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11/30/04: Was Babe Ruth real?

I don't have my good stuff tonight.  As a matter of fact, I have NAH-TING. But y'all need a google image to get you through your respective workdays, days that are otherwise filled with thankless assignments, personal failures, and well-deserved reprimands. So I will do that for you, in a minute. Were I an average man, I would leave it at that.  Just a nice little google image for you, which I'm pretty sure is all anybody cares about anyway.

But like Gaylord Perry, and other Gaylords throughout history, I find a way to compete, even when my fastball is barely breaking the speed limit in a school zone. Gaylord had his Vaseline (it's rare that you get to type that phrase without remorse), I have the scraps of things that I started typing in my free time in the Pre-Verbungle era. There are a couple in there that are real doozies -- long, poorly written, and embarrassingly confessional in nature*.  Sort of like what I write here on a daily basis. These I may post in their semi-entirety someday when I know I have less than a year to live. In the meantime, here are a couple of excerpts from one such story, just to whet your appetite for that dark day.

He knew this was gonna be the last summer of its kind; the signs were everywhere. Roommates had graduated, taken high-paying, adult jobs that you couldn’t just quit if you wanted to, and the few people that were left were working on graduate degrees that would in turn lead to even higher-paying jobs that were even less quittable. Everybody had a plan, except him. In the past, that was something he hung his hat on -- his flexibility, his ability to drop everything at a moment’s notice and choose whatever was the most fun. But now he looked around and there was usually only one fun thing to do, sometimes none. Everyone else had somehow resigned themselves to this somewhere along the way, and he figured it was only a matter of time before he did too.

***

Greg, Eli, and Beth headed to the back of the bar. Beth looked really cute outside of her food service whites. She was wearing a little sun dress, and her short hair looked stylish. What a sweet little body she has, he thought as he watched her walk away. He waited what seemed like an unreasonably long time for Chelios to make his way around the horseshoe.

“Could I have a Leinie’s?” Matt asked.

Chelios held his hand up near his chest with his fingers about three inches apart, apparently asking for ID. Ballbuster.
 

Yeah. There's way more where that came from, friends.  Be warned. Perhaps I will post a sentence a day in random order until someone assembles the entire story. 

Then there are lots of one-sentence notes to self that are equally shallow and unamusing.  Those occasionally find their way on here in the middle of another post...phrases like "so drunk I was in the 3rd person," etc.

Then there are the passages that were supposed to be the start of something bigger but died silent deaths after a paragraph or two.  Those are perfect for the old cut and paste, like:

Was Babe Ruth real?

Recently, a silly little argument has resurfaced in the nerdiest of the baseball geek in-groups: Was Babe Ruth black? I haven’t had the time to waste reviewing the evidence one way or the other, and I don’t think I’ll get around to it any time soon, for one simple reason: I’m pretty sure Babe Ruth never existed. I mean, he exists figuratively, like Mighty Casey, Roy Hobbs, or Sidd Finch. But he wasn’t a real guy, and he certainly didn’t hit 714 home runs.

Claim: Besides official records, film exists which clearly shows “Babe Ruth” hitting mammoth home runs.

Fact: He swings flat footed, and he was probably played by a number of different actors. Lon Chaney, for one, claims to have played the babe more than once.

Fact: Have you, or anyone you’ve ever met, seen him play? If the answer is yes, I will give you 4-1 odds that the person who claims to have seen him is very old, and most likely a little soft in the head.

Yeah, that's it.  Not much, as Mr. McCourt might say, but enough to turn this post from a one-line GISG submission into something bigger and more potent that took you a full 45 seconds to digest. Worth the effort, I'd say.

cW's post about the impending Styx abomination and the article about great covers reminded me of another great one, which I'm sure you'll disagree with: Sinead O'Connor's version of "Nothing Compares 2 U." I remember the first time I heard that song.  I was selling tickets to a women's basketball game at the University of Wisconsin, alone in my little ticket window, and it came on the radio.  She had already been around a few years, but I remember being blown away by her singing in this song. "I went to the doctor and guess what he told me, guess what he told me..."

Thanks for muscling your way through all that tripe.  Now here's TODAY'S IMAGE (#20).  And before you make the joke, I will inform you that no, that is not Hans Bungle in the picture. Answers start at noon.  We feel bad about disallowing Sita's early guess, but the board of directors decided it was the right thing to do.  Rules are rules.

You can, and should, click on the picture above right to make it more legible.  And no, I wasn't the recipient of this note, nor was the guy in IMAGE #20.

* Sort of like that one softball recap way back when

11/29/04: Discipline, discipline, discipline

You know, it's interesting, running a bullshit website.  It seems like every time you come up completely dry on the idea front, when you feel like hanging up your mousepad, somebody else steps in with some content.  Today we've got a new review from cW, and an entire post from CT in San Francisco. The best part about CT is that I actually don't know who he is.  Well, maybe I would if I knew his full name, but I don't know that, so as far as I can tell, CT is a legitimate, discreet reader and not someone I know from real life. These creatures are rare; CT is one of maybe three documented cases in the history of this site. Rarer still is a legit reader who has something to say, and rarer even than that is a legit reader with something intelligent and interesting to say. CT meets all the criteria, so I humbly present his thoughts on discipline:

"Reduced to a 32oz Coors, and my bottle of Korbel brandy parked elsewhere temporarily, I will attempt to take on some of your issues from a California perspective.

Some time ago you were talking about disciplne, or a lack thereof. First, let me say that discipline is largely overrated. Discipline, by itself, accomplishes very little in life; it is, I assert, always discipline coupled with something else that allows greatness to be achieved. Discipline, as it were, is a crutch, a cane, an old lady's walker, a vehicle which enables this assemblage of creatures, born wicked and lame, known as humanity to rise above its own nature and reach for ...well, whatever.

There's a pretty good Chinese restaurant in Oakland I've been going to for about fifteen years. It's one of those family-run, family-owned-since-the-fifties kind of places. Mom and Pop are out of the picture and the two 40something sons run it. They painted the interior last year for the first time in about 30 years, and then they put some cheesy murals on the wall. But they kept the poster size photos of the Emperor's Imperial City that must date back to the late sixties. Obviously they mean something to the family because no one who ever walked into the place ever thought: "Hey, I'm gonna spend a whole lot more on dinner just because they put those lighted-from-behind photos on the wall." Anyway, Oakland is alot like Brooklyn or NJ as I understand it. Oakland is where remnants of the real SF reside, ever since the real SF had its heart cut out in a swath of yuppiedom destruction as wide as Sherman's salt tillage.

Anyway, this Chinese family walks the straight and narrow, but that is not disclipline. Why? Because it's a very short walk from effort to reward. Every day they work hard. Every night they add up the receipts. There is never a time when income does not adequately exceed expenditures. Doubtless, they own the building. Discipline might be evinced in their lack of excess body fat. RATHER, discipline is evidenced more in the waitress I've been jonesing on for the last fifteen years. She's got a husband she detests. Her employers (the aforementioned family) barely acknowledge her existence and certainly provide no rewards. She has two kids who are both attending UCDavis, probably to become doctors. She barely speaks English. I always give her a 2 dollar tip instead of the customary 1, so we're friends for life. What keeps her going in the face of insurmountable odds? DISCIPLINE. Nothing else. What does she get out of her life? Nothing but hard work and two kids who probably resent everything she's done for them. Does she get to have a fun time with some white guy who'd treat her miles better than her husband? No way. She's got discipline. It's what gets people out of bed in the morning and keeps them chained to their post.

So, in my 'umble estimation, discipline similarly does not do various things. Discipline does not keep people awake way past their bedtime reading interesting things, either in a book or on the web. It does not spur a body on to such alcoholic greatness that he wakes up in the morning to discover that his pickup has inexplicably grown an entire chain-link fence onto its back bumper where there was never one before. Discipline does not give that boy the mystical ability to avoid the police while dragging a chain link fence all the way home in the middle of the night. Nor does discipline provide the inner fortitude to wake up after tieing one on and only four hours sleep, to go to work and suffer through the day. It specifically never gave any writer of the English language (worth reading) the sticktoitiveness to finish a work of genius that inspired more than one generation to think, to feel, to grope and grasp for knowledge. It did not give Shakespeare his genius, nor did it ever give all those physicists in the last hundred years the ability to envision something no human being had ever seen before (except that scam-artist Einstein, who could only envision shtupping those nearest and dearest to him whilst donning an affect of harmless affability). It NEVER gave one that fleeting glimpse of eternity that might follow a balmy rain. I doubt anyone in the Chinese restaurant, overlord or underdog, ever quite finds the time for such things.

Discipline may have gotten Arnold where he is today, but to the Germanic mind, discipline and self-inflicted torture are already a form of life-affirming pleasure. I think that's enough hyphens for one essay. Where can I find some hymens instead?

Well, what's left? Ritalin for the sufferer of adult Attention Deficit Disorder? I've had ADD all my life. You mean if I started paying (more) attention than I already do I'd be happier? Good luck and good night."

Thank you CT for those thoughts. Maybe I should be happy my mind is in a thousand places at once.

And we forgive you for drinking Coors this one time.

I hope everybody had a good Thanksgiving weekend.  Mine was nice.  Ate a bunch of food, played some ball, watched a lot of VH1 Classic, the wife and I cleaned up our palace. For some reason, my left ankle keeps jamming up on me. It's sort of weird.  Most of the time, it's totally pain free, and then all of a sudden it's so tender I can't put any weight on it at all.  Then ten minutes later it's fine again.  Any doctors out there want to diagnose this one for me?

Sometimes our job here is to report and offer commentary on what we report.  Other times, we just report.  So today we direct you to the 60 Minutes Website and ask that you click on the video of the interview with Dustin Hoffman. Once you got that all worked out, fast forward to the end of the interview, just so you can hear Hoffman tell a mediocre joke and punctuate it with a high-five request:

"You wanna hit that, doncha?"

