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2/29/4: Meeting Across the River

If indeed we turn to dust once our days on earth are done, I guess it's kind of important to get the most possible satisfaction out of each day.  And thus an unseasonably warm late-winter afternoon is no time to be watching golf on TV or doing a crossword in bed. So today, after sleeping until around noon, I motivated myself to get off my ass and onto my bike.  I rode up the awesome West Side Hwy bike path, which is probably not that awesome in comparison to the much awesomer bike paths in other cities, cities that have enough resources for everybody. But it's awesome enough.  I rode up the path, through the Fairway detour, and across the GW Bridge into Ft. Lee, NJ.  And while the views of the NJ crapscape probably don't measure up to the Grand Tetons in the awesomeness department, it's still pretty cool to look off that bridge.  And I got almost 20 miles of bike riding in as well.

I am sort of amazed at how Bush is pushing this steroid thing.  It's like he needed to take an election-year stand on something that everyone can agree on, i.e. steroids=bad.  His next crusade: tackling another moral shortcoming in our society that we all tend to ignore: the way the kicking team is almost always offsides on kickoffs, and is never penalized.  In these tense times, we as a nation need to come together around this.

Get crankin' on the Challenge.

2/28/4: Battered and bowed

Last night I went out with the fellas to a few bars.  Pretty fun.  We stopped at Chumley's, which is a good place to go about once every three to five years.  In addition to possibly being the inspiration for the wonderful expression "86," it's cozy and the walls are lined with the scrawlings of 100 years' worth of drunks. Around ten years ago, there was a piece of poetic graffiti in the men's room there that was both incredibly pretentious and undeniably effective.  I wish I could remember exactly what it said.  Just one line.  Something like, "Your _____ is the _____ _____of my broken heart." Without being requested to do so by the staff, VRF made sure we all stayed nice and toasty. Despite screaming stuff as loud as we could and repeatedly unplugging a power cord that led to an unknown appliance somewhere in the bar, we were unable to achieve our objective of getting 86'd. So we headed to the generic Village Tavern for that last unnecessary round. Don't know these guys, but they sure love their Buck Hunter II.

Woke up feeling like a schmuck and haven't been able to shake the feeling.  Maybe I'm onto something.

I did manage to shoot some hoops today, and I think I now have what might be described as a "bone on bone" situation going on -- acceptable in gay porn but not what you want happening inside your knee.  Time for a break.  Need to be ready for softball season.

Chris W.'s  Bin Laden prediction is looking eerily on-point. It seems almost inevitable to me now that we will capture him by November. 

The other day I expressed my hope that the California supermarket workers' strike/lockout was coming to an end.  I still hope it does, but I have a sad feeling the workers took it on the chin in this one.  Blame Wal-mart.

Look at the price before you buy your pre-season baseball magazines.  I went to the counter with Street & Smith's today, and forgot to check.  Shit ended up costing me $7. 

The new challenge is lurking at right and the previous answers are posted.  Thank you as always for brightening up my life and the lives of your fellow reader(s).

This guy had style to spare.

2/26/4: Glass Joe

When playing contact sports, occasionally you'll see a guy step onto the court, or the field, or whatever it is, and just by looking at him, you can predict with confidence that at some point during the game you will collide with this person, it will be his fault, and you will get the worst of it. 

Tonight at basketball it was a guy named "Keen."  Big weightlifter type, a bit clumsy, and sure enough, on a fast break, I got a pass and he turned around into me right as I caught it.  Crack.  There went my jaw.  I still can't shut my mouth.  Oh well, I kept playing and got some exercise.  I've now played 4 times in the last 8 days after playing maybe three times in the previous 8 months.  Exercise is good, provided there is a ball involved. 

The only downside is that my bad knee, the one that was 'scoped by Knicks doctor (BERNARD'S doctor) Norman Scott in January of 2000, is starting to swell up.  I can't blame the poor knee. You try lugging a fat bastard around a basketball court with half a meniscus. I am a little concerned but fuck it.  By the time I'm 60 they will have perfected the regenerated "use your own" meniscus transplants -- they're already working on that shit in Sweden and at Johns Hopkins. 

The "Big Fun" nickname seems to have stuck, and I would prefer it if you only address me using this title from here on out.

Hopefully the Cali grocery strike is over.  That was a pretty ugly and drawn-out scene.

God Bless Cubs fans.  They'll find any reason to get together and drink.  If the Cubs have any (metaphorical) balls, Bartman will throw out the first pitch on opening day.  Or sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."  Or start at third.  Listen up Chicago: be confident.  Stop thinking about curses and stupid stuff like that and realize you have one of the top three or four teams on the planet.  Then go out and win it all.  And the world will drink with you.

T.O., you need a new agent. 

I did a little research (read: google) on the Pingu, and it's a pretty interesting tale.  The story of Reinhold and his obsession with the Yeti is fascinating.  The guy is basically the best climber of all time, and he spends twelve years chasing after the abominable snowman. 

2/25/4: Rise to the challenge

I don't want to harp on this, because here at verbungle.com we don't believe in putting pressure on people to do things they don't want to do, but I was a little disappointed in the number of responses to Challenge #14 at right. Sure, maybe they weren't the most probing and important questions of all time, but I still count on you to come through with your usual witty responses.  We all count on each other, and that's how shit gets done.  Before I got too sad, I realized, Hey, no rush.  When the answers come, they will be posted.  And we'll all have fun.  I will know when it's time for a new challenge, because I will have received sufficient answers to this one.  So take your time.  Those of you who have already responded, you're the best.

As I checked my watch in the men's room at work today, I was saddened to realize that I am among the probably 90% of gainfully employed people who watch the clock. And just as it's somehow more tragic to kill someone who does not believe in heaven, because their mortal existence is the best it'll ever get, it's doubly cruel to keep a non-believer locked up in an unhappy job for one quarter of their adult life.  Each second that slips away is one less second they have to enjoy their short sweet stint on earth.  A religious man can take comfort in knowing that no matter how numb his job leaves him, it's just a stopping off point before he goes on to eternal bliss.  Even if there turns out to be no heaven, the religious man can while away his worldly hours under the happy assumption that there is.  Without discriminating against anybody, I think we could work out a system where non-religious people only have to work 20 hours a week, or at least get paid a lot more than religious people.  It's common sense. Are you listening, Nader?  Of course, the real lesson here is to refuse any job unless it is rewarding in and of itself.  If you can't find a job like that, and that means you're left to forage in the woods for berries, then I guess we've reached an impasse.  Fucking Nader.

As an unofficial prediction, I want to say that I think this baseball season will be remembered as one of the greatest of all time. Just the fact that the Cubs and Red Sox are stacked is going to make it interesting.  Of course, there's nothing as dangerous as high expectations. In the words of Johan Hed, "Hopes are dashed! Heads are cracked!" 

Check out the new "Touching" (also viewable at right).  That shit is touching.

You know when you read a book or see a movie and you forge some kind of emotional connection with it?  If you look at the kinds of books and bands and movies you like, you might be able to find a pattern that represents your emotional and intellectual depth.  For me, I figure I'm stuck somewhere in late adolescence.  Two of my favorite movies, Fast Times and Dazed and Confused, deal with a kind of suburban high school fantasy life that I never knew.  My favorite all-time band is probably the Replacements, and half of their songs are about feeling like an unwanted, unnoticed young loser. The weird thing is that while my teenage years were filled with some high-grade adolescent angst, growing up in NYC was confining in maybe a whole different way. We couldn't blame our boredom on our dead-end town, or not having a car, and somehow that limited the amount of dreaming we could do.  Adolescence, it seems to me, should be spent in the suburbs, pulling pranks and making out with girls and driving around bitching about how there's nothing to do and I'm so outta here.  Of course, I base my feelings on the movies I've seen and books I've read, rather than my actual life experience.  I bring this all up to recommend an author who maybe you've read, but if not, you should (assuming your taste is screwed up in the same way as mine): Tom Perrotta.  Check him out.  Deeply adolescent.

It's been a long week at work already and I need a little of this.

2/24/4: Mostly about basketball

As you hit your mid-30's, you tend to start thinking about your age a lot.  Once in a while, it's a relief -- you realize you don't feel obligated to be the last guy in the bar or the snazziest dresser in the office.  OK, I never felt the need for snazz, but once you're a married old hack you get a little more comfortable in your skin.  However,  there are plenty of occasions where you need to prove to yourself that you haven't entered a major physical decline, that there's still some fight left in the old dog. 

When I hurt my back lugging laundry the other night, it made me feel old.  A sore back is a sign that you're old and probably fat.  It was still a little sore today, and I felt a cold coming on.  It was definitely old man season. However, I knew there was a potential basketball game to be played tonight, and I knew that unless my back was really tight I'd be too tempted to say no.

