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3/31/05: To Be Young, Hung, and Rocking the Bung
So I left work around 6 and decided to walk home. What a pleasure. It was 42 minutes and about 55 degrees, and every song that popped up on my iPod was aces. That's rare for me. I think I only hit "skip" once, during "Point Blank" by Bruce. I don't even hate that song, it just busted up my flow. It was just one of those classic, bustling Spring evenings when I really wouldn't want to live anywhere else in the world. And while listening to music deprives you of some of the unique sounds of the city, it also insulates you in a way that makes you feel free to observe people and things as if you were invisible. It could have been 1926, it could have been 1992, it could have been 2014. The city was stretching its legs after a long winter, like it does every year. That same communal glee was in the air, the shared sense that we made it out the ass of winter and we're still in one piece. This sensation of timelessness was enhanced when I peered into a bar window and saw Nolan Ryan in his Astros uniform, pitching to Bucky Dent in his Yankee road greys, in what I now realize could only have been the 1981 All-Star Game. How Bucky Dent ever made the All-Star Game is beyond me. I guess it was his looks. Especially the eye black. He had some of the best eye black of all time. It felt so encouraging to be outside again. I decided I am going to start riding my bike to work again next week. On the way home, weather permitting, I'm going to ride around the Southern tip of Manhattan every night to clear my head of useless work anxiety. I'm excited to be placing my fat ass on a bicycle again. And I'm also looking forward to playing some sports again. The neck is 98.75% healed, and I think I will start hooping again soon, maybe this weekend. I can't wait to be out there running around and I want to be good again. The last three times I've played ball, I've stunk. I was fearing it might be the beginning of the end, but the warm weather has motivated me to keep trying. We also have softball starting this weekend. That makes me happy. And, as Big Jim Lang points out, MLB has a free preview going on next week. It's very good in this city right now. And for once, I'm not feeling jealous of all the young kids who get to cut class and sit in Central Park sneaking tugs on Tall Boys in brown paper bags. Who get to lean in for their first-ever kiss in Sheep Meadow after a nice extended frisbee toss. I'm happy for them. And I'm happy for me, 35 years old and not feeling a whole lot different than I did at 15. Let the kids have their fun. I only feel sorry that they don't get to listen to the Steve Miller Band's Greatest Hits anymore. I'm sure they have their own silly, washed-up, good-time war horse to crank up and sing along with. It's probably Will Smith or Duran Duran or something like that. But that's no Steve Miller Band. They need to know that. *** If you are an avid reader of this site, you know that we have closely followed the C-Murder case since it began and we have tried with very limited success to mine the obvious comedic gold that it must surely provide. Here was one stab I took back in December 2003: Master P's brother, a rapper named C-Murder, has been convicted of murder. My new rap name: C-Lottery Winna. Yeah, not very good. So today, when I came across the headline "C-Murder Loses Murder Conviction Appeal," I felt like I had been given another shot. A murdering rapper named C-Murder is the comedy equivalent of a 3-1 fastball from Dennis Lamp. You need to turn on that shit and knock it out of the park. But somehow, despite the easy opportunity, I was unable to come up with anything decent. I tried going with a "Someone named C-Murder being convicted of murder is an unfortunate coincidence right up there with Lou Gehrig contracting Lou Gehrig's disease," and then I realized that I was merely stealing someone else's VERY old joke about Lou Gehrig getting Lou Gehrig's disease. Pathetic. So I thought about saying something like, "I bet C-Murder is wishing he had gone with his second choice for his MC name, C-Helping-Little-Old-Ladies-Across-the-Street." And then I realized I was just stealing my own lame joke about his name from a year and a half ago. My well is dry, folks. For fifteen verbungle.com genius points, leave a good joke about the C-Murder Case in the comments section. Funniest joke wins, and I am going to put the responses (if there are any) to a special independent judging panel for determining the winner. You can start leaving them immediately and we will accept answers until Thursday night at 11pm Eastern. For those of you who are looking for a slightly less subjective way to move up the Genius Board, answer this question (worth ten points): if you were a comic book character, and someone struck you in the back of the head with a heavy object, what three-letter grunting sound might you emit right after the blow, just as you were about to lose consciousness? There are probably multiple answers here, but one in particular stands out, and that's the one we're looking for. Please don't answer until noon eastern. One more little quizzie here: for fifteen points, tell me wheredat? Please wait until noon for this one as well. Blogging will be light today.
Welcome back to NYC Petey Brush. I'm sorry I ever considered for a moment that you might be the Beltway Sniper. Those were paranoid times. Congratulations to Deion Sandals for completing a half-marathon a few weeks back, and may your body be fully recovered in time for softball this Sunday night. Yeah, that's right, softball starts this weekend. Who's in? It's frustrating. At age 35, I am finally having fantasies about being rich. And I think it's too late to do anything about it. You know the famous photo of Ali standing over Liston, barking at him, oozing confidence and potency? Does the fact that Liston so obviously and shamelessly threw the fight take anything away from this tremendous photo? I think so. Others aren't so sure it was fixed, but come on. I need a magazine to subscribe to. Any suggestions? And yes, I already get American Grizzly. You know what was truly an amazing advance in technology that didn't get as long in the sun as it deserved? The fax. The fax was pretty amazing, and now, only about 20 years or so after its widespread introduction, it's a relic. There should be a National Fax Day where nobody is allowed to send emails, and we all just fax each other all day long in tribute to this wonderful invention that got old before its time. For another fifteen verbungle.com genius points, tell me wheredat? And still nobody has correctly answered the previous wheredat. I think Spring may be here. The wino on the corner told me he's getting that tingly feeling in his man-parts again. I am not sure how aware the larger verbungle-reading public is about the current situation with MSG Network, Time Warner, The Knicks, The Mets, YES Network, Cablevision, and Mr. James Dolan. And I'm definitely not sure how qualified I am to break it down for you. I haven't even really been following it closely, so forgive me if I botch it completely. But let's try. Dolan, who spends his weekday afternoons screwing up everything he touches as the Jefe de Todos Jefes of Cablevision, the Knicks, the Rangers, and MSG Network, is on his way to becoming the most universally loathed man in New York City sports history. As of right now, MSG is in a dispute with Time Warner over subscription fees, which the cable companies pay to networks in order to carry their programming. MSG wants X, Time Warner is willing to pay X-Y. While this dispute is being settled, Time Warner is not allowed to carry MSG Network, which broadcasts Knicks and Mets games. So if you live in New York City, you cannot watch the Knicks or the Mets, two of the local teams. Dolan is hoping that Time Warner will cave to public pressure, and ante up on the subscription fees. After all, sports fans are passionate. When a fan is denied access to the team he or she loves, the fan will lash out at the entity they think is responsible, which, Dolan assumes, will be Time Warner. Of course, Dolan is also assuming fans still want to see the Knicks. The Knicks are as close to unwatchable as a sports franchise can be. And Dolan is largely responsible for that. He has signed off on some of the worst personnel decisions in recent memory, and the team that has emerged is doomed on every level. They are loaded with overpaid stiffs whose contracts won't expire for years. They play selfishly and poorly, and the Garden is a dead arena as a result. It is a hopeless situation, and all that's really left for them to do is wait it out. Denying the fans access to Knicks games is a stroke of business genius very similar to the principles of the NHL lockout. Let's take away the public's right to see a lousy product that they didn't really want to see that much in the first place. This, presumably, will inspire interest? The Knicks should be paying fans to watch their games. Taking them off the air was something of a mercy killing. And if fans are looking for someone to root for between the two evil corporations, it's unlikely that they will side with Dolan, who has already created a beefy resume of destroying sports in this city. -he's killed the Knicks And now he's bargaining against the fans with the Knicks and Mets. If ever there was a man capable of making the average fan root for a behemoth like Time Warner, Dolan is him. The only real card in his hand is the Mets. Since they aren't owned by Dolan, he hasn't had a chance to destroy them. And in fact, they go into 2005 with an exciting new team, a nice mix of youth and experience, of superstars and scrappers, and they'll be led on the field by a New York institution, Willie Randolph. Randolph grew up in Brooklyn. He managed to stay above the fray while winning two championships with the insane Yankees in the 70's. He's been a rock solid coach for the ten years of the Torre Era, which included four more championships. And now he's finally got the chance to manage. In his hometown. With a team that has a very real chance of contending. But we won't be able to see the Randolph Era get underway, because of douchebags like Dolan, sons of the rich, men who treat their vast holdings like playthings. Does it seem fair that one entity should own cable companies and cable stations and sports franchises, all of which are then intricately linked? It doesn't seem fair when the man running the show is James Dolan. I predict there is a solution in place by Opening Day or shortly thereafter, but this is going to happen every time the contracts expire for the major teams. The Mets' deal with MSG expires after this season. Then they will sign a deal with another network or create the MES network, and they will get on the air in Manhattan. But Cablevision will be resentful and there will be a huge struggle to get MES on the air in those 3 million homes. This is never going to end. I miss the days of the Scooter on Channel 11. *** I'm not much of a C-SPAN man, but the other day I was flipping through the channels and came across a session from the British House of Commons. That was some funny shit. It was almost like an MC battle. One guy would go up and make his point, and people would start hollering out from the crowd when they agreed or disagreed strongly. Then his opponent would step up and mockingly refute everything the first guy said. Everybody was laughing and ripping on each other. You should check it out. *** Still nobody has gotten