketball, maybe you're in the mood for some
baseball. I'm betting you are.
Faithful readers will know that I am fall into that utterly annoying category of Conflicted Yankee Fan. It's true, I've been a fan for 27 years and I should probably just enjoy the 6 titles they've won in that span. But George is such a bastard, and the team is so robotic and soulless, that my devotion is constantly being tested. The Yankees are at such an unfair advantage in today's baseball world, and they exploit that advantage so remorselessly, that rooting for them is something like rooting for Darth Vader against Obi Wan. Like rooting for Potter against Bailey. Draw up whatever other "little guy vs. evil corporate behemoth" comparisons you want. I'm sure they are all valid -- if our nature is to root for the underdog, then our nature tells us it's not okay to root for the Yankees. Even though I have tried with very limited success to convince myself that it IS okay, I think I've always known that it isn't. And the Giambi-Sheffield revelations (band name!) haven't made things any easier. In fact, the only thing that has kept my Yankee pulse detectable over the last few years is the unbelievably fun rivalry with the Red Sox. I've thoroughly enjoyed hating them, even though I have no real reason to. It's just what you're supposed to do if you're a Yankee fan, and I have fulfilled that aspect of my duty with relish. But now I realize that what made the rivalry fun for me was the one-sidedness of it. Like the spoiled Yankee fan that I am, I lost my enthusiasm for the rivalry the minute the Red Sox kicked our ass. And kicked it in historic fashion. And went on to win the World Series. And now I suppose I should be more riled up than ever, itching for Spring Training so we can get another crack at those bastards. The loss should have ignited a flame deep within me, and reassured me that the Yankees are my team forever. To give up after one defeat is utterly punklike. But what I've realized after all these years of taunting my Red Sox fan friends, telling them they get off on the negativity surrounding the franchise, that a World Series victory would be more than they could handle, is that no, they really just wanted to win all along. And I just wanted them to lose. I was the one operating from a position of negativity. Faced with the option of defending an undefendable position (loving the Yankees), I chose instead to take the easy road (hating the Red Sox). It was always such a safe bet. And now they have turned the tables and I'm left feeling like my whole rooting interest in baseball is gone. Gilligan got off the island; why watch anymore? And I think it's a good time for me to start eating my arrogant words. Here are a few examples of things I've said about the Red Sox (pre-2004 ALCS) since starting this site in March of 2003 (163 mentions in all): 9/22/03: As a Yankee fan, and as a baseball fan in
general, I am tickled pink whenever the Red Sox stay in the race this long.
There are only two things that can happen, and they're both good. One, the Red
Sox find some creative new way to throw the season away at the last minute, as
they have in so many of these last 84 empty years. Or two, somehow, THIS is the
year. The year when the Red Sox win it all. How cool would it be to see that?
It's like Halley's Comet, except you don't know when it's gonna go shooting by.
10/6/03: I know that Red Sox fans are probably looking at things right now and thinking bullshit thoughts like "Team of Destiny." "Heart." "Refuse to Lose." Well, I have a few words that are more accurate: Bush leaguers. Bad sports. Losers. The other day in Boston, several Red Sox players lined up on the top step of the dugout with tape arranged on each of their backs to form the word "Lil-ly." This was meant to encourage the fans to start in with that tired, derisive chant that originated with Darryl Strawberry. Incredibly lame -- a sign of a team that really doesn't get it (the Red Sox also all shaved their heads* -- reminding me of the doomed Knicks of the mid-90's who would shave their heads and wear the same shoes and chest bump and basically do every little junior high school thing you could do to pump each other up, but then they would still throw the game away in some horrifying way when it really counted). Rev up the fans, but don't encourage them to attack a specific opponent, you idiots. It makes you look like suckers. 10/17/03: ...and how the Sox fans behind us slunk
out of the stadium in misery after this song had been played once, and how we
didn't turn to offer them a last jab or a condescending handshake because we
knew the scene itself spoke louder and clearer than we ever could. 4/17/04: Yankees got pounded by the Red Sox and Schithead Schilling in another snorefest. Let them have their early fun. It's the natural way of things. 6/28/04: I remember walking down River Avenue after the Yankees had played Boston in a huge regular season game in 1978, and being surrounded by a surging tide of Yankee fans, all chanting, "Boston Sucks" at the top of their lungs. It was exciting and a little bit scary for a kid, but it also had an element of truth to it: Boston did suck. Not the city, mind you. That's a debate for another day. What we were chanting about, I hope, was Boston's baseball team. A team was in the process of blowing a 14 and a half game lead over the Yankees. A team that hadn't won the World Series in a long, long time. Since our team, the Yankees, had won the World Series the previous year, was about to win it again that year, and had won many, many more over the course of the previous five decades, we felt entitled to ridicule our opponents. It may not be very nice, but there was some logic to it. Which is why I was disappointed to see so many "Yankees Suck" T-shirts in Boston this weekend (let's call it "Beantown," because I bet people there hate that name the same way New Yorkers hate "The Big Apple," or San Franciscans hate "Frisco," or Chicagoans hate "Chitown"). Anyway, the point is that the Yankees don't suck. They may be loathsome and greedy and bad for baseball, but they don't suck. If they do suck, the Red Sox must really suck. They should print that in small print on the back of the T-shirts. "*...and we must really suck." 8/23/04: Yes, I know the lead is down to 5 1/2 games. If it was anyone but the Red Sox behind us, I'd feel threatened. But there is something fundamentally wrong with that franchise, something buried deep within the fibers of the uniform itself. Those guys just cannot win. Yes, I am prepared to eat these words if the unthinkable comes to pass and the Sox win the Series. But I wouldn't break out the mustard just yet. 9/20/04: The point is I was really drunk. I was shouting at Red Sox fans in the bar. ("This is your World Series" was a particular favorite of mine as I sensed the game slipping away.) I guess I am a meathead Yankee fan beneath it all. 9/20/04: (later in same post!) Watched the Yanks pummel the Sox today. Pretty satisfying. 10/11/04:
And in no matchup is failure less
acceptable for the Yankees than when they play against the Red Sox. The Red Sox
are our little brother. We take them out to the driveway and beat them one on
one, every time. Sometimes they seem like they're drawing even with us, and then
we throw an elbow or two and knock 'em down on the concrete. And they never get
what they want. So it appears that a significant chunk of my interest in baseball is based on watching the Red Sox lose and their fans suffer. I don't know what that says about me. All I know is that the 2005 season is holding little to no interest for me right now. But sunshine and shooting buckets and ocean breezes and wearing shorts on December 22...that holds great interest for me. 12/21/04: Kids Today Before I begin, I want to thank the Apple Store in Mission Viejo for unknowingly sponsoring yesterday's post. Today I am at Starbucks, hogging up a table for three with my laptop. An old man with a cane just walked up, looking plaintively in my direction, hoping for a seat no doubt. You can sit with me, gramps, but there's no way I'm getting up. Sorry. One thing I have noticed out here in Southern California even
more so than New York is how Sorry if that sounds harsh, but these are serious times. It's best not to challenge your daughter when she insists that the jean shorts she's wearing that allow half her ass to dangle out the bottom aren't too short. Fight the big fights. Let sluts be sluts*. Maintain a loving relationship with your daughter. That said, there are some mothers out here in SoCal who are taking parent-daughter closeness to an embarrassing place. I should really get a photograph of this, because it's everywhere you look, but for now let me just describe it. Mothers are adopting the sluttified fashion sensibilities of their teenage daughters. If you go to a mall (and what the hell else do you do out here?), you will see dozens of mother-daughter teams wandering from store to store, dressed in nearly identical slutgear. It doesn't look quite right on either of them. And seeing them together just seems pervy and weird. Like, I not only support your slutty ways, my beautiful child, I want to emulate them. I don't know, maybe I'm the sicko -- it's impossible for me to see these outfits without thinking of some sexual implication. Maybe they're just clothes. Maybe a woman can just showcase her body because she thinks it looks good. Maybe sex has nothing to do with it. Whatever the case, I hope that someday soon mothers and daughters stop dressing the same way. It's unnerving. I went back to Laguna yesterday and played a little more
hoops. Like Patrick
Speaking of playing hard, I am amazed by how little energy the people I've balled with put into the game. The whole laid-back California thing seems to be in evidence on the basketball court. Another case of people trying to live down to their stereotypes. Yesterday, we won the first one like 21-14, and we were ahead like 19-16 in the second game. Then this one guy on our team, who was actually a real offensive whiz, just put his hands on his hips and let his man go by him for a layup. WTF? I'm not Ben Wallace myself, but I mean he just gave up completely -- he wasn't faked out or overpowered or anything. I said, "Are you OK?" and he goes, "I was resting." Resting? I don't even know what to say to that. Anyway, we finally went up like 20-18, and Chester the Rester was passing the ball in at the top of the key. He could have given it to me or another kid, and we would have either gotten a decent shot or made a decent pass back to him. But Chester decided to force a pass into this one kid on our team who really had no clue how to play. He was chubby and violent and was wearing a black heavy metal T-shirt of uncertain origin. He also appeared to be under the influence of some sort of illegal drugs in addition to the Ritalin that I'm sure he was taking. The worst part is, he wasn't even open. There were like two guys right next to him. They immediately stripped him and scored. Then they scored again. Then a true blue surfer kid, who spoke maybe three words the whole day, hit a two pointer to beat us (we were playing with 1's and 2's). It was annoying, but I blame Chester. Tenet #52: Always have someone to blame. Truth be told, I sucked pretty bad. My shot was just not falling at all. Amazing what a difference one day can make. Day off today, give it another shot someplace else tomorrow. In addition to being a tourist trap, Laguna Beach is a pretty scummy little area. One kid was trying to sell weed to the other kids, and I almost wanted to pull him aside and tell him he didn't have what it takes to be a drug dealer. He was just real stupid and I think there's a strong chance that he'll end up in jail. I like it out here. It's been in the 70s each day, and there's enough green and blue to brighten up the lonely corners of my heart that stupidly long for a white Christmas. But the people out here are a little bit dumb, yo.** Just the way they talk and the things they talk about. Pretty vapid. I think I'm glad I didn't grow up here. Just one man's opinion. * I hesitate to use the word "slut," even though I do so
repeatedly in this post. Women who are in charge of their sexuality and sleep
around because they like it deserve the same leeway as men who do the same
thing. In the context of this post, let's just use the word slut to
describe a young girl who dresses like a hooker. I also want to make it
clear that Hans Bungle and the verbungle.com editorial staff have no problem
whatsoever with adult women who dress like hookers; in fact we believe it to be