Go ahead and cringe.  Laugh. Cringe again. Finally, nod in awe at the pure power of the Hoff-meistah. If that's not sampled in a top 40 song in the next three months, I have lost touch with the taste of the American people.

Denver + Snow + Football = Fun

OK, here is IMAGE #19 in the GISG.  You can start guessing at noon.  This one might be kinda easy and/or lame but that's the way it goes in googleville sometimes.  Here are your up-to-date standings:

pb dot c - 3
joe m. - 3
crsmal - 3
sponsor - 2
chris b. - 1
sita - 1

11/28/04: Things I noticed or thought about while watching VH1 Classic over Thanksgiving weekend*

1. Why was Jack Blades the sole face of Night Ranger?  Whenever you saw an interview with the band, he was the guy doing the talking. And I guess he was a nice-looking, poofy haired 80's dude, and he did sing some of the songs, if I remember correctly. But at least in the "Sister Christian" video, generally considered their artistic and popular peak, the drummer was the guy doing the singing. And yet, even in that video, he barely gets any face time. Which is especially weird because MTV loved a good drummer/singer in the 80's -- look at Henley, look at Collins.  Yet this guy, the Night Ranger drummer/singer, with his short hair and wristbands, remains largely anonymous to this day.  No justice.

2. There was an unmemorable Luther Vandross song that came off the "Ruthless People" soundtrack, and the video featured really awful 80's effects, such as superimposing Luther, badly and unimaginatively, into the movie.  It was pretty appalling, but the most amazing thing is, they gave away the entire movie in the video, including the ending.  I was astonished. Was there no sense of reason in the 80's? Who green-lit this video? Maybe I am especially offended because I was such a fan of "Ruthless People" back in the day. 

3. Say what you want about her, but Toni Tennille would have won "American Idol" if she just came onto the scene today.  The Captain was real creepy, though.  Just sitting there at the piano with his Captain hat, staring lustfully at Tennille. It makes me uncomfortable.

4. Kip Winger is still going strong.

5. Remember that one video from the 80's with the fancy effects, the one you always thought was stylish and cool? It wasn't. 

6. Take one look at The Bangles and you can see why there might have been some jealousy and resentment in that band.

7. What makes VH1 Classic so watchable is the same thing that made MTV so watchable in the early days.  The sense that a strange video might be played at any moment.  Nothing was set in stone. There was reason to watch from one hour to the next because you just never knew for sure what was going to come on. 

8. My submission for worst video of time: The "Freebird/Baby I Love Your Way" medley by somebody called Will to Power.  Incredible.  As bad as the song is, it's topped in badness by the video, featuring a woman who looks like Laura Branigan, but scarier, and some dude whose mullet/moustache combination is so potent it should be resurrected and implemented in the War on Terror. You must see this.

9. Ol' Jackson Browne was sure shameless about putting Darryl Hannah in his videos, huh? At least twice he did that.  I guess if you were dating Darryl Hannah, you wouldn't be trying to hide it, either.

10. The Thompson Twins never did it for me.  Not then, not now.

11. There is a .38 Special video that features two dudes arm-wrestling and another dude playing "Gorf." Remember Gorf? It was like four games in one. It should have been called "Fourf."  OK, I'm sleepy.

12. Another truly awful 80's band: Saga.

Feel free to share your own observations and I will keep you posted as well.

***

Does the fact that someone who just took up the game in the last year can make it to the final table make the World Series of Poker a more populist event or just a more lame one? I think it just proves that while there's plenty of skill involved in poker, luck still plays a great part.  I mean, doesn't everybody know the percentages? Strategically, isn't there always a clear path?  So it boils down to three things: bluffing, style, and luck. If you've got the balls/skills to bluff, or if you play erratically enough to keep people off balance, you have a chance to do some damage -- provided you get the cards. I still find it to be a pretty gripping piece of TV, but there's no way these guys are the geniuses they're made out to be.  I'm gonna say that if Pete B. took the next 6-10 months off to master the game, he'd stand a fifty-fifty chance of winning the whole thing next year.

***

Played hoops today.  It was fun. I am still good enough to score on people who are either physically disabled or are just taking up the game for the first time.  Actually, I felt pretty darn good out there. The ball was going in most of the time. That's all we can ask. Hopefully, by the time I die they will have perfected the device that allows you to store every event in your memory, even the ones you can't recall on command because they have been compressed to make room for new memories, on a hard drive.  Let's call it MeVo, a contraption that can replay your entire life with the push of a button. I would like to use that thing to compile some lifetime statistics for myself in all varieties of basketball games, from 2 on 2 to any of the stupid leagues I've played in over the years.  The stats I'd like to see most are winning percentage and field goal percentage.  And I'd like to watch those two numbers decline over time.  That's how it goes.

***

Finally, we are going to hold off on the next image for the GISG until tomorrow (Monday). The reason being that a lot of you somehow seem to have better things to do on the weekend than look at the ol' bungle. For whatever reason, the hits go way down on the weekends.  I understand how it goes: verbungle's a nice alternative to filling out that TPS report, but it don't beat going fishing or having sex. I can live with that.  The weekends are your time. Sometimes we'll put a little bungle up for the faithful, but most of you only tune in to avoid doing your jobs, so we'll save the GISG for the workweek.

***

* Sorry for the shameless 80's nostalgia, and I know there should be more to life than saying, "Remember (insert meaningless mutual memory here)?" But it's a slow week here at the office.

11/25/04: Happy Jive Turkey Day

The other day I was touting my ability to lapse into a dream state during meetings, but today I realized something scary.  It's not just meetings.  My power of concentration is simply shot.  Conversations, magazine articles, work assignments -- I just can't stay connected to anything for more than a few seconds at a time.  I'm hoping I'm just a little run down; I have been staying up late mining for new images for the GISG and not getting much sleep.  But I think it might be something else as well, something physical. It's just too weird.  Forgive me if I don't make any sense from here on out, but something has come unwired in my brain and I hope it's only temporary.

It was a crappy-ass, rain-soaked day today in NYC. I left work a little bit early and got to hang out with Dillahunt for a couple of hours.  He seems the same, happy in Minneapolis, plotting future acts of misbehavior, no doubt.  I came home and took a nice four hour nap, and when I woke up around 10pm, the wife wanted a banana milkshake*.  Yes, we had no bananas today, so I offered to run to the dirty deli to pick some up. Our dirty deli actually has pretty good fruit.  When I went outside, the rain had stopped, a warm breeze was blowing, the sidewalks were glistening, and it smelled like a beautiful spring day. It made me so happy.  The 90 foot walk to the deli was just a reminder how lucky we are to be alive. I appreciated every second.

Speaking of lucky, it's Thanksgiving, so I should probably make just a couple quick addenda to my recent list of things I'm thankful for. Apologies if some of these are thinly disguised complaints.

I'm thankful I finally got a gmail account, and I hereby offer accounts to the first three people who leave a comment requesting one in the comments section. You probably already have gmail accounts, you slick bastards.  Or you're too cool to want 'em. Does anybody really need another email account? I dunno. So far, I like it pretty good, some nice touches, although they really stole the look of the interface from boring old Yahoo. But like my Grandpappy Maurice always said, A Gig's a Gig. I think he was talking about email storage.

I'm thankful that, as long as the remote is nearby, I don't have to watch Flavor and Brigitte make out. They actually make me physically ill.

I'm thankful for VH1 Classic.  I don't care if it's all nostalgic schmaltz -- as my Uncle Joe used to tell me, Fogelberg's Fogelberg.

I'm thankful that I bought the extended warranty for my laptop, even if it's been two and a half weeks and I haven't gotten that thing back yet. And even if I forgot to mention the busted down arrow key when I brought it in.  I hope they replace that as well.

I'm thankful that my wife has been so generous with the use of her computer in the meantime.

I'm thankful as hell that the apocalypse has managed to hold itself off for another year**.  Thanks, apocalypse. 

I'm thankful for banana milkshakes.

I'm thankful I've stayed away from McDonald's for over a year, McVeggie or no McVeggie.

I'm thankful I wasn't born in a situation where I had to join the military and get sent to Iraq by our gutless, clueless president.

I'm thankful I finally added a comments section to this site, and I appreciate all of you who leave comments, positive and negative.

I'm thankful they identified beer-thrower guy, and I can't wait for his story to unravel.  He was actually on TV talking about what a thug Artest is.  Nerve. My thinking is that they've got him on tape and he's going down.  The hands in the pockets are a dead giveaway. If I'm wrong, I apologize.

I'm thankful for guys like Joe Smith, who don't live up to the hype but manage to be productive players anyway because they bust their ass every night. I saw him diving all over the floor last week...not a lot of former overall #1's do that.   Too bad.

I'm thankful I don't have to drive past this every day on my way to work. Hell, I'm thankful I don't have to drive to work at all.

I'm thankful I'm finally back at a point in life where I can admit I like something even if I know it's not cool. I like "Everybody Loves Raymond." Fuck you. I like "Lovergirl" by Teena Marie. Up yours.

I'm thankful for unseasonably warm days and nights.

I'm thankful that we are all only an email or two away from each other at this very moment.

I'm thankful I will get to eat lots of food today.  And I hope you can do the same.

I'm sorry the world is so unfair, and my thoughts go out to the people on this planet who have no lists of things to be thankful for.

OK, I still want you to answer IMAGE #16.  Here's a hint: two words, somewhat familiar phrase, and look at details in the picture for clues. If that doesn't help, you can start answering IMAGE #18 at noon. May the force be with you.