Sure enough, I played.  There was actually a guy there who went to the same elementary school (have I mentioned that my new weekly game takes place in my elementary school?), junior high school, and high school as me. He's nine years older than me and still very athletic, which I found encouraging. Anyway, the back loosened up.  We won most of our games.  There were a few references to "Big Fun."  I hit one game-winner where I caught the ball in the air with my back to the basket, turned in the air and spun it in off the glass. Lucky shot. That was worth the subway ride right there. I had some nice drives to the basket and I had the jumper going.  I had forgotten what it's like to shoot from outside.  For the last 15 years or so, my game has been 15 feet and in.  I sort of have a philosophy that in low-level pickup games, you should always be able to get a pretty easy shot, a shot that goes in at least half the time, if you're patient enough.  I know most people disagree, because they end up shooting 20 footers all night, and wonder why their team never wins.  But when it's the right time and the flow is there, shooting from the outside can be fun as hell.  Especially when you get hot and use it to set up your drive. 

When I got to college, I considered myself a pretty well-rounded basketball player.  I could drive to the basket, I could shoot from outside, and I could rebound and pass.  We won't talk about my defense.  On perhaps my first day on campus at Wisconsin, I went to play on some outdoor courts that adjoined my dorm.  Here I was, 18 years old,  ballplaying New Yorker brand new to the heartland, and I was ready to humiliate the milk-fed local boys.  I got into a two on two with three gawky looking dudes, and the first thing I noticed was that my opponents were huge.  Tall, gangly, palefaced gunners from somewhere in Wisconsin.  The second thing I noticed is that they were better than me.  Worse, they knew each other. Granted, my teammate sucked, but these guys had their way with us.  It got so bad that they started laughing as they threw backdoor passes to each other and blew us out.  After the game, they took turns dunking for the hell of it.  I was humbled and angry. It was a weird feeling -- I wanted revenge, but I kind of sensed I'd never have it.

As I rode up in the dorm elevator after the game, I noticed that one of my tall awkward conquerors was going to the same floor.  I talked to him for a minute and  said, "Maybe I'll see you around," not realizing the smallness of dorm life, that indeed I would be seeing everybody from the 10th floor of Ogg East around, every damn day.  I hadn't made much of an impression on the guy, but I still wanted a piece of him and his buddy on the court.  Cocky fucker.

We eventually became friends, he and I, and we played maybe 2500 basketball games together over the next ten or twelve years.  I would estimate that we won 85-90% of these games. He ended up in my wedding party.  His friend, who was even better than he was, was at my wedding too. 

The reason I bring this up is that playing basketball, and maybe other sports that involve a similar sort of teamwork and sacrifice, is a delicate thing.  That first day in college I realized these guys were bigger than me, quicker than me, and worst of all, were better shooters than me.  So I adapted. The same thing happens if you discover one of your friends hates dick jokes.  You stop making dick jokes around him, and maybe go for the fart jokes. I had to find a way to make myself valuable as a ballplayer, and I believe I did: I became a garbageman.  I'd finish off a backdoor cut, grab an offensive rebound and stick it in, fill the lane on the break.  I'd shoot from 10-12 feet if I was open.  And it worked. You need a guy like that.  We had an intramural team named Verbungle that never quite went all the way, but we were very good all the time.  We had all the guys you need: shooters, defenders, ballhandlers, passers, and garbagemen.  It was by far the best basketball I've ever been a part of.

So that sort of defined my game even when I got back to NYC after college.  The garbageman.  Try to fit in. And that's been just fine for 16 years. But tonight I remembered that I can actually shoot from 18-20 feet.  The back loosens up and you feel like the snotty 17 year-old you once were.  It's not too late.  When your teammates say, "Shoot that, Fun" and you feel their confidence, your feet move a little faster and you feel like every shot's going in.  And most of 'em do.

I still haven't forgotten about those guys laughing at me back in 1987, though.  Revenge wears no wristwatch.

That's a song by the Walkmen, by the way, who Dinny reminds me he named as the band responsible for one of the recent lyrics of the day.  So here are his official half-props.

Get cracking on the challenge, people.  I need you on that wall.  And take a crack at the lyric below or I'll put you in the hospital.

Somewhat, but not really, Nader-related, and fairly interesting: this article.

And I passed 3000 on the chopper game.  In other gaming news, VRF recently scored his first official 593.5 in the Pingu.

The wife and I both got home so late tonight we were forced to order Domino's.  That's some rough shit.

2/23/4: Nader Nadir

My Nader complaining over the last two days has prompted a few of you to send emails my way, disagreeing with my opinion that Nader's candidacy is a big mistake.  I still find his decision to be an affront to logic itself, but I think we've all had enough Nader talk for now.  Just remember that by voting for Nader in a closely contested state you forfeit your right to complain for 4 (four) years if Bush wins. Nader backers, enjoy this free and obvious gift courtesy of Verbungle.com. 

When they weren't dogging me for my political simplemindedness, my friends were sending me links to catty, factless articles suggesting that trouble's abrew (that's a new word) in the Bronx.  I have no doubt all the Yankee-bashers who detest Jeter for no particular reason are going to be on their toes this entire season, excitedly searching for signs of friction.  And I'm sure it is going to be a weird season, but I think these guys are pros and they will kick their usual amount of ass this year, if not more.  By late July, when we acquire Barry Bonds for the stretch run, everything will be all smoothed over nice. 

Steroids? No way.

In the words of LL Cool J, "My lower back is killing me." I did the laundry yesterday and I think I may have seriously injured my sacroiliac carrying that shit.  It was a good 70 lbs., and I gave no thought to my back as I humped it up the stairs.  I was just recently feeling thankful for having never experienced chronic back pain.  Hopefully I'll be healed enough to play hoops again later this week.  Big Fun needs to bust out some new moves.

All this disharmony about Nader and steroids and A-Rod makes me want to do something to bring us all together again.  In that spirit I present the answers to the latest reader challenge.  And like magic, a new challenge has sprouted in its place at right.  Teamwork is the key.

Also, since you've all been so lax on the lyric quiz below, I am going to give you the answers and post a new one.  And I'm not going to make it easy. Let's get it together this time. 

The Real World quote of the night comes from David, the lunkhead from Boston, describing tonight's challenge, which involved stacking up rows of dominoes and knocking them over: "If you rush, especially with something like this which has to do with angles and gravity, we will be screwed."

I am sticking to the diet fairly well, but it's a bitch.

2/22/4: Assorted Garbage

The challenge is going to stay up through Monday, so get in those answers, people.  I've already received some excellent burger recommendations.

Now that three or so games have passed since Van Horn and Doleac were traded, we feel it's time for to weigh in on the merits of the deal.  Sure, you could say it's far too early to do so, with Thomas and Mohammed still getting acquainted with the system, their teammates, the city, etc.  But here at verbungle.com, rather than applying some patience and forming a meticulously researched, well-thought-out opinion, we like to go with the combination of the snap judgment and the eventual admission that we were wrong.  So, like the fans at the Garden who were chanting Van Horn's name today as the Knicks tripped over their own feet against Cleveland, I give the trade a major thumbs down. 

Yes, Thomas has talent.  Probably even more than Van Horn.  But if Van Horn's been a disappointment, you'd have to call Thomas a disaster. They've been in the league for the same amount of time, and Thomas' best statistical year (14 and 5) does not really even approach Van Horn's worst (15 and 7.5).  Career-wise, Van Horn's good for 17.6 and 7.5, Thomas is good for 11.7 and 4.1.  You could argue that Thomas' numbers were limited because he was playing behind Big Dog and all the other big scorers on those Bucks teams of the past few years, but they're all gone now and he's only been able to up his average to 14 ppg.  Not great. And if you want to blame Thomas' poor performance thus far as a Knick on making the adjustment to a new team, how do we explain Van Horn going for 23 and 8 in his first game as a Buck?  

The truth is, Van Horn's a better player.   He's not great, but he's more than serviceable.  And Doleac had developed into a useful option as well.  Mohammed has shown me nothing so far to indicate he's any better than Doleac.  To make a deal like this, when the team has already gone through one adjustment period after the Marbury/Hardaway trade, you better have some truly compelling reasons.  I don't see one.

