It's OKTO Blog

Dead Kennedys

2009-09-20T21:34:00.000-07:00

Rumor has it in Hollywood that Paramount is going to re-submit the movie Ghost to the Motion Picture Academy for consideration as Best Documentary.

That joke is in poor taste.

Speaking of poor taste, I was at a wedding in Martha's Vineyard two weekends ago. Some might argue that hooking up with the wedding planner who was also a grandmother is in poor taste. But I say, was Andy Stitzer acting in poor taste when he hooked up with Trish? And was it over after the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?

Don't answer those.

With a minor assist from the Wood Dog (you remember the Wood Dog, right? Nice guy, blond hair, used to blog.), I put together a little pub crawl in honor of the location chosen by the happy couple. Here's the list, as distributed to the participants.

THE JOHN-JOHN MEMORIAL "DEAD KENNEDYS" PUB CRAWL

Edgartown, Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts

September 11, 2009

What: It’s no secret that John F. Kennedy Jr. had trouble passing bars; he failed to pass the New York bar exam the first two times he tried. The participants of the John-John Memorial Dead Kennedys Pub Crawl won’t be passing any bars in a drunken crawl through Edgartown, Massachusetts.

Where: Nevin’s Square and the Edgartown waterfront. The Boat House, Black Dog Tavern, Salivar’s, Détente, Wharf Pub and Newes from America. Or whichever of those places are open and don’t refuse us service.

How: It looks like we’ve got 5 or 6 places to choose from so we’re looking at about 2 drinks at each stop. Remember, this is a Kennedy-themed pub crawl so speak with a Massachusetts accent whenever possible. And lean to the left every time you take a drink. That’s NOT optional.

The Drinks:

1. The Vineyard. You’re on Martha’s Vineyard. They make wine at vineyards. Have a glass of the crappy East Coast swill they’re passing off as wine.

2. Cape Cod. OK, you’re not exactly on Cape Cod; it lies a little to the north. So drink a Cape Cod (vodka & cranberry) while facing north (if you stand facing away from the waterfront, you’re facing northwest).

3. Bay of Pigs. John F. Kennedy ordered CIA-trained Cuban exiles to invade Cuba in 1961, but the exiles were quickly killed or captured when Kennedy refused to give them U.S. air support. Have a Cuba Libre (Spanish for “Free Cuba,” a rum and coke with lime juice), but show your lack of commitment by drinking half and then walking away.

4. Cuban Missile Crisis. In 1962, JFK ordered a naval blockade of Cuba to get the Soviets to stop building nuclear missile silos. The crisis was defused when the Soviet Union agreed to dismantle the missiles in exchange for a public US promise not to invade Cuba and a private assurance that the US would later remove its nuclear missiles from Turkey. Since you don’t have any missiles in Turkey, appease the Soviets by drinking the vodka drink of your choice.

5. JFK (Warren Commission). According to the Warren Commission, Lee Harvey Oswald performed one of the greatest feats in marksmanship history by firing three accurate rounds from a bolt-action rifle in eight seconds. Match Lee’s feat by doing three shots in eight seconds, using the same hand for each shot. Be sure to tilt your head “back and to the left” as you take each shot. Don't believe it can be done? Then try instead:

5. JFK (Oliver Stone). Common sense tells you it’s impossible for one man to do three shots in eight seconds using the same hand, and you’re not buying the “magic liver” theory either. So buy three shots and give one each to three of your friends. Position your friends strategically around the room; one should be in an elevated position, one should be near a half-height bar wall, and the third should be on a grassy knoll. When you say the code word “Green!” the three take their shots simultaneously then immediately leave the bar.

6. RFK. Announce you’re running for President, then take a shot. Don’t let it go to your head.

7. Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis. A few months after RFK’s death, Jackie Kennedy married shipping billionaire Aristotle Onassis. Have an Ouzo and toast Jackie for bringing us the gigantic sunglasses women wear today.

8. Chappaquiddick Incident. Mary Jo Kopechne's body was discovered on Chappaquiddick Island, underwater and inside an overturned car belonging to Ted Kennedy. Ted gave a statement to police saying that on the previous night Kopechne was his passenger when he took a wrong turn and accidentally drove his car off a bridge into the water. So have an Irish car bomb: accidentally drop a shot glass of whiskey and Bailey’s into a Guinness and slam it.

9. William Kennedy Smith. William Kennedy Smith says the walk on the beach at the Kennedy compound led to consensual sex. Patty Bowman says she was raped. I say have a Sex on the Beach (orange, cranberry, vodka & peach schnapps). Pound it aggressively. It won’t press charges.

10. JFK Jr. JFK Jr. was killed when his small airplane crashed into the Atlantic Ocean off Martha’s Vineyard. According to the National Transportation Safety Board, the reason for the crash was “Kennedy’s failure to maintain control of the airplane during a descent over water at night, which was a result of spatial disorientation.” Have an Oyster Shooter for John-John and by this point in the crawl you’re bound to be feeling a little spatial disorientation yourself.