*Here is verbungle.com's first foray into recipe-sharing:

** I found this editorial interesting, but I have to say Kristof comes across just as bigoted as the people he's condemning. These people believe the end is coming, and I think they're full of shit, but if it's actually their opinion they're entitled to it.  I don't even find their message especially bigoted -- they think we're going to hell for eternity, but they don't hate us for it. The best point in the article was imploring these authors to give all their money to charity (although I am sick of Kristof's "bet" device).  Note how these greedy bastards have learned from the mistakes of previous doomsayers, and have just said they "think this generation will witness the end of history."  Not tomorrow or next week or six months from now. Just at some random point in our lifetimes. That will allow them to sell a lot more books. I think if you're going to prophesize, you gotta be specific.

11/24/04: No more talking about you-know-who

OK, I promise this time.  I'm done talking about Artust and Artest and John Green and everybody else involved in Friday's brawl. I apologize to those I may have offended, and I am thankful we all have time to discuss such unimportant issues at such great length. Now it's time to let go.  Did I mention I still love you?

Anyway, I'm done, so if you still want to tee off on me, now's your chance.

I was lucky enough to attend tonight's NBA contest at Madison Square Garden. The game featured two of the league's up and coming teams, The New York Knicks and The Atlanta Hawks.  Thanks much to Dipak for the invite. The seats were great, possibly the closest I've ever been to game action.  It allowed me to make some of the following observations:

1. As skanky as you think Paris Hilton may be from seeing her on TV and in magazines, you need to multiply that by five to comprehend just how skanky she is in person.  She sat courtside near Ethan Hawke (I should have cock-punched him, I know) and Luke Wilson. Both Hawke and Wilson tried to put as much distance between her and them as possible, lest anyone think they were together.  They both looked nervous every time she leaned over and tried to talk to them. To her credit, she stayed through the final buzzer.  To her discredit, she spent the entire game on her Sidekick, looking at the court about once every 20 minutes.
2. Kevin Willis can still fill out a suit like nobody's business.  That guy is an impressive-looking human.
3. This guy Brewer the Knicks just picked up has some insane hops. He ain't much bigger than Marbury, and he had a monster flush in the layup line that raised some eyebrows.  Then he caught another huge one in the game.  Fun to have a crazy leaper to come off the bench in garbage time.  He sprained his ankle on the dunk, and I think his reckless style is going to make him injury-prone. He kind of reminds me of this guy Eddie I play ball with -- a total thoroughbred, but an ankle or a knee seems to be exploding every month. Poor guys.
4. The Hawks are a lifeless bunch.  Antoine is just putting up his numbers, the same goes for Al Harrington, who can really score.  Jon Barry is just about out of gas.
5. In person, Marbury's speed is just unbelievable.  I think he's about 25% quicker than everybody else on the court. He's so quick, you can anticipate his crossover and get in position, and he'll still whip by when he wants (which sort of makes me wonder why he doesn't do it more often). I can't imagine trying to guard him when he's mad (luckily, I probably won't have to). He played a beautiful game tonight, spreading the ball around before looking for his shot in the 3rd.
6. Dominique Wilkins broadcasts for the Hawks.  He still looks pretty good.
7. This is Lenny Wilkens' coaching style: call out to Stephon, tell him something gently, watch the team play.  When they screw up, walk back to the bench and explain to the reserves how the guys on the court just screwed up.  Lenny's looking old, and I can't imagine it's comfortable coaching for Isiah.  I predict Mark Aguirre takes over the team by next season at the latest.  Aguirre really seems to be on the ball, and the players totally listen to him and relate.  I always hated him as a player, but I have come to respect him.  I like Lenny, too, but I think he's in a no-win situation.
8. I won't make a joke out of this, but Walker got into it a little bit with Jerome Williams in the 4th quarter.  He shoved Williams away, getting a T in the process, and then I swear to you Walker jumped up and sat on the scorer's table to pout. Write your own punchlines.
9. Kenny Anderson needs a Permanent Red Card.  He's not yet a complete embarrassment, but it's just so sad to see him out there, bringing the ball up and lobbing it into the post. He was a special player, one of those guys who you couldn't take your eyes off.  Same goes for Penny.  Two guys who used to take your breath away and are now about as exciting as Trent Tucker and Rory Sparrow. 
10. Josh Childress showed some real nice athleticism, but his jumper is as broke as can be.  Just ugly and mechanical, about as fluid as Darrell Walker's. I remember him being a decent shooter in college, what happened? That seems to happen to a lot of guys. Still, I wouldn't write him off yet.
11. Vin Baker still exists.
12. Security was a joke; just the same old ornery ushers who've been there since 1974.  Were a fight to break out, it would get just as ugly as Detroit.
13. I thought by observing a game in person I might better be able to figure out what exactly is wrong with it. The only thing I really noticed is how few fast breaks there are compared to 20 years ago.  I can't figure out why, though.  Are teams not pushing the ball upcourt or are defenses just way more conscientious about getting back on D? I miss you, golden age of hoops. I don't think we have any choice at this point but to resort to Peteyball.  It gives us a fighting chance.
14. The game looked much easier to ref than it does on TV.  Those guys have it pretty well under control.

Not much to report, as of 3am you haven't solved IMAGE #16.  Keep working on that, and at noon you can start in on IMAGE #17 as well. 

Happy Thanksgiving to all.  Eat, drink, and reminisce. Kiss your cousin on the lips. Smoke a broken pencil. Come out to your entire family at the Thanksgiving table. Watch football and savor its sensible, institutionalized violence. And save an extra yam for me.

11/23/04: A Million Felons Can't Be Wrong

I am totally ready to put this Artest shit behind us all. It has definitely touched something in a lot of us, and it's made me realize that the blog comments section is the 21st century answer to the barstool (I know, I know, the barstool itself is still going strong).  It's one guy passionately stating his semi-informed opinion, only to be shouted down by the next guy with a different opinion, and then it goes back the other way again.  Nobody changes their mind; in fact, everybody leaves the bar clinging even more tightly to their original point of view. The difference, which is nice, is that instead of drunkenly punching each other in the face and going home to an angry wife holding a frying pan, we can all retreat to our own dark corners of the internet, and come back the next day at peace with humanity.  In fact, I want to take this opportunity to say this to all those who disagree with me on Artestgate: I still love you. 

And I forgive you for being wrong.

I kid. You know I kid.  We all feel differently about this, and that's just fine.  It's a tough call, this one.  Making a proper judgement* requires some patience, some understanding, some thought, and perhaps some more time as well. Too bad Davey Stern had his mind made up in 24 hours. We'll see how the appeal process goes.

I had a couple of two-hour meetings today, and as usual, I found it impossible to focus on the matters being discussed. In fact, I accidentally stumbled upon a really exciting game to play in these situations.  I was spacing out, thinking about Ron-Ron and Bernard and the internet and Spring Training and the future of mankind and what's for lunch and what time is it and maybe even some unspecific bad things that cross everybody's mind once in a while.  There were about 9 of us in this one meeting, and there was really some good discourse going on. We were brainstorming future show ideas and it was going well. Everybody was being enthusiastic and supportive and ideas were whizzing around the room at a nice clip.  But dammit, I just couldn't find it in myself to care for more than a few minutes at a time.

Here's how it would get interesting.  They'd be batting something about, disagreeing here or there, trying to shape some of these raw ideas into something that resembled a show. And all of a sudden, I would hear one sentence, maybe the first I had heard in the last ten, and I would decide to offer my two cents. I don't know what I was thinking.  I really had no idea what they were talking about. We had handouts for the meeting and I didn't even know what page they were on.  But somehow I saw fit to jump right into the middle of a discussion with a point that very well could have been about a completely different topic. As I looked around the room, gauging the responses by the looks on everybody's faces as I spoke, I was terrified and thrilled.  I fully expected someone to say, "Hans, what the hell are you talking about?" And I would have had to say, "I have no idea."  But somehow, nobody laughed at me or shook their heads or looked completely confused.  It was nice. There was one time where I started talking and I had nothing to say, but I kind of steered myself back to something that was in the realm of reason.

The point is, as soon as I opened my mouth, it felt like a huge wave was approaching, and I wasn't sure whether I was going to be able to bob over the top of the wave or dive through the base, or if the thing was just going to tumble down on top of me.  It made things lively, and I suggest you try it. The next time you drift away in a meeting (you could even drift away on purpose, it's not hard), just snap back into reality and make a very emphatic point vaguely related to what you think they might be talking about. It's like a horror movie.

***

Last Artest item (promise!). I found this amusing, even if verbungle.com does not necessarily agree with the opinions expressed herein. It comes from Bill Simmons' column about the melee:

"Adam Carolla had an interesting take on this incident: Imagine being the guy at the game who was first attacked by Artest? You've been watching these guys for two hours, you're pretty buzzed, you're loving the seats ... and then this fight breaks out, and it's riveting as hell, and then suddenly Artest gets nailed by the cup and he's coming right at you. As Carolla said, it would be like watching "Captain Hook" in the movies for two hours, then Captain Hook comes right out of the movie screen and attacks you. Would you have blamed that first guy for soiling himself?"

***

Drunk rats.  I should have a joke here.

***

The GISG is tighter than the women's underwear I'm wearing right now.  HERE IS YOUR NEXT IMAGE (#16).  Dig in, and answers at noon as always.

***

* I refuse to spell judgement without the "e", even though I suspect that is the correct way to spell it.  I just ain't buying the soft g before the m without a nice little e in there to smooth things out.

11/22/04: Fallout

So I guess the honchos at the NBA didn't agree with my assessment of the big brawl this Friday. Doesn't surprise me; Stern's got a (mediocre) product to protect.  He'd rather say to the fans "Our players are thugs, but don't worry, we'll make sure they pay the price for crossing the line" than "Drunk fans in Detroit threw beer in the face of one of our star players, and they got their asses whupped in return. Is there a problem?" I know you have to make some kind of a statement after an incident like this, but shouldn't he have included some promise to hunt down and murder all the fans involved? The Artest suspension in particular is excessive. So I guess if you hit an NBA player in the face with a flying object, he has no right to respond.  Stern*, you turkey, you've allowed a bunch of disgusting fans to change the course of the season for one of your best teams.