Two people have suggested to me that Isiah's moves were racially motivated, and it's true that since he arrived he's been dumping white players as quickly and ruthlessly as Martha Stewart dumped her verbungle.com stock.  If a white GM made deals in which he repeatedly got white players for black ones (as Layden did), he would face some criticism along these lines, that's for sure.  But of course the NBA is 80% black, so acquiring a black player should not suggest any hidden motive on Isiah's part.   As for getting rid of white players, I think it may have more to do with what Isiah saw as a lack of hunger, a lack of toughness, in some of these particular players (who happen to be white).  Isiah loves to describe himself as a "ghetto child," and in my opinion he wants players who came from nothing, who can't fathom that there's more to life than winning and losing basketball games.  He wants players who are as tough and angry as his old Pistons teams were. The problem with all of this is that Tim Thomas, who hails from rough and tumble Paterson, NJ, is a pretty mellow guy who drifts through games.  You might even say he's soft.  I think that's a reasonable description of a guy 6'10", 240 who averages 4 rebounds a game.  Unless he goes through a major change of attitude, this deal is gonna fuck up what was starting to look like a good thing. 

And nobody has suggested an even more sinister explanation: Isiah is slowly creating a team of players with the last name Thomas.

Isiah's got some competition in the ego department in Ralph Nader, who announced his candidacy today.  I still don't quite get it.  And I also don't get how we're still on this electoral college system.  We've had four years to overhaul that thing since the 2000 debacle (and no matter who you voted for, you have to admit it was a debacle).  Remind me again why it still exists?  What are its advantages? I was just reading some posts about Nader on Metafilter, and one guy said, "I also voted for nader last time, but i'm in texas so my presidential vote doesn't count."  I think that right there explains what's wrong with the current system.  Each vote is not equal.  Period.  No wonder people don't vote.  Nader does piss me off, though.  He calls people who oppose his candidacy "undemocratic."  No, it would be undemocratic to oppose his RIGHT to run.  What intelligent people take issue with is a man thrusting himself into a race that he cannot win, a race that he may very possibly swing in the direction of the candidate he most deeply opposes.  But by "take issue with" I don't mean these people want to disallow him from running.  They are very democratically speaking up for what they believe, and they believe his candidacy is a mistake. So it's not, "Ralph should not be allowed to run," it's "Ralph, you selfish fuck, please don't run."  Which doesn't mean that Nader doesn't have some good things to say.  And it's also not to say there's no place for idealism in the world.  But at some point, he needs to take a deep look at his place in history, and figure out the potential good and potential harm that can come from his candidacy, and then he needs to drop out.  If he so chooses.

There is a perfectly natural human tendency to sugar-coat your memories, to talk about how things have gone to shit, how the world used to be purer, how great we used to have it.  And no place is more open to this line of criticism than NYC.  People are going crazy about how the city's been sterilized, how you can't smoke anymore, how Giuliani and now Bloomberg have sucked all the fun out of this town.  That may be true, but there's one thing that's better now than it was when I was a kid.  Garbage cans.  For a long time, we had the mesh cans that had huge gaps, so that if you threw a piece of gum or some other small thing away, it would fly right through one of the gaps and land on the pavement about 65% of the time.  I guess you need holes in the garbage to prevent water from gathering in there(?), but the holes were too damn big.  And now about 75% of these cans have been replaced with nice small-holed cans that catch just about everything.  In many cases, they are even lining them with plastic bags.  Good job, New York.  I read an article (NYT reg req'd) that mentioned the city "rat-proofing" the garbage cans, and maybe this is what they were referring to.  If so, I support it. 

I was down at the WTC site on Saturday, and it was hopping with tourists.  It's still kind of impossible to compute that there were giant buildings there.  It's also hard not to have a serious emotional reaction when you're down there. And it's weird to see how Century 21 and the Millennium hotel and all the other buildings there are still standing (granted, several other buildings were destroyed) just about 40 feet away.  I assume you can guess the full text of this sign.  The fact that two and a half years have passed and there are so many unanswered questions about 9.11, and there are so many people who are actively pursuing those answers, makes me wonder about previous historical events, and how close what was reported to have happened is to what actually happened.  Were people as motivated/empowered to question the official story as they are today?

2/21/4:

From the people who brought you "Smack the Pingu" comes The Chopper Game. (OK, it's from somebody else entirely, but it shares the same simple and satisfying playability of the Pingu, if not the same gorgeous graphic look.)  So far I've barely been able to crack 2000 (update: 2697), which is weird because the game is pretty easy.  It just sort of waits for you to screw up, which is of course what most of us are quite good at.

I once heard Robert Downey Jr. say something like, "Quitting heroin is easy.  What's hard is not starting again."  Addicts are probably full of little truisms like that.  As a basketball junky, I can understand what he's going through.  I had kind of drifted away from the game over the last year or so, but when I got the call to play the other day, I was there in a second. And then today, I was having a nice day with the wife, shopping, walking around, enjoying the first truly pleasant day since 2003, when the call came down again.  Same gym, same crew, but I had to be there in an hour, and I had no ball stuff with me.  I figured I need a new pair of basketball sneakers anyway, so I went out and bought some Air Huaraches.  I owned a pair of these in 1992, when they came in the oh-so-1992 colors of white, blue, and purple.  Those aren't three different shoes.  Those were the colors of my one pair. I ruined them by walking through a muddy grass field to get to a basketball court.  So now I've got 'em again, in a nice respectable black.  Nike is like Nobody Beats The Wiz (was).  You hate it, you wish there was another way, but somehow at the end of the day they've got your money.  And I bought some shorts. And a T-shirt.  And some socks.  Gotta have the black socks to match the black Huaraches.

It was worth it.  I don't know about your second heroin high after falling off the wagon, but my second run felt great.  It was actually half court,  a fairly competitive three on three, and that made for better games with no cherry picking. I even got off the ground a couple of times.  The shot was falling.  The bank was open. The spin move was there. I was dubbed "The Big Fundamental" by one of my opponents, which then became "Big Fun" and finally, "Fun."  As in, "I got Fun."  That's a pretty good nickname, I can live with that.  Much better than "Pimpledick."

My team, which consisted of me, (name drop alert) MCA, and a guy named Jesse, won about 5 or 6 in a row before we got beat.  Jesse was a good player, a tall fellow, but he was making some questionable foul calls, and he kept calling borderline travels on the other team.  He seemed like maybe he was from California or something.  To the uninitiated, let me attest that it's a pretty weak move to call a travel on somebody in a pickup game among friends unless they do something completely egregious.  Jesse doesn't see it that way.  He was like Earl Strom out there.  When the other team complained, he explained his rationale: he was making those calls "because I respect the game."  That cracked me up.  It sounded like a Gatorade slogan or something. Respect the game.  Gatorade. 

Anyway, I think I'm in this game now, at least when they don't have enough guys.

I would love to see St. Joe's go undefeated and win the NCAA championship.  In Nelson and West, they have two marvelous, old-fashioned 80's-style guards with tons of moves, even though both of them are perhaps a little undersized for the NBA.  Check 'em out.

Chris S. sends in the following somewhat cryptic Nader prediction:

"bush in '04
draft in '05

nader in '04
bush in '04
draft in '05"

Lastly, please keep responding to the Challenges at the right and thanks to those who have done so already.  Good Challenge responses are like good ball movement.  You get in a flow and there's nothing better.  And who doesn't have a favorite burger?

2/20/4:

Fucking Nader's gonna run again, isn't he?  I know Nader is smarter than I am, and I assume a lot of people who vote for him are smarter than I am. So somebody please break it down for me: why run when the best possible net result is just a loss, and the worst possible (and perfectly likely) outcome is a loss that costs the Democrats the Presidency?   I know I tend to break things down into terms that I can understand, and there must be some level to this that I just don't get, but to me, a Nader campaign signals that he would rather have Bush in the White House than a Democrat.  Is it an ego thing?  He knows he can't win.  If he gets a certain number of votes, are people in Washington any more likely to take action that supports his views?  Is he there to give the fed-up citizens who are sick of the two party system an outlet to vote with anger? Maybe Bush should scoop him up as his running mate if and when he dumps Cheney. Nader may be the one man who can get him re-elected. On second thought, Nader's almost 70.  He needs to pack in the campaigns and concentrate on what he does best: looking out for people who are getting screwed. 

I played poker again tonight.  What does it say about my gambling ability that I can sit at a table with a bunch of amateurs for five hours, end up down $1.70 and feel like I hit the jackpot at Merv's?  It says I suck, and I do.  There were incredibly smelly cheese curls, and one guy lost part of a tooth on a Twizzler, but it was still pretty fun.

Does stuff like this happen all the time, is it par for the course in the game of politics, or am I right to be creeped out by it?