11. Ted Kennedy. On August 25, 2009, Ted died at his home in Hyannis Port (about eight miles away) after battling a malignant brain tumor. Drink a brain hemorrhage (shot of Peach Schnapps, float of Bailey’s, drop of grenadine) in Ted’s honor. Then hightail it out of there – the man died two weeks ago! Have you no respect?

So there you have it. Two people finished the crawl, and footage exists of one of them doing the Warren Commission version of the JFK Assassination. It's our own Zapruter film, but it won't be making it into the National Archives anytime soon.

Shallow Thoughts

2009-07-14T17:32:00.000-07:00

Back when I used to blog, I used to text myself blog ideas. You know, to make sure I didn't forget the blog idea for my next blog entry (remember, this is back when I used to blog). The funny thing is, when I'd receive the message a few seconds later, I'd already forgotten that I sent it myself. So I'd get all excited like I just received a new text message from someone, until I opened it and was disappointed that it was just some half-baked idea from me to me.

What's the proper response when another dude sneezes in front of you? When a chick does it, you say "bless you" or "gesundheit." The meaning of "bless you" is pretty self-explanatory, and "gesundheit" is another way to wish someone good health. It makes sense that you'd want to wish a chick good health, because your chances of sleeping with her are much greater when she's not sick since there are few if any women who are in the mood for some hanky-panky when they're ill. Granted, there are some innovative types out there who prefer their women in a state worse than ill, but for the most part you ain't gettin' none if she's not in top operating condition. When a dude sneezes, I just pretty much ignore it. This makes sense, since I don't want to sleep with the dude so I couldn't give two squirts what he thinks of me. Does this apply elsewhere? Do gay guys only say "bless you" to people they want to sleep with (i.e. attractive gay guys and all straight guys)? Or do they say "bless you" to women as well?

There are two chicks who spring to mind that people generally think of as hot who aren't. The first is Perrey Reeves (aka Mrs. Ari from Entourage):
Look, she's got a nice body. And I guess she's kinda hot for being 38. But the streets of LA are crawling with 38-year-old chicks who are hotter. And I intend to reconfirm this truism in the very near future.

The second allegedly hot chick is Susan Sarandon. And I don't just mean now that she is an inappropriately dressed grandma but also when she was younger:
I think she was a Ford model at some point, which I guess means she was considered "striking", but if I were Tim Robbins' junk I'd rather be striking than performing my manly duties with this bug-eyed ghoul.

In the interests of gender equality, it's only fair to point out that baseball broadcaster Jon Miller has also seen better days:

I think it's really stupid how clothes irons come with a warning that you're not supposed to use them on clothes you're wearing. Is this really necessary? What kind of a moron would actually iron clothes while they're wearing them? One substantial chest burn later, I can answer that question: the same kind of moron who writes this blog.

The MLB All-Star Game started as I was typing this. I feel it's OK to express some thoughts about this since I'm only 37-years old while typing this from my mother's basement. Still, to be safe don't tell Raul Ibanez:

Possibly the most overused angle at the All-Star Game is filming the first-time players who are there filming the festivities. "Oh look! They're having so much fun out there! These guys can't believe they're out there with all their heroes! What a wonderful experience! Baseball truly is America's national pastime!" Shut it. If not for fantasy baseball and day drinking, we'd pretty much just "pass" on America's pastime...

It's not just an HD problem anymore - at this point, regular definition TV isn't doing Sheryl Crow any favors either. Although I salute Lance Armstrong for jettisoning her before it got to this point, I also salute Ms. Crow for not oversinging the national anthem (not that she has the vocal range to, but still...). Failing to have any work done was her least favorite mistake of mine, so I'll just post a picture of her back when she looked decent...
After Sheryl finished singing the national anthem, some B-2 Spirit "stealth" bombers did a flyover of the stadium. I know everyone knows they exist, but aren't we kind of defeating the purpose of a "stealth" bomber if we're showing them on television? Wouldn't it make more sense to broadcast a blank screen and tell everyone our stealth tech is so good that they couldn't be seen?

President Barack Obama jogs out to throw the first pitch of the game. He's wearing a Chicago White Sox jacket, and either Barack has been doing the same steroids as the rest of the guys on the field, or he's wearing one hell of a thick bullet-proof vest. And I had no idea that he both (a) is left-handed, and (b) throws like a girl! Barack may have it all over George W. Bush when it comes to things like public speaking, but G.W. most certainly throws out a better first pitch...

And Joe Buck's ever-balding dome fills the screen as he starts to spew some introductory nonsense about being in St. Louis and how St. Louis fans are among the best fans in baseball. I can't really concentrate on what he's saying though, as I just keep waiting for Artie Lange to show up and ask Joe if suckingcock.com is still his second favorite website...

Tim McCarver speaking. My IQ is dropping like the needle on the fuel gauge of an H2 Hummer going 140mph down the freeway...

And now a commercial for a movie called Funny People. You know, it's really too bad Seth Rogen hasn't managed to capitalize on his entertaining role in The 40-Year Old Virgin. It's called overexposure, Seth, and you passed it about four exits ago. While you're at it, tell Judd Apatow to stop casting his wife and Jonah Hill in all his movies. That's also getting a bit tiresome.