These would have been my suspensions:
-Artest - 20 games
-O'Neal - 15 games
-Jackson - 20 games
-Wallace - 20 games

I would have fined the Pistons 25 million dollars for what they allowed to take place in their building. And any fan identified on tape as participating in any way should be banned for life from all NBA arenas.  Fucking rednecks.

I also fully expect the NBA to implement some draconian new security measures, which I think is completely unnecessary.  Basically, a fan gets clocked once every ten years.  That does not amount to a problem, in my opinion. In this case, the fans got a well-deserved beatdown. Things should be left as they are.

Incidentally, does anybody remember the time in maybe 1984 when recovering alcoholic Bernard King** went into the stands after legendary Detroit heckler Leon the Barber, who had just asked Bernard, "How about a drink?" Nobody made a big deal about it. If it happened today, Bernard would get a 30 game suspension.

***

I have a story, but it needs a moral.  Help me out.

When I was about 8 years old, a kid moved into my apartment building.  I think his name was John Patterson, and he was maybe a year younger than me. My parents and his colluded and decided that the two of us should be best friends. Looking back, he was new to the neighborhood, so he probably was a bit lonely. But I saw him as an unwanted intruder in my daily affairs, which included eating Doritos and playing Stratego. Anyway...one day his mom dropped him off in our apartment so we could hang out.  It was awkward, like a bad blind date.  We decided to play with some action figures, which is the elementary school equivalent of talking about the weather. It was only grudgingly that I let him touch my toys; I was a pretty selfish little fuck.  He picked up one doll, the "Astronaut" from the Mego "Planet of the Apes" collection.  I say "Astronaut" because that was what it said on the box: Astronaut.  And in a fit of imagination, I had decided to call him "Astronaut."

"I like this guy," John said, his eyes brightening for the first time all day. "Let's call him Barrelhead."

"Barrelhead?" I said, shaking my head with disdain. "You can't call him Barrelhead. His name is "Astronaut."

"Why can't we call him Barrelhead?" asked innocent little John.

"Because," I said, snatching the doll back from him, "he already has a name: Astronaut."

With that, the two of us stopped playing with the action figures.  We stopped talking completely.  We just sat there, waiting for his mom to pick him up.

We never hung out again.  I saw him in the lobby just about every other day for the next ten years, and we would sort of grunt hello to each other. By the time I turned 15 or so, when a wild Friday night for my friends and I meant staging a slam dunk contest with a nerf soccer ball in my room, John had turned into a handsome young hipster in training, complete with guitar over the shoulder.  And he started bringing home lots of cute girls, too. It seemed the more pathetic and socially inept I became, the more popular John became.  I am sure he is now a millionaire with seven wives. And I continue to sack shit.  But at least I have one good wife.

What's the moral of this story?

***

Here's your GOOGLE IMAGE for the day. Guessing starts at noon, as always. Incidentally, most of the pictures I have been posting lately on the main page, like the one above, have been shots that turned up while I was searching for an image for the GISG.  They haven't been selected for the game for one reason or another, but you can still guess at 'em, for extra credit.

***

* Did you see Stern at the press conference, talking like he's Clint Eastwood? Pud.
** Speaking of 'Nard, did you all hear about this sad piece of news?

11/20/04: WWENBA

This Pacers-Pistons brawl was just astonishing. Just an awful, awful scene. At verbungle.com, when there is a melee, we like to break it down and assign some blame.  You recall us doing this with the Zimmer-Pedro incident last year:

More recently, we felt pretty much alone in our defense of the actions of Dodgers outfielder Milton Bradley after an incident in which he sought out a fan who had thrown a beer bottle at him:

So you can probably guess where we're going to go in our post-game blame session here. But you don't pay the $9.95 verbungle.com monthly subscription fee so you can guess what we're going to say. You pay it so you can get insightful analysis from our award-winning team of veteran reporters. So let's get to it.  This time, there was such chaos, so much wild stuff going on, that we don't feel we can accurately distribute the blame among all the participants.  So we are going to evaluate all the major players on a report card-style scoring system.  No particular order here.

1) Ron Artest: B
Yes, Ron-Ron is crazy.  And yes, his hard foul on Wallace was more than a bit excessive considering there were 45 seconds left in the game and his team was up 15. But when you play with an edge, like Artest does, like Charles Oakley did, you can't necessarily just shut it off based on clock and score. That said, from the moment after the foul was committed through the final punch, I can't really find a thing to blame him for. He didn't retaliate when Wallace shoved him hard in the face. He laid on the scorer's table even after Wallace threw a towel at him.  He was fucking trying, man. Going into the stands after a fan might not have been smart, but it was more than understandable.  And dropping that fat kid in the Pistons jersey who was approaching him on the court was also justified.  The minute that fan stepped onto the court, he was looking to get socked.  And socked he was.  Sure, Artest threw some haymakers.  But he took an extraordinary amount of shit before he went berzerker. I can't blame him too much for this, except for the little fact that he started the whole thing with his rugged foul.

2) Ben Wallace: D
Yeah it was a bad foul.  And I understand he was probably pissed about losing the game. But he went after Artest way too hard, first with the face-shove maneuver*, and then with the throwing of the towel from behind a crowd like a little bitch. He escalated things and probably bears the main responsibility for igniting the brawl.

3) Rasheed Wallace: A-
You kind of always knew Rasheed was a good guy, didn't you? Sure he's whacky, but he's got a big heart and he tried his damnedest first to diffuse the fight, then to protect the players in the stands without throwing punches himself. My only complaint is that he sort of violently threw himself in between the initial combatants, which may have made things a little hotter than they already were.

4) Stephen Jackson: D
Jackson was a bad pickup for Indiana, I think. He's just a knucklehead, and he proved it by jumping in the middle of the initial Wallace-Artest fracas, pulling up his jersey and offering to fight anybody in a Pistons jersey. Then he went crazy throwing punches in the stands, too, but I can't really blame him for this, because he was defending Artest.

5) Jermaine O'Neal: B-
Tim Legler made a good point in his discussion of the brawl -- he said that players take all sorts of vicious verbal abuse throughout their careers, and they can't react.  So the minute they are justified in reacting because they're being physically threatened, players are going to take some shots.  I kind of thought this applied to O'Neal more than anybody else. He was looking to punch some people out.  That said, he also got in a beautiful right cross on Fat Kid, even if it was a bit of a sucker punch.  And if I was Artest or anybody else involved, I am pretty proud to have O'Neal as my teammate.  He stepped up and defended his boys. He also took the brunt of the flying objects being tossed from the stands, which was just nauseating. His anger was pretty well justified.

6) Larry Brown: C-
I love Larry Brown.  I love the smooth, bullshitty way he talks, I think he's a great coach and he seems like a decent character. But he was pretty impotent in calming the crowd, just standing there with the microphone looking scared.  Not that he really could have done much.  But he also annoyed me after the game, saying with disbelief, "That's not our fans." Company man.  That IS your fans. They just proved it. Which brings us to...

7) The Pistons Fans: F
Just like I can't condemn every Oklahoman for the 53% of them who voted for Coburn, I can't blame all the Pistons fans for the behavior of some of them tonight. But there were way too many -- WAY, WAY, too many -- of them involved tonight to call it anything but a disgrace. Brawling, running on the court, throwing shit -- just shameful. They are notorious for brutal, racist taunts.  They are not good fans.  Larry Brown is delusional if he thinks "that's not our fans." Bullshit. He also tried to trace the whole thing back to Artest's hard foul. Whatever.  It was a bad foul, but what ensued was much badder. I want to single out a few fans who I think should be in jail:
a) fat kid in the jersey who got dropped (and his twin, who was right behind him).
b) dude in baseball hat who may have thrown initial bottle that hit Artest, then gave Artest several cranium punches while Artest was attacking somebody else.  This guy better hope Artest doesn't get a good look at the tape.
c) fat security-looking dude who blindsided Fred Jones
d) whoever threw the chair
But there were lots more...

8) Joe Dumars: C-
Again, I like Dumars.  And he's not completely wrong when he says players can't go in the stands NO MATTER WHAT. But again, he's a company man for failing to come right out and blame the fans.  They are the ones who should be most ashamed of this incident, and he shouldn't be so quick to come down on the players, which seems like a backhanded way of defending the fans.  The Pistons chairman was also interviewed and he tried to pin it on Artest, even hinting that Artest shouldn't have laid on the scorer's table because he provided too good a target for the fans.  And I suppose rape victims that dress provocatively are to blame for whatever happens to them, too? He gets an F, whatever his name is.

9) Rick Mahorn: B+
Way to try to break things up, Rick. I still wouldn't fuck with you.

10) The ESPN Crew: B+
Breen: A-: I don't really care for him, but he remained composed throughout the chaos and kept us pretty well updated.  He also rightly came down hard on the fans right away.
Walton: D: the problem with becoming a caricature and treating the game like a joke is that when something seroius happens, you're unprepared to offer up much more than a "this is a disgrace." Thanks, Red. Then, when he finally got composed enough to say more than five obvious words, he was not nearly sympathetic enough to the players who went into the stands.**
Legler/Anthony/Saunders: A-: solid opinions backed up with personal anecdotes.
Stephen A. Smith: A: he was all over the story and he didn't get too emotionally involved. This allowed him to remain, uncharacteristically, the calmest voice in the room.  He also gave some very good analysis of what happened.

So to review. the ultimate Gas face goes to the Pistons fans, or, rather, the 15% of them who behaved in a completely unacceptable manner. But there are more gas faces to go around.

***

I think the GISG search game took a turn for the worse today.  Sorry about the whole "migrant" thing. We will make an effort to give better images from here on out, and at this point we just want to make it through the game without anymore controversy.