yesterday's wheredat, so here's a hint. I've played ball with several verbungle.com readers on that court that's visible in the picture. I was going to try to do a Bill Simmons-like running commentary on today's UNC-Wisconsin game, but I got caught up in the game so screw that. Bill Simmons, while occasionally clever and insightful, is ultimately just a smug asshole from Boston, so I'm going to avoid doing anything that might associate me with him, even in my own mind. I will continue reading his annoying columns nonetheless. I have always been a UNC fan, and I imagine I will be again after today, but as a Wisconsin alumnus I am experiencing genuine sports fanaticism right now. I love my team and I HATE their opponent. It's 44-44 at the half, and I have found myself shouting at the screen several times in the first twenty minutes. Did you see May push poor little Zach Morley in the back to get that rebound? Did you see Wilkinson get hip-checked out of bounds after making that steal? Why did Carolina get two straight possession arrows in their favor? Didn't Marvin Williams double dribble after his big steal? Does any other ball handler get away with as many flagrant carrying violations as Raymond Felton? I am watching this game through Red-tinted glasses, for sure. It seems that every call has gone to UNC, although I know that's not true. The Badgers have some solid players and they all understand the system well. They generally don't screw up unless they're forced into it, but they also don't really have a guy who can take over a game. The reasons they're in the Final 8 are that they've stuck to their game and they've lucked out in the draw. Now they are up against a team that has NBA players at every position. And I think that that's too much. But we're scrappin' away like wild Badgers will do. Down 72-71, six something left. That's a lot of points. Carolina definitely won the tempo battle. Oh, and now they've won the game as well. But it was a very impressive effort by the Badgers. Strong season, strong program. The Alley Oop to Tucker with about a minute and a half left took my breath away. That was some ballsy stuff. I hope Tucker can find a way to play in the NBA. He's a little undersized, but he's a load around the basket. I predict he makes it. Dude's only a sophomore. Congratulations to Dan "Bring the" Kois and all his Bois from UNC. You can't really ask for a better basketball program than that one, and thanks to Jordan they'll be good forever. I've always been jealous of people who went to school there. It seems like such a perfect place. Like Duke without the weasel factor. *** In general, these last two days were the most enjoyable basketball I've seen in years. Just a pleasure from beginning to end. Right after I whined about how much TV I've been watching, too. NCAA tournament = Best Sporting Event of the Year. In no other event does victory seem so sweet and defeat so bitter. And Michigan State may be the most underrated program in the country. Izzo in the Hizzo. Did you see the look of determination on Luther Head's face as he took it to the rack after making that huge steal in the Ill.-AZ game? It was magnificent. That Illinios team is very likable, even if they got away with some murder on defense at the end of that game. *** I actually watched Saturday's games on the ol' DVR. Unbelievable games, but I had to miss 'em live* because the wife and I had rented a car for the day so we could go on a huge household supply shopping trip out to Jersey and thereabouts. 24 rolls of toilet paper. 36 bars of soap. Two 64 ounce Gatorade bottles. Six bottles of shampoo. You get the idea. Major financial savings across the board. It might not seem like such a big event, but to a city kid like me, owning items in bulk is one of the major milestones of success in life. The list goes something like this: 1. Beginner Membership: Food in belly, roof over head. 2. Standard Membership: Paying your bills on time every month. 3. Silver Membership: Having massive quantities of household items on hand at all times. 4. Gold Membership: Owning your own washer and dryer. 5. Platinum Membership: Having a separate fridge (the "beer fridge") in the garage for surplus beer, soda, etc. Friends, I am entering the big-time. Two more stops 'til Trumpsville. ***
In college I "scammed with" a girl who later told me she "hooked up" with me because she liked the way I smoked my cigarette. Up until then I'd only been a casual smoker but that day I went out and bought a carton. Let that be a lesson to the young kids out there: smoking will get you "some". I hate to give him more points, but anyone with the nerve to use the expression "get some" (or get "some" to ensure the irony is detected) needs to be rewarded. Especially because I think his is the most compelling entry, the one that could most plausibly get someone to start smoking. We're also going to give ten points each to the runners up, CC, PBdotC, Sipsi, and Smoker. Smoker gets props for the sheer hostility of his response. Thanks to everyone for their thoughts. This was tough. I am going to try to ease up on the subjective challenges. So today, for another fifteen genius points, wheredat? No answers until noon eastern, please. *** CC also chimed in with this defense of the work pooper who sold me down the river last week: shit stinks, more or less, even if you were the one who had a 'snap into a slim jim' bowel movement, it's not right for anyone to look down on anyone else because their shit smells. it's a fact of life. but there are always those who think their own shit don't stink. public or not, that's what toilets are for. CC, I don't completely disagree with you on this. Everyone's shit does indeed smell pretty bad. But my criticism of the mystery pooper was not based on the smell of his shit, which he presumably cannot help, but on the fact that he did it at work, in a bathroom we all have to use. His stinky poop gives more power to the argument against pooping at work, both because he stunk up a common area and also because an innocent non-work-pooper like me ended up taking the fall for his sin. But I realize sometimes you just gotta go. *** Softball starts this weekend, people. Sharpen up your spikes and, as Marlon Brando said to Maria Schneider in Last Tango in Paris, get out the neatsfoot oil. * And the outcome of the Illinois-Arizona game was spoiled for me by a doofus radio DJ on some crap-ass station we were listening to in the car. I've got a lot of bad habits. I eat crappy food, I procrastinate, I waste a lot of time on the ol' intanet. I used to drink too much until October of 2004. Pretty much any weak-minded habit you can get sucked into, I've got it covered. I never got into any really dangerous habits, but that's mostly because I'm too much of a puss to try scary stuff. Perhaps my worst habit is television. Every night, within minutes of my arrival back at the apartment, the TV is on. It generally stays on until I go to sleep. It's on through dinner, and it's on during the verbungling hours. It's basically the third member of our household. It would be one thing if I was sticking to substantial stuff with real mental nutritional value, like MTV's "Real World/Road Rules Challenge". That would make sense. But often it's just on, humming away in the background, occupying a substantial part of my brain activity, preventing me from doing anything particularly productive. It could be anything, especially in HD, and I'll give it some degree of attention. It's been about three months since I read a book all the way through. TV is just too easy. And if it's not TV, I'm puttering around on this website, which is also not doing anything to enrich my brain. When you think about how much there is out there in the world to learn and observe and soak in, it's really quite arrogant to attempt to create anything, be it a painting, song, novel, or bullshit website. It's like you're saying, "At this moment in time, I have more to offer the world than the world has to offer me." Which, of course, for even the world's major geniuses -- the Picassos, the Faulkners, the Dursts -- is just not true. The world always has more to give you than you could ever hope to give it back. Logically, every free second should be spent pursuing more knowledge, more art, more good shit. It's out there. With luminaries like the aforementioned, you can forgive them for their hubris. Without it, they'd just be schmucks like you and me, and the world would be a far less interesting place. In fact, if nobody had any creative arrogance, the world might not have more to offer than you could offer in return. It would be like that commercial from a couple years back where the guy reaches the end of the internet*. If only ten people throughout history had had the balls to put themselves out there in some way, most of us would quickly exhaust all available art. Then, once you had read all four books ever written, and gazed upon both of the world's paintings, and heard the only song ever recorded, you'd eventually get so bored that you'd find the courage to make something of your own. And you'd have every right to do so. And the cycle would begin. In fact, maybe that's how creative output got started many years ago. Some dude wrote a bad poem, everybody in the world read it, and 1% of them thought, Shit, I could do better than that. But now I am off the path once again. What I was getting at is that my mind has become very flaccid. It's not being fed the right foods. As a result, I have little of substance to offer. But my arrogance is still just** strong enough to keep putting out this stupid site, despite being fully aware of the riches of wonderful existing material that I should be pursuing in my available free time. Verbungle.com is another bad habit, just slightly above laying in front of the TV and watching Odd Couple reruns. I wish an Odd Couple rerun was on channel 11 right now. So I've got these bad habits. And I know I shouldn't cling to them. But I do. It makes you think about the old tough guy standby, "I'm gonna drop you like a bad habit." It's supposed to convey confidence, like, I'm gonna knock you out the way I knocked out my Tussin addiction. But since in reality most of our bad habits are with us for years if not forever (otherwise they wouldn't be so bad), the statement actually translates as "I'd like to kick your ass, but I'm simply not up to it. It's too tough for me." In honor of this lame discussion of bad habits, here is today's challenge, worth 15 verbungle.com genius points. In 117 words or less, make a case for why people should continue to smoke cigarettes, or start smoking them if they haven't already. You can leave it in the comments section, and you don't have to wait until noon, you can get cranking right away. You can make multiple submissions if it's a slow Friday. Saturday at noon is the deadline. At that point, we will evaluate all submissions and make a decision on who has made the strongest argument, and they will receive the points. *** Today at work I went in to take a leak and someone had just absolutely killed the bathroom. It smelled like the bowel movement of a man who had eaten nothing but Slim Jims for the last five years. Thick and musty and overpowering. Of course, the culprit had already abandoned the scene of the crime, so I ran the risk of getting blamed if I passed someone on my way out. I put one arm over my nose and mouth and peed as quickly as I could, then I rushed out the door. Sure enough, as I washed my hands (sink is outside the bathroom), a VP I know strolled past me on his way into the kill zone. "Hi Hans," he said in a friendly tone. There was nothing I could do. This guy was going to go in there and smell the carnage, and in his mind I would be the man responsible. His image of me would forever be associated with that thick fecal cloud he was about to experience. Sure enough, when I saw him five minutes later and I said hello, he just kind of looked at me as if to say, "Nice work, you animal." My question is this: would it have been inappropriate for me to say, as he walked past me, "Look, Billy, I wouldn't go in there unless you absolutely need to. And if you must go in, I want you to know I had nothing to do with what you're going to discover in there"? *** Let's all pull for Wisconsin in tonight's game and throughout the rest of the tournament. I had kind of forgotten they were still alive and now I've got a nice Friday night game to watch. * That really was a brilliantly simple spot. Its underlying