Meet the Neighbors

2009-06-29T13:40:00.000-07:00

So, I left my lofty perch atop the Hyatt Regency yesterday (see photo: apparently they go ahead and bump you up to the penthouse if you named your own price on Priceline and you show up to check in after midnight with a few cocktails in you.) To think I didn't bring any chicks home to that palatial estate. For shame. I'm not saying *I* stayed in the room every night, but still... one should take advantage of these things when handed the opportunity. Anyway, I left the friendly confines to head to the Del Taco on Market Street for a little dinner.

It seems to me that the Taco Bells and Del Tacos (Del Taco, actually, since there's only the one) of San Francisco are overpriced. They're more in line with airport pricing or Japan pricing than with actual pricing. Still, I am tickled to be able to go to a Del Taco in San Francisco, particularly one that stays open late, even on weekends when all of downtown is shut down. It certainly adds to the allure of living downtown, and it almost cancels out the detrimental effect of the junkies shooting heroin on the doorstep of said Del Taco. Still, this Del Taco has some wrinkles to iron out. Like working on not running out of lettuce. Seriously, how else am I supposed to get my daily serving of vegetables?

So I'm walking either to or from the Del Taco, I forget which, but it was not too long after the Gay Pride parade finished up on Market Street. The Del Taco trip was the first time I walked down Market Street that day, which is to say I did not participate in the parade. Maybe I'm just not a prideful person, possibly because I heard it is one of the seven deadly sins. Or maybe I'm just not gay, regardless of the fact that the night before I was singing along at a piano bar then went out clubbing where I exchanged several high-fives with a chubby and quite obviously gay man. And by "exchanged several high-fives" I don't mean that we bumped the ends of our man-parts together. Because that would have to read "exchanged several high-three-and-a-halfs."

As I was walking down Market Street I was accosted by an allegedly homeless guy holding a paper cup (possibly a Del Taco cup). He actually looked like he just might have been a straggler from the parade instead of an authentic homeless guy. Here's how the exchange went:

ALLEGEDLY HOMELESS GUY ("AHG"): Hey buddy, can you spare some change?

OSCAR DE LA JOLLA ("ODLJ") shakes his head, says nothing.

AHG: Whatever.

ODLJ: Take care.

AHG: Yeah, fuck you.

Did I do something wrong there? Or was that just "aggressive panhandling" in action? Granted, as a soon-to-be-homeless person myself, I might want to try and curry some homeless guy good karma by contributing, but that's not my thing. It hasn't been my thing since my days at Berkeley, really. I guess if you keep seeing the same guy by the same BART station telling the same story about how his car broke down and how he needs a couple bucks for a tow truck for too many days in a row, you start to get desensitized to the whole thing. I don't think I was being overly sarcastic with my "Take care", I just figured I should say something rather than ignoring the dude completely. And I got a "Fuck you" for my trouble. Normally this sort of thing would have bothered me for awhile, but lately my Give a Crap Meter has gotten a lot less sensitive, and it takes a pretty significant event to register on my radar. So here's my promise to you, dear reader: when I'm living on the streets and you refuse my request for spare change, I promise not to tell you to go fuck yourself - I'll draw the line at telling you to eat a dick and that will be the end of it.

The Switch

2009-05-22T15:47:00.000-07:00

"God is dead." -- Friedrich Nietzsche

"Friedrich Nietzsche is dead." -- God

"Blogging is dead." -- Wood Dog

"Wood Dog is right." -- Twitter

Scene: Interior, the darkened headquarters of It's OKTO Blog. The sounds of keys rattling and the click of a deadbolt sliding open are heard. The door opens, and a sliver of light pierces the blackness.
[OSCAR DE LA JOLLA enters. He clears the cobwebs off of a light switch and flips the switch. Overhead, fluorescent lights flicker to life.]

"Hello?"

[OSCAR's voice echoes faintly. The only response is the steady hum of the fluorescent lights.]

"Looks like no one's been here in weeks. Months, maybe. By posting it seems I've lost our little game of blog chicken, but waiting for the Wood Dog to blog first was like getting into a staring contest with a fish. Or maybe the Legion of Doom finally won?"

Look, I realize that blogging is such a 2007 thing to do, but let's shoot a couple more entries out into cyberspace before we wrap this puppy up for good. I'd really like to make it to the blog's one-year anniversary, seeing as how it might be the only one-year anniversary I'm a part of in my lifetime. Besides, we have to keep blogging, at least until we get a Facebook page or a Twitter feed. Is it OKTO Twitter? Speaking of Twitter, you can follow the Wood Dog here. But it will do you no good, since he Tweets as often as I have threesomes. Which, as you'll learn below, is "not yet."

Woke up in my own bed (for a change, and at a reasonable hour to boot -- meaning "as well" in this context and not that I woke up at a good time for puking) two Sundays ago. It being Mother's Day, I threw a goodbye/mercy screw to Wood Dog's Mom before she left, then called my Mom to wish her a Happy Mother's Day. As I prepared to begin my day, however, I couldn't figure for the life of me why my left arm was aching.