* Although the shove was quite impressive, the best of its kind since N. SIta defended our honor at Coney Island High ca. 1998 with a two-armed shove of a drunken troublemaker. Sita's shove launched the phrase "You shoved the shit out of him."
** I do wish the players hadn't gone into the stands; it did make things worse.  But I can't honestly say I blame them.

11/19/04: Days of Unironic Moustaches

Home sick again today.  Hopefully I finally rested enough that I will be healed up for the weekend. It's important to be healthy on the weekends.  I am just about out of PTO days, and my remaining allotment are already spoken for -- another California trip at Christmas. PTO stands for Personal Time Off.  Our company has lots of little abbreviations like that -- PTO Days, DIRT safety team, EAC event planning committee -- and I'm sure yours does too. I suppose they're acronyms, although I always kind of thought acronyms needed to be pronounceable.  I guess not.  People love using the term "acronym."  It's like sun shower.

We used to get separate vacation days and sick days, like maybe 14 vacation days and 6 sick days. Then they lumped 'em all together under the PTO heading.  So now we get like 22 days (more for lifers like me) and we can take 'em however we choose.  Somehow, the move to PTO days pissed people off.  They were like, "I don't want to have to take a PTO day when I'm sick." WTF? You get the same number of days -- check that, you get more -- as you did before, and now you can take them for either sick or vacation days. What's the problem?  In the past, if you weren't sick, you'd sometimes pretend to be in order to use up those sick days. Now you can just be like, "I'ma go ahead and PTO it tomorrow.  Maybe I'll go to the movies, maybe I'll go duck hunting, maybe I'll stay in bed watching porn.  My choice.  My personal choice.  Not your business.  Thanks."

I am also on the DIRT team at work.  I think that stands for Disaster Internal Recovery Team. So we really don't need to say, "I'm on the DIRT team," it should just be "I'm on the DIRT." We're responsible for restoring network services* if there's a nuke or a bad rainstorm.  I suppose we're also supposed to make sure people get out of the building safely, but I'm thinking it's gonna be pretty much every creature for itself when the big one goes off.  I know, I am a bad DIRT member.  But somebody else volunteered me for that shit.  Not that I'm not a kind soul, but shouldn't the DIRT be comprised of people who are good at shit like this, people who are all into it?

I am sick and I have little to say. So I will move on to the next edition of the GISG.  HERE IS YOUR IMAGE(#13). Begin guessing at noon. I think you might get that one too quickly, so HERE IS IMAGE #14. You can't start guessing image #14 until somebody gets image #13. Then you can fire away. If that changes, we'll let you know in der comments section.

If you are sick of the google image search game, perhaps you want to give google-whacking a try (don't worry, it's not dirty).

Since I ain't got much tonight, you can play around with this one, too.

I feel bad for all the little kids out there who give a shit, but I have to say it's been a pleasant little autumn without all the hockey.  I could get used to this.

* Actually, I really don't know what we're responsible for.  I should probably get on this.

11/18/04: Okies

I came across this thread on metafilter yesterday and it just blew my mind.  Here is the article in question. Two things shocked me:

1) The reaction of people in the thread, how they all (rightly) saw the story as a step forward in tolerance among the people of Sand Springs, Oklahoma. I admit, I nearly shed a tear that the town rallied around this kid, but I was also amazed by just how hateful and small-minded even the good guys in this story are. "Leave our homos alone."  Shouldn't our reaction to this story be one of shock about the state of our country?  Instead, we are moved to tears by the willingness of a community to not completely hate someone for being gay.

2) How different life is in Oklahoma compared to New York City. I know this shouldn't be a revelation, and I am not condemning the entire population of Oklahoma, but who are these motherfucking zealots who are protesting outside the church and how dare they extend their hateful bullshit so far into other people's lives? It made me so angry. Even if you are the most evangelical Christian around, who genuinely thinks that gay people are going to hell, where do you get off with all the vicious signs and slogans? What bearing on your life do gay people have?

I'm so naive.  I sort of believed that the average person in the heart of this country was fundamentally decent and respectful towards his fellow human beings. Now I realize that we live in an angry, unforgiving place where the default setting is suspicion and disapproval of people that are different than you.  And I know that free speech is a fundamental principle of our country, that these bastards have every right to set up shop and protest (protest what? this gay kid's existence?), but the article left me steaming mad, to the point where I felt (temporarily) motivated to become a vengeful crusader against these ignorant fucks. I wanted to see harm done to them.  I think they are beyond reason and I would take pleasure in seeing them suffer. It reminded me of this exchange from Manhattan, which I still consider Woody Allen's best film*.

Isaac: Has anybody read that Nazis are gonna march in New Jersey? Y'know, I read this in the newspaper. We should go down there, get some guys together, y'know, get some bricks and baseball bats and really explain things to them.
Party Guest: There is this devastating satirical piece on that on the Op Ed page of the Times, it is devastating.
Isaac: Well, a satirical piece in the Times is one thing, but bricks and baseball bats really gets right to the point.

Well said.  We're always whining in newspapers and lameass websites about these hateful groups.  Meanwhile, they're out there, organizing and taking direct physical action. It makes me sad. If these bastards touch one hair on this kid's head, I say we grab the bats and head out to Oklahoma.

The most basic element of religion seems to perpetually elude its most dedicated practitioners. IT'S YOUR OPINION.  IT ISN'T EVERYBODY'S OPINION. If you like it, use it as your guiding principle in life.  If you're an asshole, stand on street corners yelling at people to repent and adopt your God. But don't try to inflict your mystical, ass-backwards morality on me unless I am beating down your door trying to fuck you in the ass. Thank you.

***

I got a 1918 penny at the dirty deli the other day.  Shouldn't that be worth something? It's not. That sucks.

***

I have a bad bad feeling about this Knicks team. They'll probably win somewhere between 36-42 games, maybe make the playoffs, maybe win the division, but they are ugly as hell to watch.  They have that bad team way of not getting into their offense until there are about 6 seconds on the 24 second clock.  This leads to a series of contested jumpers and running heaves that are launched just to beat the clock. Crawford is disturbing.  He's been in the league for five years and he still looks like a scrawny teenager.  At least Allan Houston had some shoulders. The name on Crawford's jersey spills across his back onto his arms. He has that Tim Thomas look to him -- a guy who will dazzle you once every month or so, which makes the other 30 days even more frustrating.

***

Don't worry, I haven't forgotten the image search game.  But I have to tell you, it's driving me nutz. I keep coming up with lamer and lamer entries, and it's taking me until the wee hours to find even those.  Madness. Absolute madness.  HERE IS YOUR IMAGE FOR TODAY.  No guesses 'til noon, blah blah blah.

***

* I know, I know, I am a typical east coast liberal, acting like the place I live is better than the place you live.  Trumpeting New York City-trumpeting Woody Allen movies and railing on people in Oklahoma. Sorry, but too bad.  If you can stand living with folks like the ones in that article, something's wrong with you. If you elect nutjob senators like Tom Coburn by TWELVE PERCENTAGE POINTS, I have no hope for you. Call me whatever you want; you disgust me.

11/17/04: Taking Stock

In any life, whether great or insignificant, there comes a time when we look back on events and decisions and evaluate how we turned out. We think about what we could have done differently. We recall our triumphs, both public and secret, with a satisfied grin. We curse the people who tried, often successfully, to shame us and bring us down.  We think about what's left and wonder if it's too late to turn things around. We get antsy, thinking about how wonderful it all could be if we just changed this or that.  And we make empty promises to ourselves to only worry about what's important from now on, because life's too short.

This would be a good time for Evander Holyfield to enter such a period of reflection.  What he's done in his chosen field has been remarkable.  There is really nothing left to prove for him as a boxer, and if there were, he is no longer capable of proving it. When I came across the headline today, "Holyfield Suspended After Loss," I was saddened, for I assumed that in the twilight of his career, Holyfield had turned to banned substances to maintain an edge. What a depressing end for a great champion, I thought. No, it turned out, I was wrong. Holyfield was banned for sucking too bad.  Dear God.

I have never heard of this before.  It makes sense in a brutal sport like boxing, where a diminished fighter can do himself grave harm by hanging on too long.  But why not apply this rule to all sports?* Wouldn't you have liked to see Fred McGriff quit a little bit sooner than he did? How about Patrick Ewing? Dan Marino**?  Perhaps we should have a permanent Red Card that can be assigned judiciously by each sport's governing body, maybe five a year.  Fuck it, why not extend this into every profession? How great would it be to see Rod Stewart or Sammy Hagar get the Red Card?  How about Kevin Smith or Kevin Costner? Who would you like to see get the Red Card? It could come with a kind message inscribed, like, "Thank you for your tremendous contribution to (insert chosen field here). We all have fond memories of the time you (insert career highlight here), and who can forget (insert another highlight here)? We at the International Red Card Council feel strongly that your best days are behind you, and any further efforts on your part will only serve to embarrass you and taint our collective memory.  We hereby order you to never participate in the field of (insert chosen field here) again. Thank you again, and feel free to enjoy the rest of your days in obscurity."

The Red Card is necessary for those who refuse or are unable to look inward.  Not me.  I question my own worthiness all the time. And when I take stock of my life, there are a number of things I would do differently, some of which I will always wonder about. But I still have a tremendous, uncrushable hope for the future. What am I proud of? I'm proud that I've always been able to enjoy myself, that I can take delight when it's there for the taking. That I've surrounded myself with entertaining people who like good times and fart jokes***.  That I roll up my pants in the bowling alley so my socks glow majestically in the black light of rock and roll. And that my boss does the same.

Not much, I guess. But, oddly, it's enough.