message (that quality material on the internet is finite) resonates more
powerfully with each bullshit website
that crops up. I have to admit it makes me feel like a complete sissy to complain about pain on a day when Little Joey Monkeyweb essentially got disemboweled, but I'm sorry to say that's exactly what I've come here to do. For the last two days I have had a stiff neck. It may not sound like much, but this was no ordinary stiff neck. This was different. This stiff neck had a personality, and a nasty one at that. It was the Karl Rove of stiff necks. This stiff neck had tattoos and scary fangs. If it were a movie, the tagline would be "Stiff Neck: The Movie -- This time, it's personal."* This was the most intense pain I've ever experienced, outside of perhaps only the four or five times I've zipped the head of my penis up in my fly after peeing.** That's worse. But not much else is worse. If I turned my head even a millimeter in a direction it didn't want to go, a wave of agony rippled across my neck, head, back, and soul. It was like being kicked in the balls in slow motion. By a mule. Or perhaps a kangaroo. I had to leave work yesterday to get a massage. It cost $40 for half an hour and it made me feel better for another half an hour after it was done. Then the pain came and kicked my door down again. When these twinges came around, my eyes would bug out and I would almost collapse from the power of the pain. Just surging misery that made me want to die. And I started to wonder, what if this isn't a pinched nerve or a pulled muscle? What if it's something vascular, like an embolism or an aneurism or a thrombus or something along those lines? Something that could make my head snap back and my eyes roll to the inside of my skull? Something that could kill me? And then I wondered, am I ready to die? Not "Do I want to die?" because of course I don't want to die. In addition to the fact that I enjoy life and want it to keep going for another 150 years or so, I have loved ones to think of, people who'd actually be sad to see me go. But am I ready to die, meaning, have I done enough in my life to be satisfied with where I left off? Again, putting aside my family and friends, and just approaching this from a personal standpoint. From a selfish standpoint. And of course my first thought was no, I'm not ready. There's so much more I want to do, so many minor accomplishments to accomplish and delicious meals to consume and random moments of joy that I don't want to miss. I really want to get a foul ball at a major league baseball game. And then I realized, that's no way to approach it. No life is ever complete. Everybody's left wanting a little more of this and a lot more of that. When evaluating whether or not your ticket's ready to be punched, perhaps it's fairer to think about the things you have done. The times when you did it right. When the sun shined on your ass for a brief moment. And if you can list a few good ones, maybe you've done enough for one lifetime. I think maybe I've done enough. I've dunked a basketball.*** I've been Class President.**** I've thrown frisbees with beautiful, improbable arcs on sunny afternoons. I've led roomfuls of joyous drunks, some moustachioed, in song. I've vaulted parking meters and I've caught a tennis ball that I threw out of the window of a moving car. Right there, I could have cashed in my chips and I would have had no complaints. So if I die from this stiff neck (and as of this moment it feels a bit better, but it's still hurting pretty good), I guess that's OK. I had a nice run. *** Tonight on the way home from work, it was so shitty out that I wanted to cry. But I thought that sobbing might hurt my neck, so I just trudged home through the snow and the sleet and whatever the hell else was falling on me. Baseball will be here soon. So get well, Monkeyman. Warm $7 dollar beers that you can squirt around between your gum and upper lip are just around the corner.
*** The answer to Tuesday's Wheredat is 45th Street and Fort Hamilton Parkway, Brooklyn, NY. For future Wheredats and Name That Solo's and Google Image Search Games and random trivia questions I pose on the site, I am going to assign a Genius Point Value. The person providing the correct answer for that day's challenge will receive those Genius Points. The first person to 250 Genius Points will win a piece of verbungle.com merchandise to be named and redeemed at a later date. The standings will appear on the lower right side of this page. Got it? For all these games, answers will not be accepted before noon eastern. Start with the question below, after the first asterisk. *** We've got a new iPonderous today complete with an empeetrey. You got ta snatch up these empeetreys while you have a chance. We'll leave three or four up at a time, no more. so grab 'em. They're free. * For twenty verbungle.com genius points, can you tell me
what movie actually had that tagline (except for the stiff neck part)? Please refrain from being a googling
bastard. NO ANSWERS BEFORE NOON. You know what trait I value in a friend maybe above all others? More than honesty, loyalty, integrity, humor, thoughtfulness, all that crap? Accuracy. When I am engaged in a dialogue with a friend, it is very important to me that the information this friend is sending my way is accurate. There's nothing I hate more than talking to somebody who's full of shit. Now when I say full of shit, I'm not talking about people who are outright liars, like Big Jim Lang can be on occasion. On the contrary, one of the best things about Big Jim Lang is that he's full of fascinating information, and for the most part he has vetted it for truth. Sure, he'll slip in an outrageous lie every now and then, sometimes for no reason at all, but that's part of his charm. I think I've done a good job of surrounding myself with people like Jim: interesting folks with something to say that isn't bullshit. What I can't stand are people who are either too stupid or too lazy to report information accurately in conversation. There is a guy I work with who has an outstanding rumor or story every time I see him. He speaks with authority and conviction, and he is absolutely full of shit 88.7% of the time. It's hard to even have a conversation with him. What makes it even more irritating is his condescending tone, as if he is doing you a tremendous favor by enlightening you. And then what he says is not just wrong, but often so wrong that you know it's wrong as he says it. It's amazing the stuff he comes up with. If it's work-related, it'll go: "Yeah, (Vice President) Ricky is totally fighting for his job. They're just waiting 'til the new year to fire him. He's done." Within weeks of this pronouncement, Ricky will be promoted to SVP. Religion: "If the Pope steps down, the Mayor of Rome is acting pope until a new pope is named." Geology: "The only reason the tsunami didn't destroy New York is because the ice caps protected us." He's equally deadly on sports, politics, world affairs, and just about anything else. He'll chime in on any conversation, too. He absolutely HAS to have the final say on every matter. Just shut up. I shouldn't complain so much, because I'm probably not the best reporter of facts myself. For instance, I have read probably 500 pages of information on the Kennedy assassination in various places, but I skim over a lot of details and I end up remembering just enough to pass on some half-truths as fact. But usually I will at least acknowledge that I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. I won't report it all as top-quality information. And sometimes I actually have real data to pass along. Like when I say the following: the HD Magic Box is misbehaving like a Mofo. Shutting down, pixelatin', freezing up. Any suggestions? EJ nailed yesterday's but I bet nobody can tell me wheredat? The HD situation is presenting some problems. Because
the HD programs look so much better than the standard stuff, I am finding
1. Animatronic Sharks have not come very far in the 30 years since "Jaws." The effects were totally lame, and they barely showed the sharks at all. Just fins. Which is probably good, because the few times they did show a shark it looked about as realistic as Jabberjaw. 2. Bryan Brown and Kathy Baker should be ashamed. I used to like that Bryan Brown dude. Remember "F/X"? That's a movie I liked at the time but I'd be terrified to watch today. I bet it sucks tremendous moosecock. Still, he carried "Cocktail" on his strong Aussie back. Never saw "Breaker Morant." If I were a Netflix man, I'd be all over that shit. 3. This movie was so bad and so weird that I don't rightly understand how it ever got made. Like, if you wanna make a Spring Break Jigglefest, go ahead. And if you wanna make a shark attack movie, go ahead. Or don't. "Jaws" pretty much nailed that shit. Either way, the combination of scantily-clad teens and huge spurts of blood doesn't really do anybody any favors. Although I guess every horror movie for the last twenty years has been using that formula. Still, this particular pairing seemed quite bizarre. I think maybe it's the Bush administration sending out the message "If you go down to Spring Break and behave in a sinful manner, there's a strong chance a swarm of fake-looking sharks will come and chew your ass up." Other things I've watched in HD that I wouldn't ever consider watching if all things were equal: 1. About half of a Counting Crows concert. Adam Duritz should probably consider trimming his receding dreads before they separate from his head and float off into space. What a tremendously ugly and annoying man. Still, in HD, he's strangely lovable. 2. About twelve minutes of a Pink concert. 3. Some Alaska bear footage. Flashback to December '03 for my thoughts on bears and the study thereof: "Well, another bear expert was mauled to death by bears. To achieve the rank of "bear expert," shouldn't you at least be keenly aware of the first important rule of bear analysis: Don't Fuck Around With Bears. Until these guys begin observing that, I will refer to myself as Bear Expert Grand Master Level 16." 4. An entire boxing match. I've hated boxing since Ali retired, and I rail on it every chance I get, but dammit I saw a very exciting fight on HBO HD last week, and I think I might be tempted to watch some more. 5. About four minutes of Ultimate Fighting Championship action. This was disappointing. I haven't seen any UFC in years, and things have changed. No longer are they playing it up as a bunch of vicious lunatics attempting to kill each other and quite possibly succeeding. Now the announcers treat it like a real sport, with its own terminology and strategy and stuff. Perhaps following in Royce Gracie's footsteps, all the new guys are martial arts experts. I miss the barroom brawler types who looked like George "The Animal" Steele. *** TWIV notes: 1. Happy Birthday to Mike, John, and Brady in whatever order you were born in. 2. Good luck to Joe M. with his surgery. May you heal quickly. So you can enjoy as much soda as you please. 