I went to check it out and sure enough, I had a pretty nasty welt on my upper arm. First I reviewed the Captain's Log from the night before... nope, no falling was done. Looking for clues, I hunted around for my phone, and located it safely stowed in my front jeans pocket. I have a theory about this - the amount you had to drink the night before is directly correlated to the amount of stuff you find in your pants the next morning. Keys and wallet on the dresser, phone plugged into the charger? Sober. Keys on the dresser but phone and wallet in your pants? Buzzed. Keys, wallet and phone in your pants? Drunk. Keys, wallet and phone in your pants and you're still wearing the pants when you wake up? Very Drunk. Keys, wallet, phone, poop, and the phone number and e-mail address of some handsome sailor you sorta remember meeting all in your pants and you're still wearing the pants? Smashed, and maybe it's time to seek some professional help. And if you wake up with that handsome sailor in your pants? Smashed and Very Gay.

Checked the phone. Found a nasty 2:45AM text message from a "booty text" of mine. I didn't keep it, but it said something to the effect of "I can't believe u did that. Ur SUCH an ASSHOEL!1!" Aha! A clue! Hamster starts running, wheel starts turning, brain starts working. Yes. The night did end badly. Yes, it definitely did. Why? Because I tried to fly too close to the sun.

You see, I have spent a few nights over at Ms. Booty Text's place. Now, MBT lives with two roommates. Two cute roommates. Two cute, female roommates. I've met them on several occasions, including one time when I was on my way to use the bathroom and I hadn't bothered to get fully dressed before venturing out. Between my time at the gym and my time at the waxing salon, I dare say that shirtless in boxers is not a bad look for me at the moment. Apparently the roommates agreed, as MBT let it be known once that the roommates had commented to her that I was attractive. Once I playfully suggested inviting them into the bedroom, and was told by MBT that they probably wouldn't mind but that she would really mind.

Armed with this information, I met MBT and her roommate, the one who happens to be a yoga instructor, out for late-night drinks. I was trying to set the Yogi up with a friend of mine, but she was going on about some guy she met a few bars earlier in the night and clearly was having esteem issues ("Do you think I should call him? Maybe I should text him. He hasn't texted me yet and he's had my number for two hours now. I think I should text him."). So I figured I'd put some time in, build this girl up a little, and get her to live in the present and chat up my buddy (who was being a champion and throwing alcohol in our direction the whole time).

Unfortunately (but intentionally) my building-up of this girl came across as flirting. This had a two-pronged effect. Yogi was flattered by the flirting but unsure what if anything to about it, seeing as how MBT was sitting two barstools down. MBT, on the other hand, began to get a bit jealous. As much as MBT claimed to understand that ours was a NSA relationship, one of her other friends confided in me that she in fact had far greater aspirations than that. Me? Not so much. I had in fact I been looking to shut down the relationship, as these things can't go on for too long without someone developing feelings and I knew it wasn't me doing the developing. I'm simply incapable of developing feelings, romantic or otherwise. Even if I get choked up when I watch the end of the Scrubs episode where Brendan Fraser dies. Oops. Spoiler Alert from 2004.

So the bar eventually closes, and the conversation devolves into MBT accusing me of flirting with her roommate. Which I was. Blatantly, and right in front of her. So, being the uncompromising sort, I admit to doing just that. Of course I had to flirt with her, I explained, because how else were we going to have a threesome? When MBT realizes that I'm serious (hell, I'm acting like I'm entitled to it at this point) she goes ballistic. "Who do you think you are? What, am I not enough for you? Not in a million years, Buster Brown!" Etc. So then it all comes out. "Why don't you want to date me?" MBT wants to know. Filled with the sodium pentathol that is sweet, sweet alcohol, I proceed to tell her that it is mainly because she is "unstable" and "insane." She oddly seemed to take offense at these statements. In fact, when I used the word "insane" MBT actually went insane and took a swing at me. Due to her poor aim or my superior defensive skill (green belt, bitches!) she ended up hitting me in the left arm, right where the bruise now resides. Which, if nothing else, proved my point regarding her insanity. Satisfied it was the right thing to do, as I don't really like the taste of boiled bunny, I deleted all her contact information. She did send me one e-mail after that, to which I responded as a concession to the female need for closure. However, I'm sure that's the last time I'll ever see her, although I do think of her every day. I can't help it - every time I see this sickly yellow-brown contusion on my arm I am reminded of her. Nice punch, MBT. Respect.

Mr. Popularity

2009-03-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

Day after day, week after week, month after month, I find myself wondering why this blog isn't more popular. It's gotten to the point where my life's being consumed by the thought. Well, consumed to the extent that my life hasn't been consumed by chasing skirts and suffering through Facebook status updates from my former high school friends ("Cindy is driving the kids to school, then she has to go grocery shopping. Ugggghhhh I am sooooo tired"). I hope Cindy isn't updating her status while she's driving her kids to school, as that just seems inherently unsafe. Knowing Cindy, her kids are going to have enough trouble making it through life without being disfigured in a car accident Cindy causes when she's trying to finish the "Which Cocktail Are You?" Facebook quiz while behind the wheel.