Sure, there are regrets.  Most of which are buried deep inside for only me to worry about.  But a big one I don't mind discussing is discipline.  I have none. I promise things and I don't follow through.  I start and I don't finish.  I stay up late and regret it in the morning.  I piss and moan about my place in the universe, and then I silently return to that very place the next day. I quit drinking soda, and then I relapse. Soda is my crack, you see. And for most of this year, I have been crack-free.  But I never forgot just how much I love that stuff.  For many years, I loved it so much I didn't even acknowledge it was a problem. In my old department, it was a mantra: Adults can drink as much soda as they please. It was a celebration of our independence, like wearing an earring or doing a chicken dance. Of course, once I knew it was killing me, I promised to stop. Which, as I mentioned, I did for much of this year. But I got thirsty. Then I'd look at that old post-it, and I'd be like, Nobody's gonna tell me what to do.  Time for a 20 oz. Dr. Pepper, mofo****. So for the past few weeks, I have been slipping up and drinking a soda here and there.  Today was an example of just how undisciplined I am.  I wanted a soda, a good old fashioned Coca-cola out of the vending machine.  But when I got to the break room, I knew I shouldn't do it.  I knew I should drink the Diet Coke***** instead.  I was torn.  So I put in my money and pressed both buttons at the same time, to let the Gods of Carbonated Beverages choose my path.  A Diet Coke came tumbling down.  And it wasn't bad at all.

I will take this as a message.  The meaning of this message will be determined at a later date.

You'd tell me if it was time for verbungle.com to get the Red Card, right?

***

Thanks to Pete B. for restoring the credibility of the google image search game.  Let us never doubt it again.****** And you can all assume from now on that I am doing unsafe searches.  I don't care if you're at work, you gotta come strong if you want to win.  HERE IS TODAY'S IMAGE.  Answers accepted at noon eastern.

***

Oh, and keep the new name suggestions coming.

* Of course, I don't really feel this way -- I think every person should have the right to do whatever it is they do for as long as someone's willing to pay them to do it. Think about Sampras's last couple of years.  We all gave up on his ass and then he dusted it off for that one last glorious afternoon.
** I know, Marino was still sort of adequate statistically, but he really sucked for like his last three years. And he was horrendous to watch, gimping around in the pocket, killing his team while hollering at everyone else in a pathetic attempt to avoid the blame that was obviously his.
*** With a few notable exceptions regarding the fart jokes.  But that's OK, I love you guys too.
**** A friend at work and I are on a crusade to bring back the term "mofo."  Please join us. And spell it however you choose, mofo.
***** Which I am only now beginning to tolerate.
****** Although I think we will take a hiatus from the game after this round is complete. 

11/16/04: Less Than Minimum Effort

First off, sorry about these image stumpers.  I guess they are easier to figure out when you already know the answer. For image #9, think of a word Andy Sipowicz might use to address a perp as he was dragging his ass downtown. For image #10, well, she looks like someone whose life was sort of derailed by something or other, donchathink? What could that be and what would that make her? Again, sorry these are so random and hard.

I stayed home from work on Monday with a sore throat. I was just laying around, drinking fluids and hoping for something good to come on the TV. As luck would have it,  one of the HBO channels was showing Brian De Palma's 1987 masterpiece, The Untouchables. This is another one of those movies that has a reasonably high cheese factor, but if it is on TV at any hour of the day or night I will watch it all the way through.  And as corny and mired in the 80's as Kevin Costner may be*, he is perfect as Eliot Ness. You're ashamed of it, so am I, but the same way you don't want anybody but Tom Cruise demanding, "Did you order the Code Red?", you don't want anybody but Costner to say, "Here endeth the lesson." Admit it and you'll feel better. The Untouchables gets a 28.5 on the verbungle.com rating scale. Just one great scene after another. It got me through the afternoon.

Speaking of time-wasting TV, I used the rest of this sick day to catch up on some back episodes of Real World: Philadelphia from the ol' DVR. I have a few more to watch, but this may be the most annoying cast ever, led by Landon, the low-normal doofus from Wisconsin. He gets the shoe.  Quote of the night, from the 10/12 episode:

"Sarah puts me in situations that are sexual...it's just human nature, you are gonna respond."

-wayward Southern dude M.J., taking responsibility for his actions

I think the voting age should be lowered to 14. I think anyone who will reach draftable age during the term of an elected official deserves a right in voting for or against that official. While there is no draft at the moment, I think young people should have a say in electing officials who could potentially send them to war against their will. If I am 14, I am a little nervous right now about GWB's policies, and I think I should have had a chance to vote his ass out.

I guess I was too optimistic about Specter speaking up about no religious whackos in the SCOTUS -- now I'm wondering if he's going to be denied his position as chairman of the judiciary committee as a result. In general, I am sensing a very bad four years for this country.  It's pretty much what we expected: the right-wingers are portraying the election not just as a Republican sweep, but as a mandate for the far right.  They are talking about dumping the 60 vote filibuster rule for judicial appointments. Regardless of what this election means -- whether it means the average American shares a lot more views with GWB than we'd like to think, or whether it was a squeaker election that turned on the gay marriage issue and the bullshit "values" agenda they were pushing, or if the swing voters were just responding to Bush's "regular guy" persona over Kerry's aloofness (or at least responding to this depiction of the two men) -- the Repubs have major control now and they aren't gonna look back.  I think we are going to be even more divided four years from now than we are today. And things are going to have to get real bad in the next few years** for a change to come. Who's going to step up for the Dems and does our country even want to hear what they have to say? I hope it's Cal Ripken.

Brief NBA thoughts: I don't have any quantifiable evidence to support this, but I think Jacque Vaughn may be the worst player in NBA history.  Jew-hater Charlie Ward isn't far behind. Just not good at all. And as much as I like Manu Ginobili, I have noticed one disturbing trend in his game this year: he has been flopping like a catfish under a fisherman's foot. I hate floppers; I think intentionally drawing a charging foul as defensive strategy is the single most important factor in the decline of offensive basketball in the last 15 years. I am happy to see 'Zo back and playing.  That must feel good for him, even if he's a shadow of himself.

Reader cW wonders:

What's the reasoning for the Grey Goose boycott. I drank some this weekend; does that mean I support slavery or something? The shit's delicious.

This is a good question. Why boycott such an excellent product?  Like many of the items on the boycott list, it has to do with the advertising campaign for the product in question. Grey Goose has been airing some molto-snotty spots that make me want to punch the TV screen. They usually feature a bartender saying something incredibly condescending about people who don't drink Grey Goose. I think they have one that goes, "If you don't drink Grey Goose, aren't you a bit of a dick?"

Anyway, you gotta stop drinking Grey Goose at least until you have a chance to see these spots for yourself.  I would recommend that you drink Ketel One in the meantime, because I know you like that shit, but they have a completely offensive print campaign going as well.  So maybe go with Schrank's for the time being.

Deion, that Wes Matthews-Xavier McDaniel photo is the Holy Grail of google image searches.  I have tried to find it like five times without success. I hereby call upon master internet bloodhound AJR to sniff this one out.

* And did you see Costner on Bill Maher's show a couple of weeks ago? Was he drunk or on some kind of medication or something? What a strange, self-important fuquad.
** I have full confidence that they will.

11/15/04: A Step Slow

We didn't win our little 3 on 3 tournament on Friday. We were 2-3, with two losses to one team that was way better than us.  That wasn't too hard to take, but we also lost one inexcusable game to some guys who really had no business out there. It made me feel old. My friend Jonathan, who I hadn't seen in about three years, said something to me after one of the games that put things in perspective.

"I kind of wanted to come out and play because I had this vision that you'd be out here dominating," he said. "That's how I remember you from the last time I saw you play (probably like ten years ago). But I guess it wasn't meant to be."

The funny thing is, I thought I was playing pretty well. I was making my shots, I was grabbing a few rebounds, and I was sharing the ball. But I guess your ability to play a given sport is affected by age the the same way your appearance is -- it declines so slowly and steadily that you don't even realize it's not the same as it always was.  Then when somebody who hasn't seen you in awhile gets a look at you, they hardly recognize you anymore. I had been operating under the impression that I was essentially the same player I always was*, even if I knew deep inside I had lost a step or two. But now I realize that my game is grey around the temples and it's got a beer gut and a double chin.  Even though I thought I was playing well, I wasn't really making an impact. Depressing. Oh well, I still pass the Larry Johnson test. We were born the same year, and I maintain a higher percentage of my original basketball talent than he does.

But getting old is no fun at all.

It was a pretty OK weekend, as Jim from Jim's Journal might say.  I had the tournament and then I saw the lame new Bridget Jones movie.  I know, lame. But the popcorn was good. Then I had a friend's engagement party Saturday night. Sunday morning I went to brunch with mom at a place in the West Village that was so special, I was motivated to write a review.

Here are a couple of hints for the image (#9) that's been troubling everyone so far.
1. It's on the third page of results.
2. Just look at the image, and ask yourself what you see.  "That guy looks like a real _____" There's your answer. I am sure I have said too much once again. 

In fact, I am sure you will have this one solved by noon, when you can start taking guesses at IMAGE #10.  I know, it's confusing having two images going at once, so just specify image #9 or #10 before your guess.

I got nothing else right now.  I am waiting for my own computer to come back so I can get comfortable posting again.  This is like pooping on somebody else's turlet. It just don't feel quite right.

Or maybe I'm just out of gas.

Doc and Larry pic courtesy AJR.

* Which isn't saying much.

11/12/04: Taking Names

One thing I hate about this site is the name.  That and the content. The content I think we're stuck with for now, but that name -- verbungle -- that ain't good. I was just kind of using it as a placeholder until I came up with something good, and then I never got around to it.  When my domain expires in February, I aim to have a new name all ready to go.  I am hereby soliciting suggestions for this new name, although you'll be hard-pressed to top Yahoo's wonderful suggestions.  But please send in your thoughts, I know you can come up with something good. You can use the little space on the upper right for your suggestions. The best proposed name will go into effect, unless I come up with a better one myself or quit this game early like Ron Artest.