one of the most positive developments in fashion since the half-moustache. 12/20/04: Crystal Ballin' If my high school graduation self could look forward into the future to this day, he would probably be baffled by the following sentence: It really sucks not having internet connectivity. So High School Hans, if you're reading this, let me explain. You know those geeky kids in school who mess around with computers and occasionally use the term "modem"? You know, that thing that they plug into their phone line to beam some of their computer nonsense around to other people? Well, they're onto something. Maybe you've already figured this whole thing out, because you are reading this, after all*, but within the next ten years or so, hundreds of millions of people will start utilizing this technology. They'll use their phone lines and -- I know this sounds weird -- their cable TV lines and other, even more obscure means to access hundreds of millions of other people, through their personal computers. Yes, sort of like the Adam home computer thing you hoodwinked your parents into buying for you. Anyway, all these hundreds of millions of people will form a vague entity known as the internet. The internet won't be an actual contraption, really. Just the sum of all the people using it. And all these people who initially just wanted to post messages on bulletin boards will realize their little internet holds far greater possibilities than they originally imagined. People will create web sites (think of them as 'net sites to avoid confusion) to convey their personal beliefs or sell their products or report information. These sites can be accessed by anyone with internet connectivity, and the sites will range in style from very complex, graphic-driven sites that are almost like little movies, to barebones text resembling a term paper. Eventually, the internet will be so popular that people will come to rely on it it for all sorts of things.** Anyway, in late 2004 you yourself have become quite dependent on the internet (also known as the "World Wide Web"). If you want to know the weather, you check the internet. If you want to find out where a movie is playing, check the internet. Did the Knicks win? Internet. Who played the priest in Angels with Dirty Faces? Internet. In fact, in the year 2004 you will not only love cruising the internet, but you will have your very own web site. Don't get excited -- you won't be getting paid for it or anything. It'll just be a little bullshit site for you to post your little bullshit musings on, and it'll be read by VERY few people. In fact, though both your parents and your sister will know about it, none of them will bother reading it more than once every few months. Don't take it personally. In 2004, most people will have their own web sites, so you aren't very special. The internet will become such a part of your everyday life, you'll sometimes forget it's there. Or more accurately, you'll forget that it ever wasn't there. And then one day you'll find yourself, for whatever reason, unable to connect to the internet. And this will be very bad. Not because you've forgotten how to access information the old fashioned way and you're suddenly screwed, although that's true as well. But what you'll really miss is the feeling of being connected to something. Because if you add up all the time you'll spend on the internet, 80% of it will just be unfocused drifting through the few sites that you've come to realize are your favorites. You'll use it much the way you now use TV, as another voice in the room to make it seem like you're surrounded by friends. And, like TV, it will eat up hours of your life without leaving so much of a crumb behind to tell you where they've gone. Anyway, now that you're caught up with the rest of the group, let me start at the beginning again. It really sucks not having internet connectivity. I am out here in beautiful San Clemente, California, USA. The flight was fine, some pretty bad turbulence over the Rockies but nothing scary. The terrorists on board had apparently familiarized themselves with our anti-terror policy and knew not to fuck with my flight, or perhaps they were just taking it easy. Either way, we landed about 7 minutes ahead of schedule, got picked up at LAX and made it home in time for dinner. Every year, I'm out here at this time and every year, there is some problem with me getting on the internet. Well, not exactly. I can get on the internet on my in-laws' computer, but I can't update my website from there, because it, along with the software for creating it, exists on this here laptop. The in-laws have a cable modem and a wireless router, so I should just be able to hop onto their connection. But for some reason I can't. Last year, on about the 5th day of my trip, I was able to sneak onto the internet through a neighbor's wireless connection, but so far I've struck out on that as well. So hopefully I will sneak into a Barnes & Noble at some point on Monday and publish this. If so, here is what I have done and observed in Californee so far this year: 1. Ate at the Cheesecake Factory. 2. Hit some malls. 3. Played some more hoops at Laguna Beach. This is the part of pickup basketball that never fails to mystify people who don't play it. So you just go to a court by yourself, and then you walk up to somebody you don't know and ask if you can play with them? Isn't that awkward? Well, yes and no. I don't love the initial interaction, where you're basically begging somebody for a chance to play. I would always rather show up with a buddy so I'd feel more comfortable, but alas sometimes it's just you. So you swallow your pride and go talk to a stranger. It's usually over quickly. So I asked these two guys if they had next, and one of 'em, a tall surfer-type with a pony tail, said, "Yeah" and before I could even get out the words "You need one?""**** he was nodding and saying, "You wanna run?" A welcoming Californian voice. Just what I needed with about 25 minutes of sun left. I grabbed my bag from over by the empty court and dumped it
on the grass by the prestige court so I could: So I scouted the game, and it was pretty interesting. There were two white kids in their late 20's who looked like dorks but could really play. One of them was about 5'7" and had a little gut, but he couldn't miss from outside. There were a couple of musclemen and a couple of flabby dudes in their late 30's-early 40's who were still out there doing their thing. All in all, your typical weekend warrior ensemble. The game seemed to go on forever, with lots of fouls and not
a lot of scoring. For some reason, I get nervous watching people that I'm about
to play. I always wonder whether I'll be able to compete. So I was watching
this game and trying to figure out if our goofy little team had a chance.