Here are four reasons I came up with that may explain why the blog isn't more popular:

1. The blog doesn't have any marketing or advertising.

This isn't exactly true - I did make four t-shirts for the blog. I even wore one of those t-shirts when I was out last weekend. Of course, I was wearing the t-shirt underneath a Snuggie on a Snuggie Pub Crawl, but since Snuggies are open in the back you could totally see our logo and URL. Since there were several hundred other idiots out there in Snuggies, I expect the page hits to start rolling in any day now.

Author's note regarding Snuggie Pub Crawls - when girls are all wearing the same baggy, one-size-fits-all robe, they tend to start looking alike. This can lead to talking to a girl at the end of the night thinking she is a girl from earlier in the night you have already spoken with. You may bring up things from the earlier conversation that the new girl doesn't remember, because you weren't talking to her before. You may even call her by the prior girl's name, and the current girl may then get pissed at you and send you home. So beware.

2. The blog's content sucks.

I've specifically been asked to discontinue writing about getting humped by dogs. Who knows how many other offensive topics the readers have suffered in silence?

3. The Wood Dog doesn't post.

A point closely related to point #2 above - at this point the third installment in the Legion of Doom series is as overdue and eagerly awaited as Duke Nukem Forever, the OICW (the U.S. military's replacement for the M-16), or the Guns n' Roses album Chinese Democracy. It seems at this point that the Man of Wood is not a man of his word. However, technically all he said he was going to do was "blog more", and he's blogging more than, say, a termite, so it might be that in his mind he's fulfilling his resolution. Either that or he refuses to be shamed into posting. He may be a liar, but he's also a man of integrity. Glad to have him on board.

4. We never post any Top Ten lists.

Aha! I think we may be on to something with this final point. People love Top Ten lists! Dave Letterman's used them for years and he's still on the air, and I'm pretty sure they're something of a known marketing tool as well - I remember seeing lists like Top Ten Reasons to Give a Togo's Gift Certificate with totally inane reasons like "Take a friend to lunch" making the Top Ten. That stroke of genius could only be the product of a Madison Avenue ad wizard, designed specifically to appeal to today's ADD-afflicted society.

I received my first lapdance at a bar in my hometown. I was probably 21 or 22 years old, and was playing pool near the bar while female oil wrestling was going on where the dance floor normally is. My Mom's boyfriend was there, and he paid one of the wrestling girls $5 to go into the other room and give me a lapdance. As I recall she was fairly attractive, and would have been considered very attractive in my town, though baby had slightly more back than I would have preferred at the time. She then sat me down on a barstool and proceeded to give me the lapdance. The song she performed to was Loser by Beck, and she quietly sung the words as she performed as I sat there pondering the meaning of irony.

With that as context, I present to you:

TOP TEN SONGS YOU'LL HEAR AT A STRIP CLUB

I performed all my own research for this piece, which consisted of a few field trips and a careful examination of my iPod playlist, but no internet searches for anything like "Strip Club Songs". Note that at a real strip club, all of these songs will have been trimmed down to three minutes or less:

10. Girls, Girls, Girls by Motley Crue

Several times during the night, the cheesy DJ with the tuxedo and the ponytail will put on this song, then get on the microphone and tell all the girls to go to the stage for the line-up or "cattle call". This of course gives everyone in the audience a chance to evaluate all the talent, after which they'll all be hoarding their money to purchase a lap or table dance from one of the three cute girls out of the fifty girls working that night. The video for this song actually features a girl on a stripper pole, but Youtube doesn't allow me to embed that video.

9. Hot For Teacher by Van Halen

There's always at least one stripper playing to the teacher fetish we all have, and this song will be a staple at strip clubs until some genius releases a song called "Hot for Catholic Schoolgirl". Then again, I think there are a couple of Britney Spears songs that work just fine for that. Note: the first 45 seconds or so of the video are pretty disturbing, but a bikini-clad woman does eventually end up dancing on a stage.

8. Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leppard

This song first became popular while I was attending high school, and so did the girl who you'll likely see onstage dancing to this song. The song aged pretty well, but unfortunately the girl did not. Both the band and the stripper are still performing live, but both are woefully past their primes. A shame.

7. Here I Go Again by Whitesnake

The chick in the video is of course Tawny Kitaen, who was the stuff of teenage wet dreams back in her day. Now she's the stuff of the police blotter, having beaten her husband with a stiletto heel in 2002 (he was 6'6" professional baseball player Chuck Finley, so that's pretty impressive) and been caught with a quantity of cocaine in 2006. Do yourself a favor and don't Google Ms. Kitaen, as she pretty much looks like a 47-year old disaster these days. Rather, focus on the 35-year old disaster who's up on stage performing to the song.

6. You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC

You'd think I spent a whole lot of time in strip clubs in the 80's, but I promise you I'd never set foot in one until much later and I've heard all these songs at those establishments recently. Maybe that says something about the caliber of establishment I've been going to, but I just love going to strip clubs and seeing strippers perform who were unattainable in high school but who are now stripping well past their prime and are all-too attainble, assuming you can supply a little bit of meth or even a six-pack of Budweiser tall boys. Score one for those of us who were chess club dorks - the day is mine! And with that, we conclude the old school/hair band/white trash portion of our program.