3. I have stumbled across another blog which I think is pretty entertaining and perhaps worth a daily read: oak park mastermind. I kind of like reading blogs where people talk about their personal lives, especially when they go out drinking a lot. And I like Chicago. 4. Go Badgers. Strong-ass showing by the University of Wisconsin system this weekend. Two schools in the Sweet 16. North Carolina has three schools left, but Duke doesn't count. And neither does NC State. Any Kentucky and Louisville don't count, either. Wisconsin is the best. 5. One of the best-ever dubbed for TV swear-word replacements: I was watching "JFK" on TNT tonight, and Kevin Bacon has a speech where he says the word "motherfucker" about six times. In the sanitized version, the word becomes "Mother Fletcher". Each time. High-larious. 6. Wheredat? 3/20/05: Pittsnogle Marches On Let's face it, no matter how severely these upsets have damaged your bracket, there's something altogether right with the cosmos when a guy named Pittsnogle lives to play another day. My strategy for enjoying the tournament is simple: I have only consulted my pool about once a day, and when I do I only look at it for about ten seconds. Long enough to know I lost Wake Forest in the Final Four, but who cares? These upsets are so much fun I don't mind. Here's to UVM and WVU and Bucknell and UW-M and all the other teams who pulled off the big shockers. A lot of these higher seeds played way too carelessly and arrogantly until it was too late. They played like they assumed the lower seeds would eventually crumble before their might, and when that didn't happen, they panicked. And the lesser seeds just got more and more confident as the games went on. It was beautiful. Pittsnogle's boys really impressed me tonight. Even if Pittsnogle himself was on the bench for long stretches of their comeback, he managed to make his presence felt with a Nogleriffic three pointer in the second OT. I am so into the name Pittsnogle that I suggest we submit it to urbandictionary.com with a nice definition. Help me out here. I've got a few possibilities: Pittsnogle: a particularly regrettable one night stand. Pittsnogle: the upset that can result when a higher-seeded team comes out way overconfident and fails to take its less heralded opponent seriously. Pittsnogle: the mass of underarm hairs that gather on the top of the deodorant stick. Pittsnogle: a desperate, poorly planned gambit that almost works, but doesn't. Pittsnogle: the standard post-coital embrace position. Pittsnogle: the dilemma faced when you have two un-cancelable events planned for the same day and time. Pittsnogle: baseball: the back-and-forth that ensues when a baserunner is caught in between bases (see hotbox). Please add your own, and then we'll submit the best one. ***
I said, "Why, will it get stolen?" "Yeah, we've had some real problems down there," she said. "And I live in the same building as you. I think you should just keep it in your apartment. That's what I tell everybody." I should have asked, "Are you addressing these 'problems' or have you just accepted that any decent bike locked securely to a pipe in the bike room will get stolen? If so, that's not much of a 'bike room', is it?" But I said nothing. There is also an overt resentment towards new residents on the part of the people who have been living here for years. Sure, we represent the yuppie takeover, but I swear I'm a decent fellow. And I'm probably paying three times the rent as the old timers who've got grandfathered rent control. As Joe M. pointed out, our high rents our largely subsidizing the much-needed improvements to the project, improvements which the old-timers are then free to enjoy. But I guess we're the enemy nonetheless. The only entity hated more than the yuppie armada is the management company itself. Several residents have pulled me aside in the elevator and in the laundry room (shitty laundry room, machines constantly out of service) to volunteer their opinions about the management company's cheap and unscrupulous ways. Tonight a guy used the term "bloodthirsty" to describe them. There is a simmering resentment within these red brick towers, but there is a lot of happiness as well. Some nice people in the building. I need to make sure I stay happy and thankful for how pleasant it is down here. Although I saw my first Stuytown Rat the other night. Yuck. I had somehow deluded myself into believing that the squirrels were running things on the rodent level here in Stuytown. Like they had just told the rats to get lost if they knew what was good for 'em, and the rats backed off. Nope. I guess the squirrels own the day, and the rats come out to play once the sun goes down. I don't like rats so much. Speaking of squirrels, another childhood myth was exploded today. When I was a kid, I remember thinking it was really cool that squirrels buried their nuts rather than eating them right away. My pop said, "Yeah, they store them there for the days when there's no food anywhere. And the amazing thing is, each squirrel remembers where he buried each and every one of his nuts, so he can go back and get them later." I thought it was one of those insane animal talents that nobody could ever figure out. Then today I saw some squirrels digging for nuts in the dirt. I watched them for about two minutes. And I quickly realized, these squirrels have no fucking idea where all the nuts are. They just dig up entire patches of dirt, desperately seeking a nut, be it theirs or somebody else's. They eventually find one, and then they run off to bury it someplace else. Someplace they'll forget about within 45 seconds or so. Very stupid animals. But much fluffier than rats. Happy Birfday, wife o' mine. To: Myles Brand, Les Moonves, anyone else who might listen CC: verbungle.com readership From: Hans Bungle Date: 3/18/05 Re: How to Save the NCAA Tournament Dear Sirs: The title of this memo is a little misleading. Relax. Your little NCAA tournament is just fine. In fact, it is quite nearly the perfect sporting experience. That is why it pains me so much when I see you guys fucking it up even a little. And the area which you need the most work is how you broadcast this magnificent event. Please accept my humble suggestions, and see if you can implement them by Friday around noon. 1. Show us the best matchups, and cut away from any game once one team is leading by ten. It seems to me that the formula for which games are carried in which regions is as closely guarded as the KFC recipe. I'll never understand either, and they both leave a bad taste in my mouth. I admit that I am a layman when it comes to all of this. I don't know what external pressures you guys face, and I don't have a clue as to how the regional must-show-this-game rules work. I understand you have to show Syracuse in upstate New York and you have to show Mississippi in Mississippi. That's fine. But tonight here in New York City you stayed with the Wake Forest game for far too long. Wake Forest pulled away, and in the meantime there was a close game going on between Nevada and Texas. You didn't cut away until there were about 8 seconds left in that game. Wake Forest is in North Carolina. Tennessee-Chattanooga, I can only assume, is in Tennessee. Neither of these places is near New York City, and as a result, very few people who live in New York City care about these teams. GO TO THE CLOSEST GAME. 2. We don't need to see the 16 seed vs. 1 seed all the time. If it gets close, feel free to cut away to it, such as when FDU was hanging around with Illinois. That makes a good story. But generally speaking, the great games are between 5's and 12's, 8's and 9's, and so on. You need to trust that your audience is deeply interested in this entire tournament, not just in the top teams. Remember, half of the country has money riding on this thing. We want to see exciting games. We've waited all year to see exciting games. Show us exciting games. 3. Please eliminate Billy Packer from all telecasts. The guy sucks the joy out of a game the way a bad fart sucks the oxygen out of a room (or a bad analogy sucks the life out of a paragraph). His lingering presence in our lives is as inexplicable as Jay Leno's. Les, show some guts and fire him. He's had his run. Nobody likes him. His negativity and pedagogical tone ruin every game he works. Trust me, we will watch this tournament all the way through to the end without Packer. We have money riding on it. The good news is I haven't heard him yet in this year's tourney; the bad news is that I assume that is just shit blind luck. 4. Show all the games in HD. Sorry, just being selfish here, but if you're showing 3/4 of 'em in HD, why not go all the way? Maybe you are doing this and you were only showing the SD broadcast of certain games because of some technical limitation. Work on this before Friday's games. 5. Give me more Gus Johnson. I hated him as an in-studio host on MSG, but he has the perfect voice, personality, and attitude for this tournament. He's meticulously prepared, he sees the game well, and he's not afraid to get caught up in the moment. I love hearing every game he does. Perhaps you can bump Jim Nantz for the final and give Gus the gig. 6. Keep riding Gumbel and Kellogg. These guys do a nice job in the studio (especially Kellogg), so don't be afraid to use them for more than 20 seconds at a time. If you're worried we'll miss some game action (and I appreciate the concern), show us a split-screen or something. 7. Where's Raf? I didn't see all the games today, so hopefully he just slipped past my radar, but where the hell is the delightful Bill Raftery? Maybe his act is a wee bit tired, but he's still the Gold Standard. He better be involved. In fact, give me Raf and Gus for the final. Shake things up, Les. Thank you for listening and for immediately taking direct action to address my concerns. I knew you could do it. Readers, feel free to leave additional suggestions for CBS and the NCAA in the comments section. Your Biggest Fan, Hans *** Forgetting about the whole "presumed innocent" thing for a minute, let's just assume they're all lying. Who, then, is the biggest douche? 1. McGwire, for his bizarre, choked-up performance in which he chickened out on the most basic question: did you or didn't you? Soooo guilty. "My lawyers told me....blah blah blah." If you're clean, just say that. You ain't clean, Red. 2. Sosa, for having his attorney read a prepared statement including this ridiculous bit of BS: "Everything I have heard about steroids and human growth hormones is that they are very bad for you, even lethal. I would never put anything dangerous like that in my body." 3. Palmeiro, for his suitably emphatic denial, staring right into the cameras and insisting that he's clean. I dunno. They're all scumbags. Unless they're innocent, in which case I pick McGwire. Because he's not innocent. *** Were I still doing the "touching" page, this might make the grade. I admit it. I like a lot of wack things. Just the other
day, I was semi-seriously discussing my intense emotional reaction to the
Real World: Philadelphia season finale. So I have decided to
preemptively criticize myself for another lapse of taste. Gulp. Here goes.