Finally, one of the two dorky kids hit a nice runner to win the game, and it was
our turn to play. Unfortunately, those two kids had to leave. I was
really hoping to play them. Even though they were pretty good, they were
annoying. They kept whining about the calls and acting as if they were streetball legends. Whatever, I guess there was a D & D tournament that
took precedence, so they bolted. The winners picked up two other guys, and
we were about to start playing when one of the winners, a HUGE muscle guy who
was a pretty decent player when Well, in that situation, if you have any pride at all, you say, "Yes, these teams are fine. Your ball. Let's go," which is what I said. Maybe they were tired or something, but we just came out and ran them all over the court. Unfortunately, we had one kid on our team who was about seventeen and suffered from a severe addiction to three point shots. We were moving the ball really well, but somehow it kept ending up in his hands, alone and standing a foot behind the three point line. And he was cold. John Starks Game 7 cold. But he kept shooting. And missing. And shooting. And missing. Finally, I said to him, "Take a step in." He was all, "Hey, I can make those shots." I said, "Yeah, I'm sure you can, but TAKE A STEP IN." He didn't. Eventually, he hit one. I think he was maybe 1 for 13. He needs to familiarize himself with Verbungle Basketball Tenets # 1, 7, 8, 12 and 25. I felt a little loopy -- maybe it was the portobello sandwich working its way down my GI tract -- but I was still able to get things done. I was surprised by how I kept grabbing the rebounds away from these bigger dudes who could jump much higher than me. It was like they were giving me a head start or something. And I was knocking down the 8-14 footers as well (tenets #8, 10, & 12). I think I had about 4 baskets when one of the guys on the other team got mad and said he wanted to guard me. That always feels good, when you're playing well enough to necessitate a defensive realignment. I realize that in my case it might just be that I am such a harmless looking player that every basket I score is taken as an insult by some opponents. Whatever. I roasted the new guy as well. We won, 11-6. I think I had maybe 6 of the 11, and I wasn't shooting much. I was actually looking hard for the open man (#1), who, regrettably, seemed to always be Three Point Johnny. Surfer guy chipped in as well, cleaning the boards and making some nice dishes. I managed to get in one satisfying rejection on the muscle guy -- it was one of those blocks where the ball has already left the guy's hand, so it's much cooler looking. We played another one as it got dark, and we won that one 11-4 or something. California ballplayers don't be playing much defense. That's my early report. My feet are sore but I will give it another go tomorrow. The shoes I have here are a pair that I always coveted when they first came out in maybe 1993, the Nike Air Max. But they were like 130 clams even then. A couple of years ago, I came across a reissued pair on sale for about 80 bucks in a Nike factory outlet and I gave in and bought 'em. I love the way they look (although I really wanted the black with royal blue), but they seem to be crushing my right foot. That's what I get for spending so much money on basketball sneakers. * Although it could be a printout. 12/18/04: The Bar Exam Is there any more ridiculous journalistic practice than the way TV programs blur out the video of a celebrity giving somebody the finger? As if they are covering something obscene. And as if the blurring diminishes whatever obscenity the gesture might contain. It's just so silly. *** We finished up another grueling week of widget-making on
Thursday, and then headed out to a nearby bar for a quasi-wrap party. I say
'quasi' one because I like the way it sounds, and two because a full-on wrap
party would be paid for by somebody other than the people attending it.