5. Whichever Britney Spears Song is Currently Popular by Britney Spears

I went ahead and chose Britney's Circus to post but you can bet that if there's a Britney song getting airplay that you'll hear it at a strip club. That may be because her songs have something of a sultry dance groove to them, or it may be that all strippers look up to Britney. As a 27-year old batshit-crazy single mother of two, she's pretty much their queen.

4. Low by Flo Rida

Ah, yes. Getting low. Are we talking about crawling around and seductively dancing near the floor? Are we talking about self-esteem? They're not mutually exclusive, not by a long shot. Update: apparently the increased traffic caused by my linking to this video prompted Youtube to pull it down, so all you get now is still pictures. Bite me.

3. I Wanna Love You by Akon feat. Snoop Dogg

Careful, this one gets all subliminal on our asses. You see, the song is about a dude who goes to a strip club and the stripper who catches his eye. The dude decides he has to have the stripper and throws a bunch of money at her in the champagne room ("...spendin' a couple dubs, throwin' 'bout 30 stacks in the back make it rain like that 'cause I'm far from a scrub"). That translates to $30,000, which may seem like an excessive amount but remember that Pacman Jones made it rain with more than twice as much money. Afterwards, the two leave together in a limo but instead of just a sexual encounter, it looks like this could be true love ("...the type I want to marry, wantin' to just give you everything and that's scary"). So the moral or the story is to go to a strip club and spend an assload of cash on a stripper and then to marry her. It's like a hip-hop remake of Pretty Woman.

2. Me and You by Cassie

Let's see... a video that consists entirely of a reasonably attractive girl dancing alone on a stage? I guess she could be practicing for a ballet recital, or maybe she's just getting in some extra work in hopes of someday appearing on Dancing With the Stars. More likely, this is the cute girl who starts off working at the strip club as a cocktail waitress and would never dream of stripping, at least not until she finds out that the strippers are making 10 times what she's making. Then she'll start stripping, and she'll take the first $4,000 she earns and buy a fake pair of boobies to really increase her earning potential. Also gotta love when she kisses the mirror at the 1:00 mark - now we know where A-Rod is stealing his moves from!

1. I'm In Love With a Stripper by T-Pain feat. Mike Jones

Look, I realize this choice is obvious. It's like putting together a party playlist and using Let's Get It Started by Black Eyed Peas as your first song. But just because your #1 is obvious that doesn't mean it's not #1. I'm starting to think that writing a song that'll be overplayed in a strip club is a rite of passage for hip-hop artists, kind of like how many artists write songs about how tough it is to be famous after they become famous (for example, Have You Seen Me Lately by Counting Crows, Harder to Breathe by Maroon 5, and Don't Let Me Get Me by Pink). I guess it would be pretty cool to see a buxom, tattooed young woman strip to one of your songs, and there's no better way to make sure that happens than to call your song I'm in Love With a Stripper. Well played, T-Pain, but it could have turned out differently. Just ask Two Live Crew:

Must Love Dogs

2009-03-23T01:04:00.000-07:00

I went on another date with "Melanie" the other night. Had a pretty good time, really. At the end of the date, Melanie and I found ourselves back at her place. Now, Melanie has a small dog. This is far better than if she had a cat or multiple cats, but the dog is clearly very important to Melanie. For example, there are several pictures of said dog on Melanie's online dating profile.

Being the nice guy I am, I went ahead and walked Melanie's dog around the block when we got back. The dog marked a few bushes but refused to poop anywhere so the walk felt like kind of a waste, like a porn film without the money shot. Anyhow, I get back with the dog and Melanie is grateful. We agree that I'm going to stay over.

Melanie's dog sleeps in her bed. I now know that this is true even when she has a human overnight guest. I've dated girls with dogs and/or cats before, and in those cases the girl would kick the dog or cat out of the bed if I was there. Granted, the animals usually made it back into the bed in the morning, but at least we had some alone time unfettered by a third mammal. In Melanie's case, I wasn't going to make a big stink about it at this time - Melanie and I are barely dating, so I'm at the bottom of the totem pole and the dog is sitting right there at the top. I get this. If things ever got serious I'd think, hope and demand that I'd eventually become more important than the dog, but we're not there yet.

So Melanie and I end up doing a little making out. Nothing crazy, just some good old-fashioned mostly-clothed fun. As I'm going about my business, I feel something on my backside. I come to the horrible realization that what I felt was a dog's nose. It seems the doggie was doing a little sniffing around and got a little too close. Now, there are some people who might be turned on by this. I am not one of those people. In fact, I found this to be quite a turn-off. However, I decided to try and play through it. I didn't think farting to scare the dog and have him back off was a very good idea, so I just sort of bumped the dog's nose with my butt in hopes he'd get the hint and get lost. This seemed to work as I didn't notice him doing any more sniffing around, so I hit one into the gap and made my way toward third base. This move receives a rather audible and favorable reaction from Melanie, and who doesn't love being a crowd-pleaser? This are just going along swimmingly.