I used to really, really like Movieline magazine back in el dia. It was
catty and shallow and fun. I haven't read it in maybe 8 years, and I don't
know if it even exists anymore. But from like 1992-1995, it was good. I
swear. I even had a subscription They used to have a delightful column called "Guess Who, Don't Sue" in which they would describe some super-juicy rumor about a celebrity, but they would leave out the name. They would give you just enough information so you thought you might know who they were talking about, but not nearly enough for you to be sure (or for someone to sue their ass). It would go something like this: "What twice-married fortysomething action/comedy star shook up the set of his new, actress-turned-director-helmed movie by demanding a separate trailer for his boyfriend, a onetime studio honcho who's hit hard times but is trying to re-launch his career -- as an opera singer?" Well, I heard a decent rumor recently, and so in the spirit of Movieline Classic, I will present verbungle.com's first-ever "Guess-who, Don't Sue": "What politically conservative, dribble-happy former NBA point guard was recently forced to sell his just-renovated $5.2 million Upper East Side apartment after his wife caught him in flagrante delicto with another woman and demanded a divorce?" *** One thing I often think about is the old "If my 13 year-old (or 15 year-old, or 8 year-old, or 24 year-old, etc.) self could see me at this exact moment, what would he think?" Would he be proud? Would he be appalled at my physical appearance? Would he be embarrassed of my humble surroundings? Would he be disappointed by my station in life? I think about it most often when I'm doing something ridiculous or pathetic, like squeezing my han-d-gas in an elevator or awkwardly stooping down to pick up a bunch of fritos I've spilled. I picture my younger self shaking his head and wondering how it all turned out this way. There was a moment about a year ago when I asked a co-worker what would happen if his 15 year-old self could see him at that exact instant. Let me set the scene. When we are in production at work, there are about eight of us who sit in the control room when we are taping segments. In between segments, four or five of us leave the room to perform our duties either on the set or in the tape room down the hall. And a couple other people might use this between-segment period to take a leak or catch a quick smoke. So at any given moment between segments, as many as six or seven of us might be outside the control room. We started playing a game in which the last person returning to the control room when we were about to start another segment was responsible for closing the sliding door behind him or her. If you were the eighth person, and you forgot to close the door before you sat down, you received a demerit. Of course, the game got out of control pretty quickly. We decided that you would also receive a demerit if you closed the door prematurely, meaning if you weren't the last one in. So every time you entered the room, you had to take a quick look around to see if everybody was back before you made your decision to close or not to close. At one point my colleague, 48 years old at the time and holding a very respectable title within the company, was crouched on his hands and knees, hiding beneath the counter in an attempt to fool the next person to enter into thinking he didn't have to close the door. It was a great move, a successful move, but imagine if his 15 year-old self could see himself at 48, crouched like a lunatic beneath the counter? What reminded me of all this was seeing Hootie in those Burger King commercials. I imagine the life of the 1994 Hootie: getting a hummer from a different woman each night, sleeping under a blanket of $100 bills, thrilling arenas full of white-baseball-cap wearers on a regular basis. And I picture this 1994 Hootie at a party, drunkenly carrying on to a room full of enthralled models and hangers-on about the lyrics to "I Only Wanna Be With You" and wondering how come nobody takes his band seriously? And then I picture myself walking up behind him, politely waiting for a pause in the conversation, and then tapping him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, Mr. Hootie," I'd say. "There's something I'd like you to see." "Hootie!?!" he'd ask. "Hootie!?!" Then he'd turn to his entourage and say, "See what I'm talking about? This kid's calling me 'Hootie'. What the hell is that? My name is Rucker, kid. Darius Fucking Rucker. Show me some goddamn respect." I'd say, "I'm very sorry, Mr. Rucker, and I'd really appreciate it if you could come with me to this adjoining screening room, where my special time-spanning VCR is all cued up to play you something very interesting from the year 2005." Intrigued but skeptical, he'd tell his little hottie friends that he'd be back in just a minute, and then the two of us would walk into the next room. Right as we entered, I would hit the button on the VCR remote and the Bacon Cheddar Ranch spot would begin to play. And he'd go, Holy Shit you gotta be kidding me. And I'd have a good laugh. And then the tape would end, and he'd sit there for a full minute with his head in his hands while I patted him on the back in an effort to console him. Then he'd pull himself together, walk into the next room, and resume banging models with a newfound intensity bordering on desperation. And I'd try to climb into the VCR so I could get back to 2005. *** Just when you thought Dan K's iPod musings couldn't get any more enjoyable, we hit you with this: separate empeetreys for each day of iPondering. Each empeetrey may or may not represent the best song Dan heard that day. We'll leave about three or four up at a time, and then we'll pull 'em down, so get 'em while they hot. Right now we've got days 1,2 and 3/4 up. Thanks much to Dan. *** It's official: getting the HD set has condensed my watchable channel spectrum from about 150 channels to maybe 14. It has become more and more difficult for me to abide the regular programming when the HD stuff looks so vastly superior. Yesterday I spent about an hour watching an HD show on Discovery about gross bugs. It was awesome. There was like a foot-long centipede on there that would absolutely chew you to bits if you ever came across it. Thank God I live in New York City. This thing was horrifying, and we should seriously consider domesticating it so we can train it to defend us against the inevitable squid invasion. *** Boy, did I blow my NCAA picks again this year. Why am I so stupid? 3/15/05: Tales from the Kryptonite I have to admit I'm a sucker for motivational clichés -- the kind of bullshit that coaches toss around to get their teams fired up. Gets me every time. I bet, when their teams are down 20 points with five minutes left in the final game of the season, coaches like to say things like:
And I bet you could hear similar sentiments echoing down the rows of cubicles in the Kryptonite offices a few months back, when the news broke that their locks could be picked by Bic pens. Overnight, they went from the number one name in the bike lock industry to a laughingstock. Since the day I heard the news, I've been trying without success to think of an analogy -- "Kryptonite's locks don't work? That's like a ______ company whose _______s don't _____." Help me out here. Anyway, suffice it to say that if your one job is to provide security, and your security products can be overwhelmed by a 17 cent pen, you've officially hit hard times. Everyone, including me, was taking shots at Kryptonite. And they could have very easily closed up shop and disappeared into shame and infamy. But the boys in Smallville (or wherever Kryptonite's HQ is located) just hunkered down and took their lumps* and said, "We ain't going anywhere." There was a class action suit and Kryptonite agreed to replace every damn one of the defective locks. And if your bike got stolen, they'd buy you a new one. I know they're not doing it out of the goodness of their hearts, they were forced into it, but I am still impressed by their resolve. I personally owned two Kryptonite locks, and I went to their website to find out details of how I could replace them. It was a little convoluted, and I was too lazy to dig through the mess to see if both my locks were eligible for replacement, so I just filled out an online form saying I had two locks to trade in, and waited for a response. Sure enough, a couple of weeks later I got a link to some UPS postage and instructions to send the locks back to Kryptonite. I dropped it off at UPS, and waited for them to send me my new locks or letters explaining that I wasn't eligible. Then today I was home sick from work catching up on Divo'd "Real World"** episodes on the new TV when I heard a knock at the door. "Who is it?" I asked. "United Parcel," the dude said. "I have a package from Kryptonite for Hans Bungle." Fuckin' A, that was quick. About three weeks from the moment I first hit their website looking for answers until today, when I had two brand new locks in hand, ready to go. Kryptonite, you got some fucking guts. You are hereby endorsed by verbungle.com. *** I am excited for baseball to start but I am having my usual difficulties being a Yankee fan. I briefly considered converting to the Mets until Joe M. and Jimmy L. talked me out of it. But it's not out of the question somewhere down the line. I like Randolph and Pedro and Glavine and Floyd and Reyes and Man-kay-vitch and I even like Piazza. The Yankees trouble me. How is Kevin Brown still on this team? And Giambi grosses me out. I hope Tino plays 150 games, I don't care if he hits .233.*** Sheffield's a bit of a dick, ain't he? And I don't get the Womack acquisition -- the guy's a singles hitter with a .319 lifetime OBP. Isn't Chuck Knoblauch available? I still like Jeter and Mo and Jorge and Bernie and Tino and I'll pull for those guys. I may decide to distance myself from any particular team and just appreciate the game in general. Especially because I think it'll be largely steroid-free (if 50% were using two years ago, I bet it'll be down to 15% this year****) and that makes it much more worthwhile, IMO. There are some other teams to pull for, too. Watch out for Florida. The only thing compelling me to root for the Yankees this year is that the Red Sox are now officially even more despicable than the Yankees. Nice Cheney jersey, Varitek. *** The NCAA's are here. I'm debating between filling out three pools or only two. It all depends on how much money I feel like donating to the winner. I should just fill out each of my pools on a five dollar bill to save paper. What I'm saying here is I'm not good at the NCAA pools. Not good at all. The pool gets me so stressed out and it sometimes completely inhibits my ability to enjoy the games, which is a shame because the tournament is one of my favorite events of the year. Maybe my second favorite overall, right after betting on the tournament. *** We could sit here all day and argue about what's the worst song of all time, or the worst movie, but I think we can all agree that Bill Laimbeer's Combat Basketball (for Super Nintendo, ca. 1991) is hands down the worst video game of all time. My roommates and I rented it from Doorstop Video in Madison and were appalled that any company would dare put such crap on the market. *** * In honor of coaches worldwide, I will use as many clichés