But that's not how things work at my particular widget plant. You just
sort of hear, Hey, some people are going to a bar for a drink, do you want to
go? So we all trudged the 120 feet from our office over to this bar, which was and most likely still is located in the lobby of the Maritime Hotel (see review in Happenings section, page C8). And it turned out to be one of those places that just gets everything completely wrong. The minute I walked in I knew it wasn't the place for me, and I almost turned around and high-stepped back out into the swiling winds of 9th Avenue. But I stuck it out, and every minute that went by I was reminded of another thing I hated about the place. And I started realizing that while I've always considered myself a pretty low-maintenance person when it comes to choosing which bars to patronize, the truth is that I'm probably just as particular as anybody else. Here then, is my list of Things I Like In a Bar, Vol. I. (No Particular Order) Before I get started, let me make it clear that in no way do I think this list is "Things That Every Bar Should Be." I recognize that different people go to bars for different reasons, and I think it's great that there are different kinds of bars to meet the needs of all those people. This list is about me, and what I like. So keep that in mind. 1. The bar should not be expensive. 2. The bar should not be too crowded. 3. Buybacks, buybacks, buybacks. 4. The music must be reasonably on point. 5. Games are fun. 6. Gimmicks, too. 7. Lack of Attitude/Trendiness. 8. Decent Beer Selection. 9. Good bartenders. 10. TV's. 11. Coziness is nice. Okay, there are plenty more, but it's late, I'm tired, and I am flying to California tomorrow (Sat.). Standard Verbungle Anti-terrorism Policy is in effect, and I wish all of you a cheerful and rewarding holiday season until I am able to post again. You are the best. While in Cali, I plan on reading some of the excellent books my parents gave me for Christmas, playing hoops outside in the sun with my brother-in-law, taking lots of pictures, and eating some good food. I'm excited to be going someplace warm and beautiful and I'm feeling generally enthusiastic about life. In the words of Alex Pappas, Late. * I tend to piss a lot. 12/15/04: Swingin' and Doggin' Were I still running the PFI, today would have been about a 73.5. It was actually going quite well, I was up around an 87 or so, and then three bad taxi-related things happened in the span of about 11 minutes. I know, I am on a budget, what am I doing taking a taxi anyway? Well, if we leave after 9pm, our company offers us a $15 towards a ride home, and taking a free taxi ride right to my doorstep is a superior option to walking two avenues to the subway, waiting for a train to arrive, and riding home on that train with a bunch of other people, some of whom are bound to smell bad. My only regret before tonight had been that I bought an unlimited Metrocard this week, when I should have known I would be working until at least 9 o'clock every night. Darn it. Anyway, it's been a snap taking cabs home over the last few days, and that's what I set out to do tonight. I left the building at around 10 o'clock, and I walked past a young woman who was waiting in the lobby, for what or whom I did not know or care. I stepped out onto 10th avenue and was impressed to find that Winter had arrived at some point today, and he was not an old man at all but rather an angry, blustery young whippersnapper. Meaning it was cold. I stood on the corner of 15th and 10th, wind in my face, fantasizing about playing basketball right off the beach in SoCal later this week. I was even looking forward to wearing the pair of basketball shoes that I have left at my wife's parents' house for just such opportunities. Well, maybe it was because of the cold, or the hour, or just
bad luck, but no cabs were showing up at all. I stood there for a good ten
minutes until I caught a break: I noticed someone in the back of a cab,
gesturing towards the entrance to our building, clearly getting set to get out.
I jogged the thirty or forty feet back towards the entrance to our building to
grab the cab before it sped off. As I did this, the woman who had been
inside the lobby came bolting out of the building, jumped right in front of me,
and assumed taxi pole position. I was shocked. I had been doing the dirty
work, waiting on the "Oh...you're...taking...this...cab...?" I sort of mumbled to her, hoping my obvious disappointment would elicit at least a "Oh, I'm sorry, you were out here waiting in the cold...you should take it," which would have in turn merited a gentlemanly "No, it's OK, you take it" from me. I actually would have been happy with that. Instead, she was all, "Uh-huh," barely acknowledging me as she ducked like a coward into the open cab door. My blood pressure immediately shot up about 60 points. I was too stunned to yell something obnoxious, so I just gave her a loud, sarcastic laugh that I hope adequately conveyed my thoughts of "You fucking ungrateful bitch." I was real pissed. Luckily, it was only a few more minutes 'til another cab came, but it kind of had to dart across a couple lanes of traffic to get to me, and several cars behind it had to stop short and wait for me to get in. Trying to climb in quickly while taking pains to avoid sitting on my bag (which contained my camera) or my iPod, I absolutely creamed the side of me head on the door frame. I had my headphones on, so I am not sure just how loud it was to the outside world, but inside my skull it reverberated like a bowling ball colliding with a cinder block. It hurt, but the headphones somehow prevented me from gauging exactly how serious the impact was. Whatever the case, biffing your melon is no goddamn picnic. Then I got home* and, probably still reeling from the biffage, forgot to ask for a receipt. So I am out $11 for my troubles. Laguna Beach, tourist trench that I love so well, here I come. *** Wow, that may have been my most unworthy post ever. Whatever. It's free, and there's also no charge. Keep that in mind, you bastards. Sometimes I enjoy doing a quick google search for "verbungle" just to see if I'm linked anywhere. The good thing about that bad name is that if it appears somewhere, it's pretty much guaranteed to be referring to this verbungle and not somebody else's. Today on one such search I noticed that I am linked by this site (don't click it). They are advertised as "Lower Penn