So I am wondering if Arafat's death was a shocking enough event to count as part of Brady's 1111 prophecy. I mean, he was a very, very significant man, and we still don't know the full impact of his death, but it's not like this was unexpected.  When someone is barely hanging on over the course of a week or two, his death cannot really be considered an event in the sense we were looking for. I am going to withhold judgment on this one. Especially because there were many other noteworthy events today...like this...and this...and this.  If I had to guess which story Brady was subconsciously anticipating, it was this tragedy.

Friday night I have a charity hoops tournament. It is going to be very, very ugly. I anticipate losing every game. We're old, we're slow, and we were never very good to begin with.  Should still be fun. As long as I achieve one of yesterday's 11 basketball pleasures over the course of the evening, I'll be happy. Hell, if I hit a wide open layup, I'll be happy.

OK, not much to say today.  Let's move on to the damn google game. The sad thing about this game is I think it's wasting more of my time trying to come up with these stupid things than it is taking you to solve 'em.  I ain't very good at this. Oh, well, I am taking the weekend off. In the meantime, HERE IS FRIDAY'S IMAGE. Begin guessing at noon.

11/11/04: Coming Up Aces

According to my friend Brady, something big is going to happen today. He's not an especially superstitious guy, but he says there has been an uncanny preponderance of the numbers "1-1-1-1" in his life over the last few months. He looks at a clock, it's 11:11. He gets somebody's phone number, it ends in 1111. He tallies up the money he's spent in bars over the last three weeks, it's $1111. Because of this, he is convinced that there will be some sort of global event today, 11/11/04.  He hopes it's a positive one.  Of course, I would estimate that less than half of all global events could be described as positive. So the 1's are really sort of ominous.

The skeptic in me thinks he's probably just noticing a slight increase in 1111's because it is such a memorable set of digits. In other words, if he saw the numbers "1209" more often than he usually does, he wouldn't notice. And even if he's right, if 1111's are coming into his life at a completely alarming rate, I tend to believe it means nothing.  In general, I don't believe in any hocus pocus.

But I will be on my guard, just a little bit. And I'll be hoping for something great for humankind.

In rough order, here are the 11 most enjoyable things to do on a basketball court:

1. Dunk in someone's face*
2. Emphatically block someone's shot
3. Throw a beautiful backdoor pass for a layup
4. Hit a twisting layup in traffic
5. Pick someone's pocket for a steal
6. Hit a three point shot with someone running at you
7. Run a perfect three on two break
8. Drive to the basket, draw the defense, and dish
9. Fake someone out and make a nice up and under move
10. Throw a fancy behind the back pass for a layup
11. Cross someone over and go all the way in for the layup

There are flakes, there are knuckleheads, there are crazy people, and then there is Ron Artest. Incredible. No way the Pacers win it all this year.  How do you deal with a guy like that? Not that he's a horrible person, but man I'd do anything to keep him off my team.  I say that despite having total respect for what he brings to the game.  He's just too nutty. His explanation for his behavior included this classic: "What does 'integrity' mean?"

Today at work I spent a significant portion of my day bitching with Mrs. Smal about people who make more money than we do.  One cat in particular who is neither competent nor hardworking earned a significant gas face. The irony of two employees sitting around at work IMing about how little work one of their co-workers does was not lost on us. And in the past, I have been pretty good about not getting caught up in how much money other people at work make. After all, if I am not happy about my salary (and trust me, I am not), it's up to me to ask for more money and leave if I don't get it. So I understand my role in my own bitterness.  But this one guy is just so overpaid and pretty much unnecessary, it's hard not get worked up over it.  I feel that I deliver just as much incompetence for far less money. Not fair.

Later a co-worker friend came up to me and told me he is starting a blog. He said once he gets it going he will tell me the URL. I almost felt obligated to tell him about this site, but I wisely bit my tongue.  The more people at work who know about your blog, the more likely you are to either

-get fired, or
-censor your work bitching, or
-both.

I felt like giving him this piece of advice, as he is one of the most sarcastic and vocal critics of our company, and I am sure he will carry that over to his site.  But he's a big boy, and he's smart enough to avoid getting in trouble.  After all, he also makes a shitload of money and can't afford a dismissal.

I regret the continuing confusion and controversy regarding the google image search game. But I am digging the pics that come up and for the most part I think it's been fair.  New rule: no hints until 5pm on the day of the posting.  We move on to today's image. HERE IT IS, PUNKS.** Also, one note: Tailpipe Randy, who represents the #1 result for the term "idiot," is also #1 under "moron." That's quite a feat.

* Of course, I've never actually done this.  I did it on a 9' rim once and it made me feel like a wonderful wild animal running free.  I imagine it's even better when you do it for real.
** Warning: this might be another muttonchops scenario.

11/10/04: Clocked

One night about nine years ago, I was chilling at home, watching Seinfeld or whatever people did in 1995, when I got a call from the office.  It was around 9pm. As the most inexperienced, non-confrontational, disinterested young gun in our new little company, I had quickly been selected for the management track. And in my role as ineffectual pseudo-manager on duty, I often received phone calls when things went wrong.  On this particular night, the call came in from my co-worker N.Sita, I believe. Sita and cW and a few other people were there, working the night shift. Apparently another employee, a guy we'll call Bill, was paging through a spy catalog* when he noticed that one of the camera/clocks in the catalog looked suspiciously like the clock that was hanging right outside our work area. Sita and cW and A. Pappas (this was when he still had both his legs) did a little investigating and determined that indeed this seemingly harmless clock was really a spy camera, pointed directly at our cubicles. They found a video cable hanging out the back of the clock and traced it to the office of an ignoramus VP from Boston, who was apparently one of the masterminds of Operation Spy on Your Employees.

I wasn't there, so I don't have an exact transcript of what happened next, but it went something like this.  Sita and cW and A. Pappas and went ballistic.  We were all just young kids in our first real jobs, and all of a sudden we discover the true nature of the boss-employee relationship in such an ugly way.  cW went up and clipped the video cable (footage that is now valued at $300,000).  Boston VP dude scurried out of the office like a coward, mumbling something over his shoulder like, "You're going to regret this."  I am proud to say we stood together the next day and took our beef right to the top of the company.  We weren't sure if videotaping your employees was even legal, but we were all positive it wasn't ethical, and we told the president that in a meeting the next day.  He apologized and explained that there had been a rash of thefts, and the video camera was just an attempt to catch the thief. We wondered why it had to be pointed at our work area; our natural instinct was to feel like suspects. It was just a horrible invasion and we felt only slightly encouraged by the president's apology and guarantee that it would never happen again.

Nine years have passed, that president is gone, I'm off the management track, and now, rather suddenly, the hidden cameras are back up. These aren't quite as covert -- they're encased in little black bubbles that sort of stand out as being not quite right.  But they're there. All over the place. And nobody in management has come forward to say, "There are cameras all over the place." I think they are part of some building-wide security system, but our company can tap into the feed and watch it. It's pretty revolting.  It would be one thing if they were only trying to prevent theft**, but I have heard through the grapevine that they are actually watching the feed and monitoring our comings and goings. An employee was supposedly reprimanded for leaving her night shift early*** -- even though her work was presumably done -- because the camera failed to capture any movement after a certain hour.  And this new surveillance system seems much more corporate, like it's more than a hare-brained scheme from a couple of management goons.

Fuck. What a place.  Get me out. What should I do, outside of just spreading the word to everybody who works there? Quit? And do what? I do have the additional income from the verbungle store to fall back on.  That's $4 so far.  Just not quite enough, I don't think.

OK, before I get to the next installment of the admittedly retarded google image search game, I implore you to do a google image search with the word "idiot," and take a look at the first result (NSFW). OK, give yourself a few moments to recover, and then move on to today's edition of the image game. HERE IS YOUR IMAGE. No answers until noon.

* This guy, "Bill," was the type of guy who always had all sorts of gadgets, and loved reading about them as well.
** Of course, if you are trying to prevent theft, don't you position the video cameras right out in the open so nobody even tries anything?
*** This could all be bullshit.

11/9/04: In the Shop

So the laptop is in for repairs. Not good.  The wife is generously letting me use hers, so I may be a little more concise for the next few weeks.  It might be good practice. I guess I could have kept on bumping along with the rotten computer, but it was getting set to blow.  I looked up the receipt and made the discovery that, in a rare moment of forethought, I had bought the extended service plan. I buy the plan about once in every five major purchases, and I guess I figured the laptop was as likely as anything else to crap out. And crap out it has.

So theoretically I should be excited that I am covered, that I am not left flailing naked out in the wind with my busted technology. But the truth is I have a very baaaad feeling about the repair process.  The sales staff is always so cheery when they're peddling that service contract on you, and then the service department matches every bit of that cheeriness with sarcasm, coldness, and condescension.  It's like a precise formula.  I know it shouldn't surprise me anymore, but it still does. The woman who I dealt with at COMPUSA today was a snarling, unhelpful little brat.  She could barely contain her disdain for me and all other humans who work outside the IT industry. I was being extra-super friendly, too, and she was all, You know if this is a software problem it's not covered. Yeah, well, I reformatted the whole thing again so the only software on there is the stuff that came with it, so it better not be a software problem, I thought. I sort of said it, too, in a very nice way. And she completely ignored me.

So the fuckers say it'll be at least two weeks until I get it back. They were ultra-clear about that "at least" part.  It was like they were trying to piss me off. Here is my prediction for what will happen (in either scenario, it will be at least three weeks and maybe as long as a month before I get an answer):

-either they will say the computer tests out fine, so it must be a software problem, or
-they will say they fixed the problem, and within 17 minutes of using the thing back in my apartment, it will become clear that they didn't fix a thing

I know I shouldn't be so pessimistic about these things, it's just that there's really no good place to go for serious computer problems. I'm at the mercy of some douchebag someplace who may have no interest in or ability to solve my problem.  I've tried fixing things myself over the years with sporadic success, but usually you end up just chasing your tail for hours while your blood pressure goes through the roof.