Except that the dog was also apparently intrigued by what was going on, so he decided to hump my leg. I imagine there might be bigger turn-offs than that, but I can't really think of any right now. Wait a minute... maybe I can (NSFW). But still, having a dog hump your leg while making the sexy time is probably the worst thing that's happened to me in the context of the bedroom. Melanie's having a good time, and seems unaware that her dog is doing what it's doing, so I'm reluctant to stop what I'm doing. I decide to take one for the team and just suffer this indignancy in silence. In fact, I'm pretty sure the dog finished, meaning two of the three mammals present had a great time. But the third mammal, Me, did not. It was just a little too weird. I think between this and the cell phone incident, this chick is officially undateable. Which means we go back to the old drawing board.

Uninvestigative Reporting

2009-03-16T23:59:00.000-07:00

Inside a typical restaurant, a group of girls is out to dinner. The spinach salads and cheesecake slices have been eaten, and the mojitos and chardonnays sit half-finished on the table. The girls who are present have gossiped ad naseum about any girls who are absent, and all that remains is to pay the check. After painstaking itemization and multiple recalculations over several agonizing minutes, each girl's share of the check has more or less been determined. Then it happens, as it invariably must - each girl pays for her share of the check on her own respective credit card. All across America, this scene repeats itself over and over again, like the mythical Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill. Why doesn't one of the girls pick up the check and be paid by the other girls? It's not possible, because girls don't carry more than a few dollars in cash. But why not? We tried to find out.

I'm Oscar de La Jolla. That story, and Andy Rooney, tonight on It's OKTO Blog.

I'd like to admit up front that this is a very poorly-researched story. I came up with three possible answers to why chicks never carry any cash, but I didn't really ask any girls why they don't carry cash. I actually was chatting up a cute chick Saturday night and she offered a fourth explanation, but I don't really remember what she said because I was busy looking at her boobs. But I did get her number so maybe I'll be able to coax that information out of her again at a later date. Coax her? I just met her! Oh!

A buddy of mine who was out with me the night I met this chick texted me the next day to see how things had gone. This dude has a pretty sweet interrogation method, as the first text to arrive read "Did you throw a f*ck into that chick?". When I indicated that I had not, the next text to arrive was "I thought you were going to make her into your c*ck ornament." Eloquence at its finest. I'm pretty sure this dude was Cyrano de Bergerac in his former life.

REASON #1: FEAR OF ROBBERY. Except in very rare cases (e.g. the Y-Scale, the female "professional football player" we met in San Luis Obispo, or some of my very unfortunate hookups), woman are the smaller, weaker sex. Therefore it would follow that women are concerned about having their purses stolen. Naturally, if there were any cash in the woman's purse, she would lose that in a robbery along with any gum, lipstick, Blackberry, sanitary product or cute lime-green iPod shuffle that might be in that purse. Now, many girls aren't that hip to finance, but I think most all of them know that their liability is limited to $50 in the event of unauthorized use of a credit card. So by not carrying cash, they're cutting their losses at $50. It's actually a pretty reasonable thing to do. Maybe guys should consider doing it, although it's much less impressive when you're "making it rain" by throwing your Visa, ATM, Safeway Club and Supercuts cards (tenth haircut is free!) onto the main stage at the local strip club. Not that Dr. Seuss the stripper didn't try and convince me that she'd be mightily impressed had I opened a line of credit on my card in the champagne room.

REASON #2: IMPULSE BUYING. As you may be aware, women tend to worry about their weight. Heck, I once worked in an office where a group of women got together and petitioned the boss to prohibit people from keeping candy dishes at their cubicles because these women were being unfairly tempted to eat the candy. Yes, instead of using willpower, let's make life just a little more miserable for those people stuck in cubicles by taking away their candy. Good thinking, way to suck it up for the team. By not carrying cash, women short-circuit their ability to buy a candy bar or a sugar soda during the day without having to petition the city to prohibit stores from carrying fattening products. True, women could still use their credit cards to buy a Twix, but with the credit card minimums imposed by most merchants this isn't very likely - just as women love to buy things on sale, they tend to hate to pay more for a product than they have to. Of course, they could always buy an US Weekly along with the candy bar to get above the credit card minimum, but at least it's an additional hurdle.

REASON #3: FREQUENT-FLIER MILES. If a person had the self-discipline and the financial ability to pay off their credit card each month, buying everything on the card seems like a pretty smart thing to do. You'll be building your credit score, your card may offer theft protection when the card is used to make certain purchases, and you can get credit cards with all kinds of reward programs like cash back, hotel points, or frequent-flier miles. So why not pay for everything on a credit card and take an annual trip to the Caribbean? Granted, you'll have to go in the middle of the hurricane and pirate seasons, but you won't be paying for that middle seat on the airplane, which is nice. Plus, you're maximizing your rewards while paying exactly the same amount you'd pay if you used cash. Carrying a balance and incurring interest charges (as a few women tend to do) might outweigh the benefits of the rewards program, but many women may be using their credit cards with the intent that they'll pay off their balances, even if it doesn't actually happen.