Swingers And Dogging Club, swingers, swinging, dogging, date, meet." They offer "Instant Entry to the FREE Doggers Community." They sound like just the kind of people I want to get into business with. I don't care if the link only occurred because someone used the phrase "dogging" once in one of the reader challenges that we used to run on here. The Lower Penn Swinger Doggers are clearly my people, and I await a creative offer from them on how our two fine corporations can best serve each other. In the meantime, keep swingin', keep doggin'. *** Alright, since you have nothing else to do, you can start trying to work on IMAGE 25 at noon. But don't forget about IMAGE 24. * After a cab ride in which the driver failed to stop once! I mean the car never even came to a complete stop. The guy must have nailed about 16 yellow lights and a couple of reds as well. That was pretty cool. 12/14/04: Same time last year I worked a solid fifteen point five hours today. That left me with little time or energy to bring you the dynamic fresh content you're used to. You'll have to adjust. The great ones adjust. When I work these long-ass days, I get all greasy by the time I get home. And then I get the zits on the top and back of my skull. Big hard zits. Gross. The Fast Times Quiz has concluded, and all answers are posted. The winner is JDubs. JDubs, please send me your mailing address and your preference: a Verbungle.com bumper sticker or 50 cents in sweet American currency (large denominations). Congratulations, you were totally awesome. I feel like the GISG's time may have come and gone. This will be the last round for awhile, but let's finish it up. The answer to IMAGE #24 is what you might call that guy if you saw him on the street at some point from 1979 to 1982. He looks like a blank blank. Oh, and I wanted to add a couple of items to my users' guide to pickup basketball: 32. When playing full-court, run the court and throw long
outlet passes. 33. Don't try to dunk in a game if you can't dunk. The Red Sox series has ruined baseball for me. I don't care about the hot stove stuff at all this year. The Yankees have suddenly become the chumps, only you can't feel sorry for them because they're still the Yankees and they'll still spend more money than anybody else can think about spending. After a while, I have to wonder, what's the point? We'll spend $250 million, and we'll win anywhere from 95-105 games, and then we'll probably get ditched in the playoffs. I think I would become a Twins fan if I could find a reason besides already owning one of their hats. Also, I have updated the verbungle.com shop at cafe press with some staggeringly sleek basketball-related designs. Just in time for the holidays. Criticisms, suggestions, and praise are always welcome. Anyway, I'm falling asleep. When I get lazy, I repost old shit. Here's where I was a year ago. Things have changed, but then again maybe they haven't changed at all. 12/14/3: Last night I went to a couple of holiday parties and got my drunk on. I stumbled home and then went back out to purchase some Gray's Papaya hot dogs for my wife and myself. Shows you once again how alcohol impairs your judgment. As a vegetarian, I really slipped up. Oh well, it just made my hangover a little more intense, and I can still taste the onions. Ugh. I feel like this guy looks:
I think it's only a matter of time before Williamsburg hipsters are rocking the "Just Captured" look. In fact, I saw this guy working at Urban Outfitters:
None of this is really very funny. Saddam's capture is all over the news on this snowy, rainy, slushy Sunday. I have a few opinions about it, but I am actually already sick of everyone talking about what it means, how Bush is gonna parlay it, etc. It's sort of like the blackout and the tragic departure of Andy Pettitte. I know it's a very big deal, but it just wears me out to hear everybody's cockamamie opinions. Therefore I will spare you mine. But if you have one that is unique and brilliant, I am all ears. Getting less press today are the first-round playoff games in my fantasy football league. My team Nimphius was solid today, but as of 10:08 pm Joe Horn is going crazy for New Orleans and I think I may be doomed. Losing the division on a technicality hurt, losing William Green to drugs and domestic abuse stung, too. And now the inevitable end. Another 50 clams down the tubes. Warning: the Don Cheadle NFL commercials have returned. Try to avoid them if you can. 12/13/04: Were this an official review, VH1 Classic would receive a 27.25 I want to make it clear that I am not a sucker for nostalgia for nostalgia's sake. I fall victim to it sometimes, such as when I pointlessly talked about "Gorf" in a recent post. Generally speaking, though, the only thing less interesting to me than having a conversation about parachute pants or The Macarena is watching one of the dozens of TV shows populated by low-rent comedians talking about parachute pants or The Macarena. For the most part, that's all VH1 is these days. Shows that critique pop culture now and pop culture then, presented by people who represent the worst of what pop culture has to offer. So it might seem strange that I am throwing the full weight of a Verbungle.com endorsement behind VH1 Classic, a channel whose sole reason to exist is America's relentless thirst for nostalgia. But throw that weight I will, and I won't even deny that a big part of why I like this channel is shameless nostalgia. But it's so much better than all those corny shows that try
so hard to be detached from it all. VH1 Classic doesn't point fingers, it
doesn't say, "Wow, look how stupid we were then. Can you imagine being a
chick with feathered hair in a tube top sitting on your boyfriend's shoulders at
an REO Speedwagon concert? Boy, times were lame." VH1 Classic just
provides the raw document, and lets you cast your own judgement. If you