If you can agree that it's unfair for a religious fanatic seeking a place in heaven to blow people up for his cause, isn't he doubly arrogant and wrongful when he blows up non-believers (as opposed to believers of his own or different heaven-based religions)?  Meaning, anyone who believes in a heaven-based religion just sees this planet as a tryout for the big dance.  But for those of us who aren't religious, this is all we've got.  Upon our death, we're either gonna slowly turn to dust inside a coffin, or our spirit will face never-ending pain. So our 70 years or whatever we get on this earth should not be fucked with under any circumstances.  Our worldly life is worth more to us than the terrorist's is to him, and because of that, he should stay out of our way and let us be until we meet our eternal damnation a few years down the road.  So I say to Terrorist Guy: don't use us as a gambling chip in your big wager on the afterlife.  This planet is our heaven. We have a ton of shit to do, a lot of beer to drink and a bunch of hands to slap in the next fifty years.  If you're right, and our Godless existence has doomed us to hell, then chill, we'll get ours and you'll get yours. We'll be frying in oil like little hunks of popcorn chicken for eternity, and you'll be enjoying an endless supply of virgins. (Isn't it strange how individual fantasies of the afterlife involve doing all the shit you wouldn't allow yourself to do on earth?  Is there no morality in heaven?)   If you're wrong, well then you should be re-thinking your rigid adherence to thousand year-old rituals and get out there and toss the frisbee before it's too late.  

Sorry, I know that is simplistic and discriminatory, but a lady on the subway handed me the most offensive, in-your-face religious pamphlet yesterday and it really angered me.  I mean no offense to any religious person or to any God who was on the fence in their decision-making process about me.

Uma Thurman and the Mazda Miata. Did we once actually find them sleek and attractive?

Imagine how embarrassing it must be to be on the Yankees and not be an all-star?  It's like being in the Glee Club.

I was thinking of another reason that LA is better than NYC:  the street names.  The street names here suggest nothing at all:  Bleecker, Houston, Jane, Bond, Varick, Flatbush, Mott, Atlantic, Canal, Park, Broadway.  In LA, it seems like they only have like twelve streets, but they're all cool.  They all evoke that image of a breezy, sunny, laid-back afternoon with the top down: Sunset. Wilshire.  Hollywood. Mulholland. La Brea. Melrose. Sepulveda.  Fairfax.  El Segundo.  Shit.  They got us beat.

2/19/4:

One mistake I made was drinking two beers after work, about an hour before I played.  In married life, it's pretty rare that two social events coincide on a single evening, which is what happened tonight.  A guy I work with, who also happens to be on Weight Watchers (and has lost 25 pounds), asked me if I wanted to get a beer.  I said I did (Amstel Lights are only 2 points), and then I got the call from another friend inviting me to basketball at 9. I figured I could do both. Bad combination -- at one point I was sure my kidney had actually fallen onto the court.  But it hadn't, and I lived. So I'd say it was an encouraging day -- I resisted the really bad food and I got some exercise. 

Let's be clear again.  Yes, the Yankees are "evil" (definition: willing to do whatever they feel is necessary within the rules to win). Yes, baseball better get a salary cap or do some more effective policing of the big market franchises or we'll all lose out.  But to hear the Boston owner sounding off on the A-Rod deal is just a big fucking joke.  He was perfectly comfortable being in the upper echelon of teams, those precious few franchises that have the money to compete.  He wasn't crying any tears for the Brewers or the Royals or the Twins (that's a team worth rooting for) when he went on his offseason shopping spree.  Then he loses out on his golden boy because he wasn't willing to assume the financial risk necessary to acquire him, and all of a sudden it's "The Yankees must be stopped."  What a fucker.  The system is unfair, and the Yankees are the team that benefits most from its unfairness, but Henry was simply in no position to come out with all that bunkum about justice and equality.  Crybaby.  You lost.  You still have a great team.  Move on and address this shit when you're working on the next CBA. I hope Schilling goes 9-13 and breaks down in tears at some point. Let's not forget what he did to Mitch Williams.

Alright young scribes, there's a new challenge at the right.  And recent answers have been updated.  Thank you for your contributions.  I truly enjoy sharing my verbungle with you. I'm Rick James, bitches.

As my friend Benjy points out when discussing yesterday's "Greatest characters in 20th century fiction" list, the list really only serves to point out one thing. I got some serious reading to do.  As soon as I finish watching the Kung Fu DVD that a guy at work lent me six months ago.  Pete clamors for a not-explicitly gay hobbit to make the list. Of books I've read, I gotta put Yossarian right up near the top.  He's my guy.

2/18/4: Murderer's Row

2/17/4:

2/16/4:

2/15/4:

I stole the above from Bostondirtdogs.com, a Red Sox fan site.  Sort of the way the Yanks stole A-Rod.

Coupla questions:

1) Do you think Isiah felt one-upped by the Yanks getting A-Rod, and he felt like he needed to do something?  More on both of these moves later, but On Record I'll say: A-Rod deal, happy but guilty.  But mostly happy because of how Boston must feel.  Van Horn deal: unhappy.  There are few players in the NBA less consistent than Keith Van Horn, and Tim Thomas is one of 'em.  Isiah needs to chill.

2) Do you think Howard Dean is starting to feel guilty about hanging around in the race, waiting to see if Kerry's sex scandal has any teeth?  I don't blame him, and Kerry is a schmuck if he had this affair and ran anyway.  The lessons have been out there for the learning -- how can you put your pecker ahead of the future of the world?  That's essentially what he's doing:  if this story breaks big, and the Republicans go after it, the Dems will be in total disarray come November.

I went to my mom's house today to clean out a bunch of my old stuff. Among other treasures, I found thousands of drunken college asshole pictures.  I guess everybody's got 'em, but I was still impressed by how committed I was to photographing every person I ever encountered who was wearing a stained shirt, holding a plastic cup of beer and making a stupid face. Also, I was amazed at how many poses straddled the line between homophobia and homoeroticism.  We were definitely working our way through some things. I will spare you the pictures, as I would expect you to spare me yours.  At least for now I will. 

However, I did find several pictures from the "High Bridge" night, the night I should have died.  I'ma scan those and post 'em on here for your amusement in a short while.

In the mean-time, enjoy this collage I cherry-picked from one stack of baseball cards I found.  Life was indeed better back then.

The wife and I had a nice Valentine's Day -- we actually went bowling at Chelsea Piers.  Shit was $8 a game per person.  I had some flashes of adequacy but I realized that I'm never gonna be more than a 160 bowler until I develop a legitimate hook.  Although 160 during "Extreme" bowling (lights out, loud music, glowing socks and pins, video screens hanging over the lanes) is probably like a 244 under regular conditions.  They need to desist with that shit at once.

I am really enjoying this batch of answers to the Challenge (at right).  Keep 'em coming.  I'll leave it up through Monday and then post the responses.

2/13/4:

I think most people would describe me as a patient man. Nervous, anxious, maybe a little high strung, but definitely patient. Perhaps to a fault.  When systems clearly need overhauling, when responsibilities are being shirked, when others' incompetence is directly screwing up my life, I tend to sit back and accept that yes, shit is fucked up, but isn't that the natural way of the universe? 

A lot of people get really worked up about stuff.  Like jury duty.  There was so much collective sighing and groaning and snoring in the main jury room today, I felt embarrassed for my peers.  The nice jury manager lady actually felt the need to apologize to us for wasting our time.  She explained that she has to have a jury ready to go, even though the lousy judges never communicate with her department to let her know if one will be needed.

It's always a little freaky when someone in authority lets down their happy professional face and starts bitching to the public about other parts of their company that just aren't getting the job done.  It brought to mind a United flight I was on a few years back.  That year (maybe 2000?), almost every United flight, including this one, was delayed significantly. The pilot used the PA to apologize, but then it turned into a prolonged rant against United (with whom the pilots were involved in a bitter labor dispute), against technicians who he thought were on a slowdown, basically against everyone who had ever done him wrong.  It was nice to see the honesty, but it doesn't instill confidence in the organization involved, which when it's an airplane about to fly miles in the air can be troubling.

Not to sound like a typical bitchy would-be juror, but the courtroom was kind of a joke.  The internet service was busted, so the ten of us who brought in laptops felt plenty schmucky.  How silly of us to expect modern perks in this old building.  Whenever I'm in those courthouse buildings downtown, I feel like I'm in an episode of "Barney Miller" or "Welcome Back, Kotter."  It has that neglected, overlooked, unloved feel.  Like nobody wants to be there.  It's like detention.  But somehow I find it comforting.

Anyway, the lady ended up letting us go early, and I started walking uptown, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my afternoon. Sure enough, I found my way to the bar.  I found a few of my pet songs on the jukebox, and I was on my way.    Song order: "Waitress in the Sky" (Replacements), "Simple Twist of Fate" (Dylan), I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man" (Prince), "Can't Hardly Wait" (Replacements - that's 4 straight from Minnesota), "Debris" (Faces), "Atlantic City"  (Bruce). 