as possible when discussing this situation. 3/14/5: Unrelated Weekend Stuff To quote my literary hero, Jim Anchower, I know it's been a long time since I last rapped at ya. And I wish I could stage a dramatic return with some kickass observations, eye-opening links, and maybe even a story or two. But really, I've been way too busy/distracted/tired/stupid to come up with much of anything. Which is why it comes as a great relief and a real honor to announce that verbungle.com is going to be the exclusive home of reader favorite Dan K.'s triumphant return to online journaling. It seems every time the verbungle staff begins to wear down, someone comes out of the wings to pick us up and keep the train rolling. Dan has provided the following introduction for his fine experiment: I am listening to my iPod straight through,
all the songs, in alphabetical order. I am aware that this is a
semi-masturbatory thing to do, and an exhibitionist one at that as I would like
to catalogue the results on your site. I'm calling the series "iPonderous." *** It was a busy weekend and I'll get to the boring details in a second. But first I need to address the controversy stemming from last Thursday's Lyric Stumpah. It seems that EJ and Kissel both rang in with the correct answer at exactly 12 noon. EJ must have pressed "send" a split-second earlier, because haloscan posted her response first. It was a situation I don't think we've ever had before: two correct answers at exactly the first minute when they could legally be posted. It was made even more confusing by haloscan's bizarre time-stamping, which marked all 12:00 answers as 12:10 pm. I didn't know exactly what to do. While EJ clearly seemed to have buzzed in first, Kissel had also responded in the very first possible minute. To accept one answer over the other seemed slightly unfair, but to give both players the points wouldn't be right either. EJ had been first and shouldn't have to share those points. I put it before the verbungle.com board of directors, and then I passed it by the boys at Price Waterhouse Coopers, who are overseeing the integrity of this round of stumpage. Both groups said give the points to EJ alone. But as the CEO and Grand Puba of verbungle.com, I knew it was ultimately up to me. So on Thursday night, I crawled into the closet with a bottle of rum, a 64 ounce cup of Dr. Pepper, and the verbungle.com Code of Ethics. And I swore I wouldn't come out until I had answers: I needed to determine who had won and if the rules as they stand are fair. It was tougher than I expected. I ended up going through four bottles of rum and 320 ounces of soda, and as you may have noticed I was unable to post anything for the last three days. I had to ask myself, "Do I really want people sitting in front of their computers, waiting until noon comes so they can post their response? Is that the true spirit of the stumpah? Especially with all the goofy time-stamping that haloscan is capable of, is it fair to force the competitors into such a silly routine?" The answer, I decided, was a Big Fat Yes. The noon rule stands.** The points go to EJ alone. Kissel, you're still my A Number One Honcho, but I had to do what Grandpa Bungle would have told me to do. When in doubt, give the points to the pretty lady. ***
1. For the fourth consecutive Saturday, we had a new TV delivered. And with this attempt, our television saga seems to finally have a happy ending. Or at least a happy beginning. We ponied up and got a 34" widescreen HDTV, and while it's too soon for an official review, the early results indicate that both husband and wife are very, very happy. Big Ups to Joe Monkeyweb, who interrupted his viewing of Das Boot on Friday night to rush over and help me get the TV stand upstairs. It weighed about 125 pounds, so Joe's willingness to share his furniture dolly came in major handy. The TV itself arrived Saturday, and the mover guys were so efficient in getting it onto the stand that I felt a little ashamed of how proud Joe and I had been when we moved his TV into position a few weeks ago. Once again, let it be said that movers are really quite good at moving stuff around. On to the TV: The HD image is so good, I find myself only watching the 20-odd channels that are broadcast in HD. That's a problem, especially because one of those channels is what Joe calls the "HDTV Propaganda Channel," just a series of programs, like horse racing, that you would never choose to watch if the image wasn't so ridiculously beautiful. The good news is that there is another generic HD channel that shows lots of NBA TV in HD. I watched the Mavericks-Bucks rebroadcast the other night, and it was an entirely new viewing experience. Just detail and clarity that I have never seen before. The best thing might be how clearly you can see the fans in the background. I think I may have recognized a few old college buddies among the Bradley Center faithful. These games are doubly amusing because the brilliant, high-tech image quality is dramatically offset by the hack local TV teams who cover the games. Homers, each and every one of 'em. Makes me miss Marv, who actually called the games objectively and well for so many years in NY and will soon be doing it again in NJ. On Saturday it was my old favorite Jon McGlocklin. Johnny Mac used to crack me up in college, pulling so hard for the Bucks that I found myself worrying about the safety of opposing players when things weren't going Milwaukee's way. So that was a treat, and then I got Tommy Heinsohn tonight for Celtics-Wizards. Heinsohn is a delight. He makes no effort to hide his partisanship, and his gruff Brooklyn voice never fails to make me laugh. Arenas and Hughes are a pleasure to watch, too. Oh, back to the TV for a second. My one possible regret, and the real truth won't be known for a couple more years at least, is getting the set with the 16 x 9 aspect ratio. It's great for movies, and for programs that are in HD, but I would say 94% of existing television shows are in 4 x 3. This means that most of the time you are watching a screen with two huge grey bars along the sides. Of course, more and more programming will be in HD in the coming years, so we'll hold off on an official judgment on this issue for now. Bottom line: this new TV is incredible and I love it. I plan on watching the shit out of it over the next ten years. 2. Played ball on Saturday. Third straight time that I've stunk up the joint. With age creeping up on me, I begin to wonder if this is as good as it's gonna get from here on out. Depressing. Until I have another strong showing, I will modify my lifelong age/basketball playing ability chart as follows (30=solid JV contributor): Age 0-14: 2 In my defense, I am all banged up right now. But this has to improve or I may retire early, just like my defensive mentor, Harold Miner. One interesting note: a well-known rapper who is part of our Saturday game got a gift recently. Adidas sent him a pair of personalized sneakers, with his band's most recent album title printed faintly between the stripes, and his MC name stitched to the heel. That's when you know you've arrived. Shoe companies send you your own shoe just because they want to. The Hans Bungle Special Edition LX from Kangaroos is probably a year or two away. 3. Got to go out for a bit Saturday night. It felt good to take advantage of the fact that I can now walk to the East Village. The wife and I had dinner at Orologio, a nice little Italian place on Avenue A that I haven't been to in about seven years. It was still good. Not great great, but good. Hot soft bread right outta the oven. Mmm. Then I went out to meet up with the fellas at Lucy's. It was great to see the guys and drink a couple of reasonably priced Bud bottles. D. Lee is sporting a fine beard. Lucy's is a great place, like a Blue and Gold on steroids. Or a Bizarro Blue and Gold on HGH. Call me an old man, tell me my beer-drinking skills have dropped from a career high of 30 in 1995 to a 14 in 2005, but I must say I like going out and having a couple and getting home by 1:30 with a semi-clear head. Not as many fun stories these days, but after a while it was the same story every time anyway. And I was usually the bad guy who gets his in the end. Whatever. Lucy's gets a 26.75 on the VRS, but the dude who dominated the pool table all night by beating up on scrubs like me gets a 7.2. Although he was actually perfectly polite, just a little too good for the competition. One of the best players I've ever seen, and I've seen, um, well, he was really good. 4. Had the pops over for Sunday brunch, which was really good. Major respeck to the wife for pulling it all together while I neglected the one task (stirring the apples in the pan) that I had been assigned. *** Finally, wheredat? Not the picture above, you ninnies, the picture I'm linking to. * He's already sent in the first four, I just haven't gotten a chance to post
'em yet. I am choosing to give you bastards a little at a time, so you are
forced to keep returning for more. 3/10/5: Cold Nights, Warm Beers, and Hot Boxes If anyone missed or ignored my email announcement, I want to remind you that softball season is starting in about 3 weeks. D. Lee has sprung for the permit and could use a little 'bursement if you plan on playing regularly. You can email me to get his contact info if you need it. It has been stupid cold this week. March is living up to its rep, and I for one am ready for the lamb's arrival. For some people, the first sign of Spring is pitchers and catchers reporting down in Florida. For me, it's that first Sunday night softball game, when we're taking our practice swings and warming up our arms, chattering away harmlessly. When the temperature of the beer matches the temperature of the evening at a very drinkable and very playable 51 degrees. It means good things are on the way. Here are a few other familiar scenes I'm looking forward to: The moment when I airmail my first routine throw to first and let out the customary yelp announcing that my arm is shot for at least another year. The first time Big Jimmy Lang refuses to run out a ground ball. And also the moment later in that same game when he goes from first to third on a grounder to short. Deion making his first sliding catch without spilling a drop of Sapporo. D. Lee swinging from his heels and belting his last batting practice pitch 50 feet over the fence, and then attempting to suppress a smile as he denies it was intentional. The night when Pete B. shows up and finally gets to call his first shot. Watching him grin in triumph or giggle in defeat depending on the outcome. Reading Dan K.'s first recap.