They don't even have VJ's, really. Every couple hours a guy comes on and talks about the Stray Cats reunion tour, but for the most part, it's just videos, all day, every day. And sometimes you point at the screen and go "Wow, what a dark time in our history" and sometimes you go "I can't believe they just showed the video for 'Mr. Dobalina'." But it's always videos, which is pretty neat. Even if you are a music purist who hates the fact that in today's world every song must be accompanied by a video, you will enjoy this channel. Tonight they had their "Alternative" show on, which is sort of a Best-of "120 Minutes", with songs coming from a variety of eras. It was swanky. They played "Dig for Fire" by the Pixies. They played "Jerry Was a Race Car Driver" by Primus. They played "Detachable Penis" by King Missile! What kind of a channel is this? Most of their "shows" are categorized by era or genre, 70's, 80's, rock, soul, pop, etc. But it's all good. And when it's not good, it's so bad it's good. I suggest you watch this channel RIGHT NOW before the programmers get in there and get hold of the schedule. Soon it will be "Behind the Music: Richard Marx" and "Pop-Up Video" reruns, I'm sure. But right now, it's a little, unspoiled channel in its own golden era of innocence. A place where Robin Zander and Speech and Ian Astbury and Mike Reno can cheerfully take turns on the mic. Loverboy: least angst-ridden band of all time. *** For the first time in my life, I have been living on a budget. In each of the last twenty years I have spent at least as much money as I have made, which is no way to live. I haven't even done anything all that great with the dough. Just a lot of expensive takeout and guilt-laden $140 nights filled with booze. Not a lot of life-enriching travel, and I don't own anything of value like a house or a car or a professional sports franchise. Just pissed it all away, during the part of my life when I should be saving that shit up. So the wife and I are screwed if we don't start banking some cash soon. And that's what we've done. We're cooking dinner five nights a week instead of one. I'm becoming a chintz in the bar instead of a free-spending, fun-loving drunk (thanks Joe M. for buying that extra beer a couple of weeks ago when I cheaped out -- that was weak on my part). It's not easy, but I sort of like it. Nobody ever instilled a respect for money in me, but I'm learning it and I kind of enjoy the feeling of responsibility it gives me. So sorry if I cheap out on more things in the future. *** I assume by now you've all heard about the "Dazed and Confused" lawsuit (reg. req'd). I don't know whether I am excited that there is actually a real Wooderson, Slater, and Pink, or disappointed that they are litigious, sour grape-sucking d-bags. First of all, they say the movie has ruined their life. How, by making them into folk heroes? Come on. Plus, if they paddled Linklater, as The Real Pink (band name) admits to doing, they deserve a little comeuppance. They should feel grateful that he was so kind in his portrayals of them; you could argue that these are the three most sympathetic characters in the movie. Also, funny that Wiley Wiggins is coming to Linklater's defense...it wasn't until I read this story that I realized Mitch may have been Linklater's alter-ego. Either way, a fascinating story that seems to me to be a perfect subject for a screenplay. Perhaps we'll get the verbungle.com film division started up to handle this one. *** I want to thank the anonymous contributor who sent in the fascinating review of the AOL Shakeup. I would like to add that verbungle.com is always incredibly grateful for any contributions we receive, and we will post just about anything that meets with approval from our corporate sponsors. Sorry, we can't pay you, but keep those brilliant submissions coming in. Thanks again. *** This is the final day to submit answers for the "Fast Times" quiz. And we are still looking for an answer to Image #24 in the GISG. Hint: it's two words and if you saw that guy on the street during a certain point in time, you might say, "There goes a blank blank." Good luck and thanks for playing. 12/12/04: Basketball the Verbungle Way, Vol. I Why should you care what Hans V. Bungle has to say about basketball? There are plenty of people who know a lot more about it than I do, and even more who play it a lot better than I do. I've never had one second of formal basketball instruction, I really have no understanding of elaborate offensive and defensive schemes, and I've never achieved any degree of success as a player. But I enjoy playing as much as anyone. And unlike Larry Johnson, I'm still going at 35. So I present to you my tips for improving your game and enjoying pickup hoops as much as I do. They are all culled from the 3000-plus hours of basketball I have played since I first picked up a ball for real back in 1983. They may not always jibe with conventional wisdom, but they work for me. 1. Spread the ball around. I have a friend from school, we'll call him Little Scotty, and he was unselfish to a fault. Occasionally he would show flashes of real scoring ability, but he was more content keeping everybody happy. Pass first, pass second. I think he still enjoyed the game plenty. He's the type of guy who'd make extra pasta salad just so other people could have some. Unselfishness is simply good policy. The basketball world and I thank him to this day. 2. When you're driving to the basket, try to take one more
dribble than you're comfortable taking. 3. Learn how to dribble. 4. Don't call petty fouls. 5. Always acknowledge a good pass, pick, or defensive
switch. 6. Play under physical control. 7. Listen to people who know more about the game than you
do. 8. Don't settle for deep jumpers unless you have to. 9. Force your opponent to make a couple of jumpers before
you start hounding him out at the top of the key. 10. Practice shots you'll actually take in a game. 11. Use the glass. 12. Know your limitations. 13. That said, don't be afraid to throw up a high-flyer
every once in a while. 14. Develop your off hand. 15. This one is important: when you are wide open from
fifteen feet, you don't need to elevate as high as you can before launching your
jumper. 16. Don't wear pants, flannel shirts, or running shoes
when you play. 17. Don't jack up the first shot you get when it's point
game. 18. Never quit in the middle of a game unless you're hurt. 19. When you have the ball and you're running a little pick and roll, your first step as you turn the corner should be hard to the basket, but your first thought should be drawing two defenders so you can dump it off to the roller. 20. Find people you like playing with and play with them
all the time. 21. When you're in a serious game with a lot of intensity,
use your anger to give yourself an edge. 22. Cut back door. 23. Learn good head and ball fakes. 24. If you get beat on defense, don't foul people on
purpose. 25. Mix up your game. 26. If you've got a short guy on you, back him down.