Daytime drinking is the best.  There was one character there who was a virtual snippet machine.  I wish I had brought a tape recorder.  There were only about five people in the place and he was laying down some classic barstool philosophy for all of us.  He was like, "Yeah, she called the cops and they brought me in on a terrorism charge, but it was a misdemeanor, so that shouldn't count as a fugitive warrant.  Then I guess she started talking to this new guy she's fucking, and she convinces him to press some bullshit harassment charge against me.  So I tell the detective, 'go look up "DETECTIVE" in the dictionary.  You're supposed to DETECT.  Just 'cause some kids tell you some story doesn't mean you automatically arrest and charge me.'  I mean, I've been in jail a few times, but that's what life's about.  You learn from those mistakes.  It's what makes you grow.  Shit, I shoulda known it wouldn't work out with her -- she's 28, I'm 49, she has an appetite for other men, I have an appetite for other women. We were bullshitting each other. And that's OK -- as long as you're aware that you're lying, it's OK.  It's when you can't tell anymore, when you can't hear yourself, that's when you're in trouble.   But you know, I was married for 26 years, and I did it for the kids.  And I'm proud of that.  I was there for them."  This went on and on and never became boring.  Eventually, after talking to his son on the cell ("I can't honestly tell you where I'm gonna be later"), he stumbled out the door, climbed into a late model BMW with a huge dent in the driver side door, popped on his sunglasses, and took off.  I decided right then to come back and interview him another day for my just-planned documentary film "Daytime Drinking."

I ended up getting fairly drunk and talking to some dude from North Dakota who had what I felt were very well thought out and progressive views on stuff, from panhandling to bar fights to strip clubs to the Red Shed in Madison, WI.  Very nice guy.  Finally I sensed it was time to go.  I put on my coat, strapped my laptop backpack across both shoulders like a master dork, and went to take one last piss for the ride home. After I was done, I waved goodbye to my new buddy and the nice bartender lady who had given us a buyback earlier.  But they called me back over for a shot of something or other.  It was already poured, so I couldn't say no.  I said, "There's nothing like doing a shot while wearing a bookbag to make you feel like a man."  Bottoms up.

Thanks for all the excellent Challenge answers.  New challenge is at right.

2/12/4:

It's a special day that you're in the mood for something, AND you know exactly what it is, AND it's available to you at that very moment.  Here are two examples from my recent life that illustrate how hard it is to nail this gratifying trifecta.

1) When I was in the shower today, I started singing "Sandy" by Bruce Springsteen.  I was really giving it my all.  And I thought, how great would it be to hear that song right now.  So I had two of the three components: I had an urge for something, and I knew what it was.  Unfortunately, I was late for work, so I had to put it off until this evening.  Miraculously, the urge was still intact.  And so at this moment, I am listening to the words "The fireworks are hailin' over little Eden tonight."  Rare satisfaction.

2) When we were in the selection room yesterday, there was one condescending asshole among the potential jurors who was a proofreader for a law firm, and clearly felt the entire selection process was beneath him.  He was maybe 40 with a well-manicured white beard and he was incredibly snotty to these poor incompetent lawyers who were asking him very basic questions.  It was like he thought the whole thing was some big cat and mouse game, and he had to show how much smarter he was than them.  He even offered up the fact that his law firm was working on a case far more significant than the case of the mis-poured concrete.  In fact, he told us they were working on WTC lawsuits totaling billions of dollars in damages.  He clearly felt insecure about being a proofreader instead of an actual lawyer, and felt the need to display his superiority for all of us.  He was sitting with his back to me, maybe ten feet in front of me and five feet to my right. All of a sudden, the two pieces fell in line for me once again.    I got an incredible urge, and I immediately recognized it as the need to throw a tennis ball as hard as I could at the back of his stupid head. I had a great angle and I knew I would not miss.  Unfortunately, as it usually goes, I had no tennis ball on me.  I won't make that mistake again tomorrow.

Right now, I've got an urge again, and it's to see some more awesome submissions to the perhaps-too-personally-invasive challenge at right.  Can you fulfill my wishes, boob grabbers? 

This George Bush National Guard duty thing is so scummy Tony Soprano would be ashamed.  I mean, the fact that Bush was a coward whose daddy got him a cushy domestic assignment during the Vietnam war isn't even in question.   The question is whether or not he even had the integrity to complete said cushy assignment.  So far, the records they've produced are a joke and prove nothing.  My favorite little juicy bit from the CNN story:

"Under questioning from reporters, McClellan acknowledged the records do not specifically show that Bush reported for Air National Guard duty in Alabama, where he was working on the Senate campaign. And he said the White House has been unable to locate anyone who remembers serving with Bush during that period."

I've lived a fairly uneventful, undocumented life, but I won't hesitate to assert that I could find someone who could verify my whereabouts for every three month, six month or yearlong period in my adult life.  I bet I could find ten people who could do it. He can't find one?  He's a lying bastard. You can tell when he answers questions about this topic...he keeps saying things like, "I was honorably discharged."  He never answers directly.  I think this one may come back to bite him.

Let's nip this in the bud before we have another flash mob situation on our hands.

2/11/4:

Notes from my previous, painless jury duty stint, in July of 1999 (I brought a little journal with me): "Really enjoyed my first day of jury duty.  Partly because I actually respect the process and enjoy being part of it, but also because it's a good chance to observe human behavior."

Five years later, and my tune has changed somewhat.  Today was s l o w.  I was baffled by how long everything took.  35 of us (out of maybe 100) were called in to the selection room, and there were three lawyers involved in a civil case resulting from some incorrectly poured concrete.  The concrete was part of a hotel that was going up on the West side, and when they poured this particular bunch of concrete in August of 1999, it collapsed a wall in the adjoining building and destroyed a guy's broadcast video rental business.  The insurance company paid the dude for the equipment, and now they're suing the construction company and a bunch of individuals involved to get their money back. Two parties had already been found responsible in a separate trial, and so we were to determine how much those parties were liable for, and also if the other parties were responsible, and if so, for how much.  Still awake? Now imagine the three lawyers (one wearing the worst toupee of all time, another in desperate need of one, and the third at least 77 years old and prone to repeating himself) grilling potential jurors sort of haphazardly for four hours, and only making it through 8 people in this period. It was painful, and the lawyers kept taking cell phone calls DURING the interviewing.  It was total amateur hour.  The lawyers kept adjourning to the corridor to take care of "housekeeping" -- and during one of these sessions the case was settled.  We got to go home at like 3:30, which was pretty cool.  The elderly lawyer asked us what we thought of the experience, and everyone sort of smiled and filed out without answering him.

Jury fyi:

-My courtroom was at 60 Centre Street, room 452, and they only try civil cases there.  Unlike in criminal court, we were told, jurors in civil cases are expected to serve on one trial or three days minimum.  The last time I went, in criminal court, I only had to be there a day and a half. 

-Because of the holidays, I will be back at work on Thursday, back in court on Friday, back at work on Monday, and back in court on Tuesday.

-I may being my laptop on Friday.  The main room you sit in when you get there (what is this room called again?) not only has like four workstations dripping with internet goodness there for your use, it's also got the wi-fi going.  So you may get some verbungle dispatches from the courthouse on Friday.

-Upon checking my 1999 notes, I see that one of my complaints last time was the rampant abuse of cell phones in that main room.  That was about a week before I got my very first cell phone, and my tolerance for dickheaded cell phone use has increased substantially.  In fact, you will often see me chatting on the phone as I ride up the West Side bike path.  Anyway, cell phones cannot be used in this room at all anymore -- you have to take 'em into the hallway to whine to your pals about how boring it is.  Camera phones are not even allowed in the building.

-The world's worst pizza place is located about two blocks from the courthouse.

-My fellow potential jurors are a bunch of impatient fuckwads.

I realized why our work neighborhood is so crummy: we're from the wrong side of the tracks.

2/10/04:

I start jury duty tomorrow.  I really hope I get on a trial and it's a Latvian dude who's been accused of something really bad.  A Latvian guy once shorted my change in a deli, and I've hated Latvians ever since.  They're lying, cheating, stealing people.  I'm gonna put him away.  But not because he's Latvian.  Because he's guilty.

You know I love the Latvians. right?  I kid the Latvians, but the Latvian Man is my friend and we tease.  Nothing more.

My wireless internet was down for a few hours tonight.  No fun.  Still, we all need to check ourselves when we complain too much about the ridiculous technology that we now take for granted.  I mean, with a wireless connection, I can actually beam a song, or a movie, a photo of my scrote, any old piece of data, around the house and snatch it out of the air.  These are all things that were once thought of as having mass, as objects.  Now they are bouncing off my walls and finding their way to wherever they need to be.  The shit breaks down for a couple hours and I'm ready to tear my back and shoulder hair out.  No more.  I will be calm and appreciative of all the wonders of science that I now rely upon.  New rule: no complaining about technology that is beyond my intellectual grasp. In other words, if something clearly works by magic, and the magic dries up for a few hours, I'm just gonna lump it.