The first foul ball hit over the 3rd base fence, and the ensuing halfhearted argument about whether it should be one strike, two strikes, or an out. Winning this argument. Arguing in general. Making friends on Gay Pride Day. Lesbians with rifle arms kindly retrieving our foul balls. D. Lee's first clever team name combination. The first ringer walkup dude who becomes a regular. Joe M. throwing pebbles at Jimmy Lang. Joe doing the fierce chicken while belting out the opening scream to "Immigrant Song." Me trying to get him to calm down, to no avail. Alexi roaming left field like a rabid puma. Calling people by the wrong name for months on end. Lots of Joshes and Matts and Dans and Teddys. The first scoreboard dinger. Should called scoreboard dingers count for like ten runs? Or maybe infinite runs? Dipak's first game winning hit in the bottom of the "ninth." The first ridiculous new proposed rule. One-time Rookie of the Year Chris Lee's Hubert Davis-like decline into premature middle age, as evidenced by his spotty attendance record and constant aches and pains. The guy's only like 19 years old. Hopefully this will be a comeback season for him. Hussar's perplexing tendency to be overly fair in arguments. And then the first time when he gets all riled up. The very real sense of fear that sinks in when you're playing 3rd base and Matt is at the plate. The first angry response when someone suggests that the reset button should be pressed. The first wild throw to second that rolls into the right field corner, allowing everyone in the park to score. The ensuing elation for the beneficiaries and the deep depression that sets in for the offending team. Rob calling shots in every game. Justin leaping against the fence to rob somebody of a hit. The first time somebody is forced out at second on a base hit to center. The first play at the plate. The first encroaching soccer player drilled by a line drive. Hopefully off my bat. And, of course...those first glorious cries of "HOTBOX!" *** Sorry we've been so stingy with the premium content lately. We should have new empeetreys, cartoons, Name That Solo/Wheredat/GISG, etc. in the next five to ten days. Just trying to get the real house up and going before we fire up the office on all cylinders. But when we do come back, we'll be like Jordan (in the first comeback). Oh, hell. Here's a wheredat for you. P.S. I think the first time someone starts arguing too fiercely or taking the game too seriously this year, I am going to tell him "You better check yourself." 3/8/5: The Sacker's Formula for Mediocrity The other day, Hugh Hefner (I'm still tickled about the fact that Hugh Hefner reads this website!) posted a quote from an article on the job-related dangers of blogging: IN THE NEWS: BLOGGING MAY COST YOU A JOB It's fucking true. I should know better. Several times a week I mention something work-related, and not always in a flattering tone. It's risky, and it's stupid. Tony Pierce just said it quite well: "You can think it, you can say it later to your buddy, but only an idiot would actually write it in his blog." He's right. I can't afford to be losing this job. The thing is, I'm usually an ace when it comes to self-preservation in the workplace. But since I'm suddenly such a risk-taker, I will tell you a work-related story. At around 2:15 pm today, I returned from lunch and rode up in the elevator with my lunch companion, let's call him X. As we got off, I spotted another co-worker, whose anonymity I must preserve, sprinting to the men's room. What made it so enjoyable is that this man is a large, robust fellow. Tall, thick, and slow afoot. Were I not trying to avoid posting derogatory things about my co-workers, especially ones who I like, I might describe him as big and clumsy. Normally he is not a man prone to quick movements of any kind. But today...this mad dash was so graceful, I could almost hear music playing in the background. Maybe the Chariots of Fire theme. It was like he was in a full sprint but he was still sort of moving in slow motion. Dude had to GO. And go I'm sure he did. I just hope the others got out in time. I've never sprinted into a bathroom at work. As I hinted at above, I am what you might consider a master of office survival. Note that I said survival, and not thrival. There are undoubtedly thousands of How-to books that give you tips on getting ahead at work. And there are probably hundreds of slacker novels about floundering from job to job, failing to do even the bare minimum to stay employed. But today I offer you something in between: advice on how to strategically maintain your place in the office hierarchy, never succeeding so fantastically that you are given extra responsibility or serious pay increases, but also never screwing up so badly that you fail to earn your annual 4% cost of living increase and the occasional promotion. Why you'd want to fall into this category, I have no idea. But that's the category I've found myself in for the last 11 years, and so here are a few tips on flying below the radar while still achieving a comfortable cruising altitude. You basically want to do just enough to keep people from laughing at you when you walk by. Crying is no good, either. By the way, none of this stuff was calculated, it all just sort of worked out this way. And I don't always stick to these rules. Here we go, then, in no particular order: 1. Learn to nod sympathetically when co-workers vent. Try not to take sides, but listen to what they've got to say and try to understand. Disagree with them if you feel strongly that they're wrong, but only if you're sure you're close enough to them to get away with it. 2. Avoid spreading gossip, except when it is immensely satisfying to do so. 3. Never volunteer for anything, but never refuse an assignment either. 4. Fear, or at least respect, the jerky upper bosses. Avoid getting chummy with them. If they know your name, you are a candidate for advancement and/or reprimand. 5. Don't make enemies. You don't have to kiss ass, but you can be civil to all but the most insufferable douchebags. 6. Don't blast your radio or talk loudly on the phone. Don't be loud, basically. 7. Find the alpha dog in the room and adapt to his or her sense of what's appropriate. 8. If you're going to shirk a duty, pick it wisely. Any direct orders from the boss should be carried out promptly. When shirking, it's best to pick a task that'll either never get back to you, or that you can later deny being directly responsible for if you're confronted about it. 9. Be a confidante for your immediate boss. Listen to what he or she says and keep any secrets they share. 10. Be nice to everyone, even the people who you don't really like. But if somebody is outright mean or disrespectful towards you, you owe them nothing. Not even a hello in the hall. Your coldness towards them, when contrasted with your usual sunny disposition, will speak volumes. Also feel free to belittle them behind their back. 11. Try not to apply for a job at another company more than once every three years or so. It'll just complicate your head, and you might end up screwing up the good thing you've got going. 12. Avoid confrontation, except when you really believe strongly in something. Hopefully, these moments will be few and far between. And hopefully, if you don't make a habit of it, you will get respect on those occasions when you do make a stink. 13. Freely disparage the company all the time, except in front of muckety mucks. There should be an obvious distinction between who your fellow griping widget makers are, and who the stiff-ass muckety mucks are. If you can't find this line, I can't help you, I'm afraid. Maybe you could make it a rule not to talk shit about the company in front of anybody who makes over 100 grand a year. But you'd probably be missing out on some quality whining if you used that as your cutoff point. 14. Don't rat people out. You'll regret it. 15. Don't overdo it at the holiday party. I've learned this the hard way. 16. Try not to become the credit-or-blame guy on any particular project. Make sure you can point to other reasons why something tanked, and (here's the tricky part) make sure none of these reasons places the blame squarely on someone else's shoulders. 17. If someone is failing to do their job, and it's preventing you from being able to do yours, don't go to their boss until you've exhausted all other options. First, try sweet-talking them. Then bribing them. Then, if you're still stuck, make a very serious face and tell them directly and unmistakably that they need to pick up their game. Seeing you with this intense look on your mug will usually get the job done. 18. When you're at your wits' end and you think your options are limited to suicide, homicide, and quitting, step away from your desk and take a nice ten minute walk outside the building. Get some air, clear your head. Very rarely can you not afford to spare ten minutes. You'll be glad you did. 19. Stick up for people beneath you when they're getting screwed. It won't get you anywhere, which is good. It's also the right thing to do. 20. Throw balls around every now and then, but do it when the muckety mucks aren't around. 21. Find people who like having fun at work and align yourselves with them. They can shave about twenty psychological hours off your workweek. 22. Don't walk to the bathroom with a magazine defiantly tucked under your arm. That's just disgusting. 