27. Love the ball. 28. Keep the weight down if possible. 29. Drink lots of Gatorade. Enjoy the game! *** This is a pretty fascinating project (via metafilter). Chicago is simply a beautiful city. * And if someone fails to give you your courtesy after you
make a shot, don't bother yelling out to them "Hey! I made that shot!" This will
make you look like a chump who is a little too impressed with himself for making
a simple fifteen footer. They probably just made an honest mistake. Don't
sweat it. 12/10/04: Played Out I apologize for my lack of a post on Thursday. My ass was beat. I worked my third straight twelve hour day at the RJ (that's the "Rent Job"), and I had been up late every night this week meeting with verbungle.com staffers and putting each day's edition of the website together. If I didn't enjoy it all so much, I would have been overwhelmed and cranky. Even with things as they are, my body just gave out on Wednesday night. I stumbled home from work and laid down in the bed "just for a second." I woke up 8 hours later, lights still on, contacts still in, teeth still unbrushed, and not completely sure who or where I was. The wife was away in Canada, and apparently my whole routine goes out the window as soon as she leaves But in a way, it was good to take a day off and get some rest. I felt energized at work for a change, and the extra day gave you guys a chance to catch up on the First Annual Verbungle.com "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" Trivia Challenge. I am highly impressed with the responses, and I am going to give you through Monday to finish things off. Here are the current standings: jdubs: 26.67 So there are still 28.33 points available. It's anybody's game. The answers I think you should really have a crack at are the second Spicoli T-shirt and one more job for Brad. Good luck. Two more things about "Fast Times": 1. How did Sean Penn fail to receive an Oscar nomination for that performance? 20-plus years later, I'd say it stands up pretty well next to these chumps. Best Actor: (Winner in CAPS): BEN KINGSLEY in "Gandhi", Dustin Hoffman in "Tootsie", Jack Lemmon in "Missing", Paul Newman in "The Verdict", Peter O'Toole in "My Favorite Year" Best Supporting actor: LOUIS GOSSETT, JR. in "An Officer and a Gentleman", Charles Durning in "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas", John Lithgow in "The World According to Garp", James Mason in "The Verdict", Robert Preston in "Victor/Victoria" What a load of crap. 2. How off-target was Roger Ebert in his review of the movie*? *** It has now been one official month since I took my computer in for repairs. What kind of bullshit is that? And I've been too busy to properly bitch them out. I remember when I took it in, I knew I was in for some kind of annoying saga. And of course I was right. *** You remember that one friend you had, the one who was always a little too rough with your Atari 2600 joystick? Like, every time one of your joysticks broke, you pretty much knew it was his fault. He just manhandled the thing and it always seemed like it was only a matter of time before it snapped off in his hand. I wonder where that kid is today. *** Sorry to keep promoting the somewhat limp product that is today's NBA, but there were two great finishes tonight on the tube. McGrady hit some of the most insane shots I've ever seen, and Marv was all over the call. That was a pleasure to watch. "McGrady, for the win...YESSSS!" The more I think about the Artest incident and the NBA's rush to judgement, the more infuriated I become. Now they don't show up for the grievance that the players' union set up. Stern is such an arrogant bastard, I really hope these suspensions gets reduced. I keep thinking about his "It was unanimous: 1-0" comment about the suspensions. Sounds like something GWB would say. Stern has done some great things for the NBA during his tenure, but his conduct in this incident and several others in recent years has forced me to issue him a complimentary gas face and add him to our boycott list. I am not sure how you boycott a person, and I don't want you to boycott the league itself. But I want you to keep him on notice and give him a Bronx Cheer if you encounter him on the street. *** OK, "We Built This City" just came on VH1 Classic. I don't know how to handle this. It's that bad. Although, it should be said, there are many songs from that era which challenge its claim to "Worst Song Ever" status. "Living in a Box" comes to mind. *** OK, here is today's GISG entry. Answers at noon. Oh, and it may not have been the hardest challenge yet, but how awesome was that "snaggletooth" image? What kind of a visious beast was that and how scary must the animal be that killed it and ripped off half its face? Yikes. Also, we are going to go first one to 3 correct answers in this round of the GISG, and the winner will receive their choice of one of the following books: Nicholson Baker's Vox, Paul Auster's The Music of Chance, or Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential. Best to you and yours. * Yes, I realize that not everyone likes this movie, and I respect their right to disagree. But come on, it's the best. 12/8/04: Fast Times With every day that goes by, I realize one more thing that I once thought was great actually sucks. When you're 13, a lot of stuff seems pretty cool. Usually, it turns out not to be. Billy Joel: quite bad. Miami Vice: sort of cool, but not in the way we thought it was. Fletch: not very good at all. Wine coolers: never acceptable to begin with. I suppose it's a good sign that our taste continues to evolve as we get older, but it's also kind of sad and a little embarrassing to realize all the stuff that helped get us through life was nothing but a bunch of crapola. It's important that we hold onto a few things from those awkward years. A few things that seem just as wonderful today as they did the first day we discovered them years ago. A few things that connect you to the awkward, prepubescent weasel you once were, and validate that kid's humble existence |
Of course I want to go, even if I wish the company was picking up the tab.
corner in the cold, and I had
finally caught a decent break when I saw the about-to-be-empty cab. Now we had both reached the taxi
door at almost the exact same moment, me through perseverance and ingenuity, her
through shit blind luck. I felt obligated to back off because she was a woman
and it was (sorta) late at night, but I wasn't happy about it