Thanks for the final push in the responses to Challenge #9.  You make my day.  Every last one of you.  In honor of jury duty, Challenge #10 (at right) has a little legal flavor.  Rock it like Sonny Crockett.

To Pete B. and Greg W.: ultimately, I know I am responsible for my unsightly wound of two years ago.  All is forgiven.

I like the Hero of the Day, but frankly it takes some actual mental energy to think of one every day, and rule #1 of running a bullshit website is not to put too much mental energy into it.  So from here on out, heroes of the day will be selected only when I am truly inspired to do so, or when one of you fine folks send in a suggestion (which, starting now, will be honored 100% of the time).  Thank you for your time.

2/9/4:

What did we do before the internet? No, really. I don't mean, what did we do for fun. We had cable TV and books and booze and sports and each other. I mean, how did we figure stuff out, how did we get things done, how did we stay in touch? 

In 1993, a book came out called "O Holy Cow! The Selected Verse of Phil Rizzuto" which gathered some of the Scooter's greatest stream-of-consciousness on-air musings and published them in poetry form.  Late in Rizzuto's broadcasting career, a debate quietly begun among Yankee fans, between those who just couldn't take the constant birthday and anniversary announcements, the lack of attention to the game, the desire to get home to bed, the poor eyesight that made him mis-call just about every batted ball...and the rest of us, who knew the Scooter was a treasure and that any talk of replacing him was just plain wrong.  I assume Tom Peyer and Hart Seely, the two gentlemen who assembled this book, fell into the latter camp.  Recognizing genius takes a certain kind of genius itself, and for that I salute these two men. 

I remember hearing about the book when it came out, and maybe seeing a couple excerpts in a newspaper or something, and then in maybe 1997, someone brought a copy of the book to work.  I loved it so much that I photocopied the whole thing (or someone else did and gave me a copy).  I've long since tossed those stray papers away, and the other day I started thinking about how much I miss the book, how nice it would be to have my own copy. 

Enter the internet.  Within 5 minutes I had ordered two copies of the book (a co-worker wanted it as well), new, for a total of about $12 including shipping.  In 1994, what would I have done? I would have suffered, that's what.  So big ups to Al Gore and former verbungle.com Hero of the Day Tim Berners-Lee for putting in all those hours at the lab so the world could move forward.  So I could bring you this.  And this.  And this.  Baseball season is a month and a half away.

California has Venice Beach.  NYC has W. 53rd. Street.

So far, very few of you have responded to the challenge at right, which I assumed would be a big hit.  You never can tell.  Whatever.  Get the job done, send in your answers, and I will post them tomorrow.  Be good to verbungle and verbungle will be good to you.

2/8/4:

Check out the excellent new answers on the "Your Thoughts" page and bust out your genius on the new Challenge at right.

Also peruse D. Lee's list below right and feel free to send in any additions or beefs you may have.  Ambrose has already done just that, although I assume he is kidding about Robert Werdann.

I saw "Big Fish" last night.  I'm not a huge Tim Burton fan.  Usually I'm sort of enjoying his movies for about an hour, and then all of a sudden I realize I'm not.  They're always great to look at, but they usually leave me feeling kind of empty inside.  Well, "Big Fish" is a lot sunnier and yes, cornier than his other films, but I loved it.  The relationship between the son and the father really resonated with me, and I thought the whole thing was imaginative and entertaining.  Better than Gremlins, better than E.T.

Once again, I ask you: NYC or Cali?

More and more often these days, art takes a back seat to commerce. Like when broken-up bands reunite for a buck despite the death or disinterest of the lead singer or other irreplaceable member of the band.  Like seeing Thin Lizzy without Phil Lynott -- what's that all about?  But perhaps the all-time lowest moment in pop music money-grubbing was when Huey Lewis "successfully" sued Ray Parker, Jr. for songwriting royalties on "Ghostbusters."  I put "successfully" in quotes (as annoying a habit as that may be) to indicate my disbelief that ONE person would willingly admit responsibility for this abomination.  But TWO parties duking it out in court for the right to call it their own? Maybe I have the story wrong, maybe they were both denying responsibility, like a couple of deadbeat dads. I hope so.

I woke up this morning (no sleep-vomiting last night) and decided to exercise my freedom by watching a little PBA bowling.  I think I've mentioned this before, but I like bowling.  It's a great social sport and you can guzzle beer like a champ without really affecting your performance.  And pro bowling is kind of fun to watch -- the guys have that awesome hook and they really are pretty good at bowling.  There's also the humor factor -- these dorks actually pump their fists and gyrate like Ernie McCracken.  Today it was the final of the U.S. Open, with 100 grand on the line, and it was the legendary Pete Weber against Brian Voss.  Weber is a character.  A couple of years ago, he caved in to public pressure and stopped doing his "Crotch Chop" strike celebration when he heard little kids were imitating it and getting tossed out of tournaments.  He's still a fiery bastard, though. After a huge strike, he yelled out, "YEAAAHHH, that's RIGHT. Right here, baby!"  After another big shot he exclaimed, "This is MY tournament. Mine!" All these guys play to the crowd and take the sport WAY too seriously.  I mean, my best night of bowling is good enough to beat Pete Weber on a bad night, and I suck at bowling.  What does that say about their sport?  And there's absolutely no strategy involved. Who cares, I still like that shit, maybe that's why. Just knock over them pins.  Good for the bowlers for getting into it.  The announcers, too...I think one guy may have gone a bit overboard with this metaphor: "You see Pete Weber sitting there with those glasses...you can't see his eyes, he's like a vulture sitting on his perch, waiting for the animal to die so he can swoop down and start eating it."  Um, no, he's actually waiting to go roll his ball down the alley at some pins.  Whatever. Weber won the tournament, and it's on to next week's battle at the Odor Eaters Open. I'm not kidding.

2/7/4:

More new excellent answers on the "Your Thoughts" page and a new challenge at right.

I just read that Kobe's been on the injured list because he sliced open his finger while "moving boxes in his garage." 

"I'm doing something where I'm leaning on a window. It doesn't hold me up. I guess I'm too strong," Bryant said. "Hand went through and I cut myself."

Am I a cynical bastard for thinking maybe there's something else going on here?  Considering how much stress his marriage must be under, I'm going to score this one a domestic squabble. And I have one more reason to suspect that he's lying about the source of his injury.  On February 3, 2002, I was horsing around in a bar with a couple of friends.  One of them, either Pete B. or Greg W. (neither has come forward), sucker-punched me (or, more accurately, sucker-gouged me), opening up a huge gash next to my eye similar to the one on Rocky's nose below.  I couldn't admit to the higher-ups at work that I had been bloodied in a bar fight, so I decided on a reasonable lie: I cut my face while moving boxes.  You can't fool me, Kobe.

The Kobe situation is depressing for all involved, but I must admit that I am taking great joy in watching the Lakers struggle.  It's always fun when ringless superstars decide to get a charity title by jumping aboard a juggernaut, and then fail.  It's early to write them off, but let's savor their frustration right now.

Last night I played poker.  I suck at poker.  It takes too much concentration. I like to run my mouth and toss chips around. I lost $20, drank a few beers, ate tons of crappy food, then came home and passed out.  Around 4am, I awoke choking on my own vomit.  Me and Jimi, two streaking comets who lived hard and died exactly the same way, I thought.  Luckily, I was able to catch my breath after some frantic gasping. It took about a minute and a half and some help from my very freaked-out wife.    Choking on own vomit: not recommended.

D. Lee offers the following list for your perusal.  Has he forgotten anybody?

D. Lee's all-time greatest college hoop stars (*post-Pat Ewing era)..

1st team

Chris Jackson (Islam killed career)
Carmelo Anthony
Tim Duncan
Danny Manning
Larry Johnson

2nd team

Allen Iverson
Reggie Williams
David Robinson
Christian Laettner
Sean Elliott

3rd team

Jason Williams (duke)
Steve Francis
Pervis Ellison
Glenn Robinson
Grant Hill

*honorable mention:

Gary Payton, Eric Murdock, Mateen Cleeves, Byron Houston, B.J. Tyler, Derrick Coleman, Marc Macon, Antawn Jamison, Paul Pierce, Bobby Hurley, Damon Stoudemire, and Mark Jackson.

I might add John Wallace ca. 1996 in there somewhere...
 

2/5/4: Gibbs & Ribbs

I know enough about football (barely) to know that it takes a pretty smart and disciplined coach to win 3 Super Bowls, as Joe Gibbs did with the Redskins in the 80's and early 90's.  But I don't know enough about Winston Cup (are NASCAR and Winston Cup the same thing?) to know if the fact that he also achieved great success in Winston Cup after (temporarily) retiring from football means the guy is a genius, or means that within a few months' time any reasonably smart, well-connected millionaire could become a highly competitive Winston Cup owner. 