23. Try to do a good job on stuff, insofar as it doesn't wear you out too much. 24. Don't slap other employees in the ass. 25. Don't ever blog about work. Ever. Again. That should cover you for now. You're all set for stagnation. *** A co-worker went out to the gas station for coffee today and when she returned, she brought me a 20 oz. Dr. Pepper. Damn was that nice of her. Damn was it good. Dr. Pepper is hereby added to the endorsement list. How had I forgotten? *** Joe Monkeyweb wonders why the number listed in the verbungle.com new name comments box keeps changing. Well, Haloscan is a strange beast. They will keep your comments on their server indefinitely, but after three months or so they no longer count towards the little number that appears next to the word "comments." So if you look at old posts, they'll all say (0), but the comments are actually still there. In the case of the new name contest, people keep submitting new names at roughly the same rate with which they disappear from the little parenthesis. So there may be like 40-odd comments in there, but the number stays around 20 or so. I have unofficially decided to leave that thing up there until the number hits zero. 3/7/5: I will now be able to view NBA bricklayers in all their HD glory Well, we are returning the Sony TV. Again. This time for good. Three times they came with brand new sets, three times we ended up with the magenta halo problem. That's the bad news. The good news is that we are using this frustrating series of failures as a springboard to enter the world of HDTV, albeit with an "entry-level" model, the Panasonic CT34WX54. I have a hard time describing anything that costs over 1000 bucks as "entry-level." In fact, this TV better last us ten years. That thing is being delivered next Saturday. I can't wait. Anyone who wants to come over that day and help me assemble the stand/put the TV on it, this is your invitation. I can't lift 180 pounds by myself. There will be beers available for your consumption. There will be chips and there will most certainly be salsa. Perhaps a cookie or two. You can come and admire the curtains. *** Non-basketball lovers, you are now excused. As an aging codger of a hoops fan, one of the hardest things for me to accept about the game as it now exists is the steep decline in field goal percentage. I know times have changed, and I know that it's a different game today, but I just can't stand the barrage of bricks that fly through the air in NBA arenas every night. I'm aware that there are a number of reasons for this, but none of them change the fact that there are more misses these days than there were twenty years ago. And with every missed shot, the world is a slightly uglier place to live in. Leave the misses to hockey and soccer, sports where every score is the result of a painstaking struggle and some good luck, where a fan can remember each goal in his team's season if he tries hard enough. In basketball, it shouldn't be so hard. I realize that a big part of it is the increase in three pointers attempted these days -- with that increase there will be a decline in FG %. And it's true, if you can shoot 40% on threes, that's like shooting 60% on twos. If you can even make a third of your threes, that's as good as hitting half your twos. But with more threes being shot, that means more misses, and more ugliness. Besides, that's only part of the problem. Guys aren't making as many of their twos as they used to. Look at Allen Iverson, the league's leading scorer. God Bless Iverson. He plays his ass off, he plays hurt, and he's never had much offensive help. In many ways, he's a magnificent player. That being said, he's a career 41.7 % shooter. Think about that. Over nine years, he's missed almost 60% of his shots. That's a lot of ugly. And I don't know that you can ever become a consistent team when one guy takes 30% of your shots and makes 40% of 'em. Now that they have Webber, we shall see what Iverson is capable of. His assists and FG% should go up if he plays his cards right. Of course, if they don't, we can all point to the fact that they got a diminished Webber in the deal and not the 1999 edition. The good news is there's hope. There are now several star players (and almost-stars) in the NBA who seem to recognize the value of taking makeable shots. We won't talk about Shaq and Yao and Duncan and Stoudemire and other big men who are putting up hefty FG numbers by relying on their interior scoring skills. That's to be expected. Beyond them, though, there is a wave of able-bodied perimeter players who are putting the ball through the hoop at a more than respectable rate. Garnett (sure he's 7 feet but he's all over the court): 50.4 There are a few more as well. If nothing else, these judicious shooters prove that a decent percentage is still possible. The earth hasn't tilted ever so slightly on its axis. The rims are still the same size. The ball remains round. It can be done. And maybe, if LeBron and D. Wade can lead the way, one day it will be done. 3/6/05: Ain't no one gonna bring me down I am in a good mood again. Sure, there's plenty of shit, personal and global, to get down about. But I'm refusing to feel bad about any of that right now. I am instead smiling my smile and feeling especially fond of my fellow man.* When I think back over the course of my life, there are very few people who have dicked me over intentionally.** And plenty of people have gone out of their way to help me. For that, I am grateful. Just today, Joe Monkeyweb and Big Jim Lang came over to my new crib to help with the fucky TV. They both came prepared, too. Jimmy had a bag of tools and Joe had a bag of cables. Joe even brought some walkie talkies. It was beautiful -- they were like the Irish Mario Brothers. No, we didn't fix the bastard, but we did the next best thing, which is determine that it is definitely the set itself which is fucky. We performed a number of semi-scientific tests, and we came to the conclusion that the stupid thing has to go back. Again. Ladies and gentlemen, do not purchase the Sony KV-27FS120. It is a lemon. We are trading it in for a different model, and perhaps a different brand entirely. What a debacle. Still, it warmed my heart to see Big Jimmy Lang, a man who once punched me in the nuts, squirming around behind the TV and plugging and unplugging all sorts of things. Joe was on the case, too. He even busted out the ground loop isolator, which helped determine that there was no ground loop problem to speak of. Still not sure what ground loop is, but it's good to know I don't have to deal with it for the time being. Thank you, kind sirs. And I also want to thank Crsmal one more time. With his expert advice, I got that damn curtain hung beautifully. I'm not gonna lie to you. It was a vicious struggle. Several times I had to sit down on the couch and decide whether or not I could go on. I considered crying. But I toughed it out and gave it my all and in the end everything went according to Crsmal's plan. My wife has never been happier. And happy wives make for good lives. Crsmal, if you ever find time between your day job and your lovely wife and the verbungle.com column you already work on, you have a standing invitation to write a home improvement advice type column thingy in this space. Mull it over. Today I suffered what I consider to be the two most common basketball-related injuries there are while I was playing basketball.*** And they still hurt. But so what. I'm happy to still be out there bashing around at all. I just wish I was better at basketball. And skinnier. But again, who cares? Every happy second on this earth is an undeserved gift. And I had thousands of 'em today. Tonight I went to a party with the wife's co-workers and it wasn't bad at all. Nice people. Everybody in her office seems happy. They seem like they're going places, like they're fairly compensated for what they do, and they seem to actually like the company they're working for. In my office, I hear nothing but griping all day long, including from my own mouth. Just a lot of bitterness. Probably a combination of a less-than-great company and a bunch of sourpuss employees. It's good to go out every now and then and remind yourself there's another world out there. A world that might even welcome a sourpuss like me or you. * And woman, of course. I am going into work a couple hours late Thursday so I can take care of the Curtain Rod Situation (band name). Crsmal has been a valuable advisor through the twists and turns of this project, and I am grateful for his help and for his refusal to laugh at my incompetence. He has gone so far as to lay out a game plan for me, and I feel pretty certain that I will follow this game plan to victory. He gets a special throwback Hero of the Day acknowledgement. His wife, Valsmal, is also in the verbungle.com news. She is somewhat of a big shot at our office, and recently all the big shots were sent the following memo: It’s fairly common to see employees attach quotes to their email signature. That’s not a problem unless the quote is considered inappropriate by the reader. We all have to keep in mind who might read our email and, for a number of reasons, and make certain the contents are appropriate. For this reason we are requesting that no quote of any kind be attached to an email signature generated by a Stiffs Networks employee, including Bible passages. We feel this change will present a more consistent, business-like image of Stiffs Networks communications. Please make certain your employees are adhering to this request. If you need help preparing for this conversation with your employee(s), contact the Human Resources department. This may seem like one of those things that should go without saying, but trust me when I say that our employees in the Tennessee office needed to hear this. Badly. Several of them were going nuts with the bible quotes. Boy is that offensive and backwards. Red states, you really need to get some of your citizens in check. Anyway, since we are no longer allowed to attach these little gems, Valsmal wondered what other signature options might be more appropriate. Her first suggestion: The Short Police Report Signature. Example:
I responded with a lame idea for the Personal Ad Signature:
She came back and trumped me with the Overall
performance appraisal rating signature.
Anyone got any other ideas? Some days you don't have to do any work at all to get a post. This was in my email box today:
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