In better news, I played hoops on Saturday with barely a trace of the back pain. It was fun. As you get older, it gets easier and easier to just stop playing sports for months at a time.  But you gotta stick with that shit or it'll be gone forever. I need to lose about 20 pounds and I need to start exercising regularly or I may die in a few years. This weekend I have a charity 3 on 3 tournament and hopefully that will get things rolling.  It's good to indulge the competitive dickweed inside yourself every now and then, and 3 on 3 tournaments are one of the best opportunities to do so.  I am saying it right now: give me the ball and get out the way.

Darn, did that sound halfhearted? I'm still working on it.

Now that my computer options are limited, I feel extremely lucky to have two amazing free news resources right at my fingertips.  I am speaking about AM New York and Metro.  I don't really remember which one is which, but one of them has a "Pet Report" on the lower left hand corner of the front page. That's how you know it's a serious newspaper. Today I learned in one of 'em that Hillary is the Dems' frontrunner for '08. I don't get it.  Who's gonna vote for Hillary that voted for Bush this time? Don't we need to basically go into the lab and engineer a candidate that appeals to the folks in the Red States? If people thought Kerry was cold and stiff, what do they make of Hillary? Watching her in an interview is about as awkward as making small talk in a foreign language. She's just not a very likable woman on a personal level.  I suppose she'll pull more women voters, but she'll probably lose at least that many from men who either don't think a woman is qualified to be President or who have a deep-seated hatred of all things Clinton. I guess she'll combat that Clinton revulsion by invoking some of the happy memories of Clinton days gone by. Still, I have to give the idea of her candidacy at this point in time a decent-sized gas face.

Further word from CT in SF:

Sorry to be obscure, obtuse, if not secretive about my mixed emotions. Possibly switching to vodka tonic double/doubles after Anchor Steam brews may have had something to do with it.

At the risk of sounding sappy, I think anybody who's paying attention out here in the West should be just a tad envious of some of the deeper cultural advantages ya'll back East enjoy, such as actual education, long-time families, real social events, etc. People move out here basically to increase their opportunities to get laid, as far as I can tell. Then all they can talk about is relationship victories; defeats, disappointments and victimizations; total scoring prowess, whatever. So the question arising from that statement is: are these selfsame people the best that liberalism has to offer? Are these (82%) Kerry supporters the shining example of what the Kerry future holds?

There's a whole passel of folks out here in the Bay Area that are very damned efficient at their jobs but who just plain lack their chewy caramel center. They are insipid and uninteresting. (Or as the old joke goes: CA is like a bowl of granola, you take out the fruits, flakes, and nuts and there's nothing left.) These people are devoted to maximizing their hedonistic potential until it occurs to them that there might be more to life. The irony would be that gay marriage reforms the swingles culture, puts an end to AIDS, and furthermore puts to shame the wreckage that hetero marriage has become.

Anyway, it's also kind of funny that the Republican party is the new standard bearer of cultural ideals, when IT consists mainly of proto-fascists and people who are paranoid about fascist takeovers. Imagine the made-for-TV movie. "The Republicans," a heart wrenching tale of a family divided, a clan gone wrong. Will the Thought Police crowd ever reconcile with their Ruby Ridge gun-totin' cuzzins?

Not sure if that explains it any better...

I think it does. It makes for an interesting read, anyway.

I was kinda looking forward to this NBA season, with all the new faces in new places. I felt some silly hopefulness about it, like somehow things would be different this year. Now I have watched a few games, and here's my early review regarding the league in general and the Knicks in particular: it's the same damn animal as last year. Too bad.

Well, once again I've made you wait for the new entry in the Google Image Search Game.  This time we're going first one to five correct answers wins. The prize is another book.  I will give the winner his or her choice of one of three entertaining (used) novels by Tom Perrotta : Bad Haircut, The Wishbones, or Joe College. HERE IS THE FIRST PHOTO. No guesses until noon. I hope it ain't too easy.

11/5/04: Hardly Getting Over It

I wonder how many guys went out and bought their women some flowers today and followed up with the line, "I have sexual capital in this relationship, and I intend to spend it."

I can't really talk about the election anymore, but I can't stop, either.

I do think it's important that we try to figure out what went wrong for the dems. There are a number of things they need to change for next time as we assemble a Frankenstein candidate to take down whoever the Republicans trot out there. In the meantime, though, I am sort of at peace with it. Maybe I'm just another wimpy defeatist, but let's just accept that Idiot-man Bush was the choice of the people. He used 9-11 as an excuse for everything that went wrong over the last four years, and a lot of people apparently accepted that.  He doesn't have that opportunity this time.  The next four years are the Republicans' responsibility. This election gives them a clean slate, and they have nearly limitless power right now. I expect that they will continue to make the country and the world a worse place. I have no confidence that they will reach out to the people who voted against them; they are for the most part a dogmatic bunch and I expect their policies will be even more aggressive than last time.

But I say let's wait and see.  Let's be hopeful. Maybe things will get better.  If not, at least maybe Bush will be exposed for the incompetent, psychotic zealot that he his, and maybe it'll lead to a more reasonable era to follow. There are a couple of decent early signs for the next four years.  Ashcroft looks like he might be done. That's good.  You'd be hard-pressed to find a more dangerous weirdo than him to take his place. As for the Supreme Court, it was nice that Specter came right out and hinted that Bush better not nominate any extremist types.  I wonder how that'll shake down.

Maybe we just need to let this one settle in and accept that this is our country.  Sure, we can all feel outraged and cry voting machine plot and  threaten to move to Canada, but there's really nothing that alarming about what happened.  More voters -- slightly more voters -- preferred George Bush to John Kerry. There are a number of reasons why, and it's worth examining those reasons.  But I don't think the election said anything shocking about the American people.  I don't think we've suddenly turned into a nation of uptight religious fanatics.  I think people are pretty much who they've always been. There are those on the extreme left, and those on the extreme right, and then there are a certain number of pliable people in the middle.  This time, more of them went to Bush than to Kerry. Next time, it'll probably go the other way.

The overwhelming opposition to gay marriage is depressing, though. Not surprising, but depressing.  Like marriage is really such a sacred thing at this point and letting gay people experience it would taint it forever.  That shit is tainted as hell already.  Gay people would probably give the institution the shot in the arm it needs -- they are actually actively seeking it out and not just taking it for granted, which seems to me an indication that they would take it more seriously.  I am willing to bet that gay marriages will have a lower divorce rate than straight marriages.

Whatever, it's over. Let's deal.

I do think it's amazing, though, that George W. Bush is the A-Number One living organism on the planet earth.  If extra-terrestrials landed here and said, who is your greatest person, your most powerful leader, the man who all others must respect?  We would take 'em into the oval office to meet W., and they would come away from the meeting in disbelief.

E.T. would be like, "You mean to tell me you have 6 billion creatures in your most advanced species, and this one rose to the top above all the others?  You're fucking with me, right?"

***

Rarely in my undistinguished career have I had a more undistinguished week than this one.  I have been watching the clock like a fucking vulture. I have been refreshing internet pages 300 times a day to see if anybody has updated or if any new comments have come in.  There's just nothing going on right now, although I really should be seeking some work out. This is bad.  Today, my co-worker stopped by around 3:30 and said she was going to the deli downstairs, and asked me if I wanted anything.

"I'll take a pound and a half of six o'clock," I said.  I think it turned out they were all out, and I had to wait around until the whistle blew.  I appreciate these easy days, though, as boring as they may be.  It gives you a chance to think and get yourself together.  And there's always more shitsacking right around the corner.

***

I kind of get the feeling that nobody is really reading verbungle anymore.  The first couple of paragraphs each day are like one of those ads that you have to watch before you get access to Salon or The Onion or what have ya.  You guys sort through those so you can get to what you came for, which of course is the goddamn Google Image Search Game. So here you go, bitches. HERE IS YOUR IMAGE. Have at it.  Remember, no answers until noon.

I think this one might be too easy.

***

Equipment update: my computer is all messed up again.  It's getting to the point where it doesn't shut down.  It just stays on that screen that says, "windows is shutting down" forever. And it gets really hot if I don't then shut it down manually.  That message is one of those sure signs that your computer is past its prime.  It's like when a baseball player who used to feast on fastballs can't get around anymore. Of course, the computer is only 1 year old. I have tried virus scans with Norton and I have run Ad-aware and Spybot.  Everything checks out there.  Any suggestions (besides "reboot" or "call Don and Andrea")?

On a happier note, I am loving my new phone, despite its horrible reception.  It just makes me happy.  I think because it's blue. I also got a cool new bag to take to work.  I recommend it. I also recommend buying stuff for yourself to take your mind off your problems. Works like a charm.

***

Reader CT writes in with the following Bush-related observation:

I live in the center of the universe that freakin' opposers of the Bush regime paradigm have created, to whit: the freakin SF Bay Area. (nb; I say "freakin'" for two reasons. 1. To fit in. 2. To avoid detection by the Thought Police, although I think THAT may have tipped them off.) In any case, I hate it here. Job number one is exchanging bodily secretions with as many anonymous partners as can reasonably be fit into some tight ass social agenda as possible. Job number two is cleaning up those secretions. Sorry to be so graphic, it's for your own good. If it weren't for Bush we'd all be (freakin') drowning. Don't despair.

I think I need more of an explanation. 

11/4/04: L-I-V-I-N

I had a bad fucking day today. Not just with Bush.

I'll tell you about it, but first I want to send out my thoughts to anyone who has lost a parent or a sibling or a child or anything like that.  There can't be anything worse.

I woke up a little late for work today after sticking it out through a long election night in front of the TV.  I was beat, but there was shit to be sacked and who's gonna do it if not me?

The phone rang around 9am and the wife answered.  It was my mom, and after a little small talk, the wife handed me the phone.  I assumed mom was calling to commiserate about the election.

"Hi mom, how's it going?" I asked.

"OK, honey," she said. "Listen, have you heard from your father since yesterday?"

My par