I fucked up again today.  I rode my bike to work.  It was great -- not too cold, like an 8 minute commute, and free of course.  Then tonight I forgot my bike was at work and walked home.  I was at 66th street, 14 blocks from work, when I realized my mistake.  Too far to go back.  So I figured I'd leave it there overnight.  I'm not excited about that to begin with, and now I just checked the weather and it promises a "wintry mix" tomorrow.  So the odds are pretty good I'll be leaving my bike at work all weekend, which ain't good.  It would have been such a nice ride home tonight, too -- maybe the last decent night for weeks.

I have been digging the challenge responses quite a bit.  Thanks to all. Two to three days. That's as long as they're staying up, so please get your answers in. You can peep all the previous entries here. One thing I like is that everybody has a completely different approach to answering the questions, but they are almost uniformly enjoyable and sometimes enlightening.  I want to keep it pure, so I will not respond to any of the questions myself. That's a bit of a shame because I had a few good tattling stories, including being tattled on in 3rd grade for tucking my toy Triceratops' tail between his legs like a big dick.  Shockingly, the tattler went on to become best man in my wedding.  Anyway, as a one-time suspension of the you-only rule, I will post my own long-winded answer to question #3 at right, because it's kind of the story (in addition to an email chain with a co-worker) that inspired me to wonder about this particular topic.

(excerpted from email to co-worker):

"For me it would be a night in NW Wisconsin in maybe 1990. My friend and I rented a car and drove up from Madison to another friend's house up there. The rental car was a Mercury Tracer, I recall. We got loaded in one of the local holes and then went back to my friend's house, where we drunkenly and painstakingly assembled a brand new lantern.  Then we all piled into the Tracer and went cruising (about 6 of us). We had a couple cases of Old Milwaukee in there, and we were speeding around on these old country roads. Disclaimer: the guy who was driving was 100% sober, but he sort of had a death wish because his girlfriend had been killed by a drunk driver the previous year.  He was still a little messed up, for sure.

At one point, he was going around 75 on this winding little road, and there was one of those arrows indicating that the road was turning to the right. Without slowing down, he continued going straight, to the LEFT of the sign. We all looked at each other and screamed, knowing that life was over. Luckily, he knew there was an even smaller, unmarked dirt road there, and we lived. We continued going down the dirt road, taking turns pulling the parking brake at 60mph, and drove out to an old railroad bridge, where we parked the car. We grabbed the lantern and walked out across the bridge, completely loaded, and there was only a railing on one side. It was crazy. We'd walk out to the un-railed side and stare down, and you couldn't even see the ground, it was so high and so foggy. Supposedly at one point the bridge had been the highest in the Midwest, and I can verify that it was indeed high. We would drop coins over the side, and it was a good four or five seconds before we heard them splash into the St. Croix River below.

We were pretty loud and obnoxious, and at one point, some voices from below (who I guess were on a boat) started yelling up at us and basically threatening to kick our asses. I yelled back, and then tossed a case of Old Milwaukee (almost all empty bottles at this point) over the side of the bridge. What I was thinking I have no idea. I sort of remember it splashing or giving us some other indication that it didn't kill anyone, and I think the guys shut up after that (maybe they were dead). Then we walked down an embankment and I got in a wrestling match with one of my friends. After he beat me, I threw a bunch of sand in his eyes. Anyway, we eventually packed up and started driving home, and we all started screaming at Driver Guy to "Beat It" (meaning beat the hell out of our rental car by pushing it to its limits). The speedometer only went to 85, but the needle kept sliding over to where we extrapolated 100 would be, then kept going to what we figured was 115. We were all shouting and pumping our fists and having the time of our lives, as most carloads of drunken idiot kids are right before their car crashes and kills them all. I remember we hit a bird at "115" and it just cracked and splattered across the windshield. Somehow we made it home in one piece, and proceeded to take lots of pictures of our butts. Morons."

Pictures of all this may surface on this site soon if they can be located.  In the meantime, please participate in the challenge.  I find this subject particularly compelling because what some of us laugh at and remember as a night of youthful stupidity could just as easily have turned out to be the night when we died, killed someone, screwed a sibling, etc.  Similarly, a mountain-climbing expedition gone awry could turn into a great bar tale of human survival, or it could turn out much, much worse.  If you think there's any more to it than Shit Blind Luck, you're kidding yourself. 

2/4/4: The 60% Solution

No matter what your views on pornography are, it's hard to feel 100% happy about what's happened in Times Square over the last six or seven years.  For much of his tenure, Mayor Giuliani crusaded to get rid of the seedy-ass sex shops that helped give the neighborhood its delightful hellish appeal.  Eventually, in one of those weird compromises that pleases nobody, adult stores within 500 feet of residences, schools, or churches were only allowed to stay open if 60% of their business was devoted to non-pornographic merchandise.  Now that didn't mean that 60% of their revenue had to come from non-smut, just that 60% of their floor space had to be devoted to "legitimate" stuff.  A lot of businesses simply had to close down, or move to desolate areas where it would be hard to make ends meet (do you really want to go out to Staten Island just to pick up that fisting video your mother-in-law's been clamoring for?).  But porn purveyors are not stupid, as a rule, so what some of them did is load up their shops with 60% of the most ridiculously unbuyable merchandise you'd ever come across, in an effort to meet the requirements.  Now it doesn't make a lot of financial sense to own a store that's mostly filled with stuff you don't ever intend to sell, but it starts to add up when coupled with the fact that so many porno shops had to shut down.  If you're one of five sex shops within a ten block area, instead of one of fifty, you can do some serious business even while offering a ton of shitty old mainstream movies, schlocky souvenirs and low-end electronics.  So you wind up with places like the aptly named "Mixed Emotions," which to anyone who's got a brain is clearly catering to smut shoppers.  But to appease some non-existent segment of the population that wants to hide the porn in plain view, they offer up crappy stuff like "Seven Years in Tibet" (not to be confused with "Seven Queers in Tibet"  or "Seven Inches into Beth," which are located in different sections).  So I guess the anti-porn people consider it a victory because they've considerably sterilized Times Square, and the pro-porn folks are OK because they can still get their hands on the goods, but shouldn't the human race have arrived at a place where we can be honest about who we are and what we want? If anything, the 60% rule has removed some of the stigma of entering a porn shop -- "Oh Hi Ralph, I was just here to pick up one of those hilarious fake Simpsons 'I Love NY' T-shirts.  You too, huh?" --  which kind of takes the bite out of the law.  You could argue that the rule has created a less seamy neighborhood without really sacrificing our ability to buy "dirty books" and the like (which may indeed be true), but it seems to me that it's up there alongside "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" in that it forces us to pretend to be something we're not, because it's impossible to make us become something we're not.  In all these years of struggle, haven't we earned the right to step forward and choose what we want for ourselves without being told what that is?  And has Times Square really become any less nauseating, or has it just changed the manner in which it sickens you?

P.S. Before Giuliani left office, he was pushing legislation that would get rid of the 40% rule and make it legal to close down ANY shop that sells pornographic material.  Does anyone know what happened with this?

Keep them answers coming in (challenge #6, at right).  Very interesting stuff.

2/3/4:

I have a fleece vest that I usually wear under my jacket during these cold months.  My $39 "winter" jacket is by no means adequate for winter on its own, so the vest is pretty important in my daily scheme. The truth is, I kind of like the vest.  It has nice zippered pockets and it's soft and warm.  Sometimes I'll leave it on at work, because the heat in our office varies widely depending on what part of the building you're in. Today somebody at work said I reminded them of a freelance editor named "Jaws" who is called "Jaws" because he resembles Richard Kiel.  Considering the fact that the only people who might consider this a compliment are people who are measurably uglier than Richard Kiel and know it, I was insulted.  The guy goes, no, I mean just because you're always wearing that vest.  It made me realize, Shit, I'm a tool.  Nobody walks around wearing a fucking fleece vest at work. Except me and Jaws, apparently. Oh well, it's still warm and soft, so I'm not backing down.

A couple of weeks ago, I surveyed the great sheets of snow/ice/shit/soot/body parts that always coat NYC after a significant snowfall, and I thought, holy shit, these structures are so impacted and huge that they're gonna be with us 'til August.  Then today it was rainy and mild (maybe 35) and those things started melting like crazy.  Part of it was the rain itself, but there was also tons of iceberg gushing through the streets and into the sewers.  11th Avenue was like a little geology lesson, it was wild.  I did fuck up my comfy brown shoes walking through it, though.

Thank you so much for sending in the awesome answers to the challenge (new one is at right, please participate).  They roused my deadened worker bee soul and reminded me how good I've got it. Much thanks even to the guy who just answered every question with "Dude did you see her tittie?" 

And maybe someone in Human Resources is reading the site, because today we got an email announcing that 10-year veterans (My Sweet God, that's me) are eligible for two (!) extra vacation days per year, effective immediately.  Atlantic City, here I don't come!

Shameful, awful, terrible movie that I will sometimes watch all the way through if I flip past it on cable: Tin Cup.  What is wrong with me?  I don't even like golf.

The stupid little hit counter with the corny little tantric joke next to it at the bottom of this page has made me imagine a scenario.  A woman meets a guy in a bar.  They go back to his place for a one night stand.  He neglects to mention that he's all "tantric." Between that and the numbing effects of the booze, what a nightmare evening that could turn into for the woman.

Chris S. sends in this game that might make for a good alternative to the Pingu.  It takes a little more time and mental energy, so you might want to try it at home so you don't dick your company out of important work hours. Or not.  I don't have a strong idea of what a good score is yet.

I had a conversation with Ambrose a couple of weeks ago that deflated my Knicks fever a little bit.  I was going on about how excited I am about this team, fuck the draft picks and the salaries, etc.  He was like, I don't know.  They're still not as good as Indiana, New Jersey or Detroit.  And none of those teams are good enough to win the championship. And this is as good as the Knicks are gonna get for a LONG time.  This is the team we're stuck with now. 

I can't argue with that, and it does scare me a little.  But I still like the moves. What Isiah has done is take a lifeless organism with deep flaws, flaws that many (including me) thought could not be addressed for years, and he's polished it to the point where you really can't see the flaws anymore.  The flaws still exist, of course, in fact they may be even more profound, but the creature is breathing and I now enjoy watching games again -- I actually check to see if the Knicks are on each evening. Maybe they aren't going to win the East, maybe they won't even make the playoffs.  But they've become competitive and exciting in an instant, and at least now we have a player in Marbury who instills  a sense of fear in our opponents. Other coaches prepare for him, other players lose sleep over him.  I can't remember the last time the Knicks had a player who made opponents look so bad so often.  I just like the way he carries himself -- so upright and stiff, almost robotic, but coiled to explode into a glorious blur at any second. He's also got a tremendous swagger without ever calling direct attention to himself.  I even like Mutombo, as awkward and hard to watch as he is.  He's big as hell and he's got 6 skull-jarring fouls to use every night.  And I like Doleac -- he seems like such a decent guy, and he knows what he's doing out there.  Plus he went to Utah as a non-Mormon and got good grades.  I don't believe I've ever heard him speak.  Penny, too, castoff that he may be, still has some tremendous basketball skills and is fun to watch, once you stop regretting what could have been like he's some beautiful broken dove.  We've got like 9 usable players who can all make a positive impact.  Thank you, Isiah.

2/2/4:

I was watching a little of that atrocious Michael Kay show on atrocious YES Network tonight, and he had Tom Brokaw on.  When asked who his favorite Knick was, Brokaw first gave a pat answer (no pun intended) about Patrick Ewing being a warrior and how he wasn't treated right at the end of his career, blahbitty blah blah.  But then he paused for a second, and said, "You know who I always loved? John Starks."  Fuck yeah, Tommy!  He went on to talk about being at a game when Starks took it to Jordan and how electrifying that was.  Of course we forget how often and how violently Jordan torched Starks and the Knicks, but that's OK -- there was a moment when Starks looked Jordan in the eye, and Jordan blinked. No doubt. And no small feat. Shy of actually winning a championship, that's the most you can ask of a player.  Stare down the greatest there ever was and say, "Are you sure you want some of this?"  Starks was just crazy enough to do it.

Today my office was abuzz with morale-sapping idiot banter about Janet Jackson's tit.  People were just spouting their stupid thoughts about this relatively uninteresting event all fucking day long.  "Was it planned?"  "It had to be." "CBS is saying they didn't know," etc. It was really getting to me.  Am I just another generic moron who works in a generic office and has generic thoughts and eventually dies a generic death, I wondered.  Then some skidmark started blaring the Howard Dean remixes, and I really just wanted to walk out of the office and never come back.  All I needed was some asshole to start singing the "Wingman" song and I would have pulled a "Chief" from "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Never looked back.

It reminded me of something Mark Leyner once said.  Somebody was asking him about how great it must be to have the freewheeling life of a novelist, avoiding all the office bullshit like timesheets and raises and sick days and three hour meetings and docked pay.  He was like, actually I really miss working in an office.  That social interaction that you take for granted every day, getting up, going somewhere, sitting at your desk, grabbing some water, exchanging small talk, going to holiday parties -- all that stuff occupies a huge space in our lives that's difficult to fill when you spend all day in your home, surrounded by nothing but your work and various reminders of yourself.

To that I say, bullshit.  I actually like a lot of the people I work with, but the whole idea of showing up at the same place every day, overhearing all the same predictable loud-voiced debates between people who really don't bring anything interesting to the table, completing my same workload, stepping in the same horseshit on the way in, going to lunch at the same 6 places -- the familiarity is stifling.  The fact that I've been doing it for ten years is absolutely fucking shocking.  The real kicker is I don't give a crap about food.

Sorry to keep invoking him, but I miss Leyner.  I miss 1992. I miss being clueless and careless and making $6 an hour.  I miss riding the train from NYC to Chicago and having a sleeper car, so I could just lay there all night watching the towns roll by in total peace. I miss not being tethered to my job, I miss my little Honda scooter with the storage compartment under the seat.  I miss Madison, and the little park we discovered in the summer of '92. I miss being able to drive to the hoop and smack the backboard with authority as I laid it in.  I miss all that shit.

But on to 2004.  I gotta get to work on them resolutions.  So far, little has been accomplished.  Definitely some measurable progress, but way more is needed.

Keep them answers coming in, yo.  I will post 'em tomorrow.  My questions keep getting lamer, but you guys keep delivering the goods.  You're like a bunch of little UPS guys.

I know some of our more high-minded readers disapprove of the MTV reality shows, but they are just wrong.  Overheard tonight on the RR-RW Challenge: "Stop molesting my fucking vagina, you Mormon!"

2/1/4:

Ambrose and Dinny have sent in SB predictions: Ambrose, 23-14 Panthers, Dinny 25-18 Patriots.  I would post them on the predictions page but unless they are exactly right, I don't know how to evaluate the quality of the predictions.  If you pick the winner, is that any real trick?  So I will just post 'em here for posterity, along with my original prediction of 30-13 Patriots.

The Super Bowl, while completely overhyped just like New Year's Eve, is always fun.  You get a few beers, you constantly re-work the intricate scoring permutations that would have to take place for you to win a measly quarter in your office box pool, you eat some spicy food, you watch the commercials and you don't really care who wins.  It can't go too far wrong.

I remember when my friend Nathanael got a cell phone 6 years ago or so, he was determined not to become a cell phone asshole.  He vowed not to talk on the phone while walking down the street, meaning if he received a call while walking down the street, he would essentially pull over to an out of the way part of the sidewalk so he could complete his call in a more respectful manner.  I admired his principles, although I'm sure he hasn't stuck to them.  As a society, we've gotten less and less concerned with what other people think of our cell phone manners, and our behavior in general.  We've gone from Nathanael's initial reticence to the puds who now walk down the street with the hands free kit, gesticulating and shouting like madmen.  So be it, I guess, although the hands-free stuff has made identifying the legit, old-fashioned, doom-predicting, raving lunatics much more difficult.

When Charlize Theron won the Golden Globe award for Best Actress last week, her speech went something like this: "Oh my God, this is so incredible.  You guys...I can't believe this. I'm just a girl from a farm in South Africa."  This is a nice addition to the long history of people receiving honors and feeling the need to explain to us just how amazing their achievement really is, what insurmountable odds they've surmounted, in case we were somehow unaware.  It joins such classics as Mike Schmidt's tear-filled "Just a kid from Dayton, Ohio, with two bad knees" retirement speech.  Please.  Let the accomplishments speak for themselves. 

The answers to the latest reader challenge are now posted on the "Your Thoughts" page...thanks for all the excellent contributions.  The new challenge is located below.

So I have an idea for a T-shirt: the front left breast will be a scan of Mark Leyner's little lava-surfing dude, and on the back, maybe this?  Maybe not.

10:35 update: Goddamn, that was a good super bowl and we saw Janet Jackson's right tit.  A few highly annoying fuckups, the most glaring of which was the kickoff out of bounds at the end of the game.  That is the kicking equivalent of Bill Buckner.  It reminds me once again that I should raise my children to be kickers, as they will certainly be good enough to make the NFL if they give it any serious effort.