I don't know which of these answers is the right answer. I don't know if any of these answers is the right answer. Maybe the answer is that women each want their own receipt so they can expense the meal at work, or deduct it on their tax returns. Crap, I might have to actually ask a girl about this, unless someone wants to tell us the answer in the Comments.

And now, Andy Rooney.

Andy Rooney, as those of you who watch 60 Minutes know, has lost touch with reality. He's at best irrelevant, and at worst terrifying (especially in HD - woof!). But I love how whichever of the other goblin/correspondents who introduces Andy Rooney ("I'm Morley Safer... coming up next, Andy is wondering why they call the newspaper "USA Today" when it isn't published every day") always has this smirk on his or her face when Andy's segment ends, as if what Andy just finished saying was even remotely funny. Wait, I don't love the smirk, I hate it. Who do they think they're kidding? Screw those guys.

I'm Oscar de La Jolla. We'll be back next week with another edition of It's OKTO Blog. With any luck it will be the long-awaited third installment of the Legion of Doom series. I don't like our chances, but we can dare to dream.

Watching Watchmen

2009-03-16T20:50:00.000-07:00

I saw this Watchmen movie recently. I guess the movie is based on a comic book. I wasn't aware of this fact until it was mentioned as the buzz around this movie grew. Some people like to call it a "graphic novel" instead of a comic book. You see, calling a comic book a graphic novel apparently grants adults the right to look at comic books without being ridiculed, comic books heretofore having been considered a child's domain. I guess its sort of the same in that boys don't play with "dolls", they play with "action figures". And adult males don't play with action figures, they play with "collectibles". But what everyone is really doing is playing with dolls.

From what I've heard, people who have read the comic book are sorta disappointed by the movie, so I suppose I'm glad I didn't read the comic. I really enjoyed the movie. The plot was interesting, some of the characters were interesting, and the music was really good. The opening scene and sequence through the opening credits was particularly good in my opinion. But I'm not here to review the movie. Not really, anyway. I just want to point out a couple of things.

First of all, Malin Ackerman, who plays Silk Spectre II, is way, way, way hotter as a blonde (as she is in real life) than as a brunette (as she is in the movie). This despite the fact that she spends much of the movie in a latex outfit. It's like it's not even the same person, much like what they did to Cameron Diaz in Being John Malkovich:
Secondly, a major character in Watchmen is a blue, godlike being called Dr. Manhattan. Dr. Manhattan is one of the Watchmen and he was created, as so many superheroes are, by being accidentally irradiated in a laboratory. If you're a female camper in the woods and you appear onscreen topless (most likely in the shower or in front of the bathroom mirror), or if you investigate a noise, you will be murdered by a masked killer, and there's a pretty good chance you'll be startled by a cat just before you're murdered. If you're a scientist onscreen and you go back into the lab to get something you forgot, or if a co-worker's sleeve gets caught on something and you try and help free them, you will be irradiated and will gain superhuman powers. It's just how these things work.

Dr. Manhattan is an interesting character for sure. Not only does he obviously work out, but his powers are so vast that he gradually loses his ability to relate to people or even to the world. Apparently part of his "losing touch" is that he forgets to have the common decency to cover up his junk. It appears this is intentional - when Dr. Manhattan is seen in earlier parts of the movie, when he's not wearing a suit, he tends to appear onscreen wearing only some sort of banana hammock. However, he eventually starts forgetting to conjure this critical item of clothing and so we end up getting a bunch of gratuitous shots of the blue torpedo. In several scenes, Dr. Manhattan appears as a 50-foot tall blue man. Now, recall that women had a hard time accommodating Dirk Diggler's reported 13" disco stick. If everything remains in proportion on Dr. Manhattan, only the most experienced and ambitious men and women among us would dare take on the good Doctor - think very experienced porn stars, NBA groupies, prison lifers, and longtime Castro residents (especially of the power bottom variety). Not that they would get the chance, though - Dr. Manhattan's increasing disinterest with the human race extends to sexuality. That's clear from the film, and even more clear from the theater's marquee:
I have to think it's better this way for all concerned.

Shaking Off the Cobwebs

2009-03-12T21:59:00.001-07:00

Holy crap, there are more cobwebs around here than there are around my grandma's "naughty bits." Actually, I might be wrong about that. You see, she's been gone awhile now so there probably are cobwebs in that general vicinity. Heck, the inside of her casket would probably look right at home inside some tomb being explored by Indiana Jones. Whereas there aren't actual cobwebs on this website, it's just been a couple weeks since I posted anything. There is some good stuff in the pipeline; however, it doesn't translate as well as I'd hoped into the "written word" or "humor." Stay tuned, or GFY, at your own discretion.

Couple of bits of interest. First, I was speaking with an adult entertainer not too long ago. To clarify, this was a female adult entertainer. This charming albeit heavily tattooed woman took a liking to me, most likely due to the fact that I was at the adult establishment with someone who is a minor celebrity at that establishment, so I got some instant street cred. We agreed to meet for drinks at a Friday happy hour, then began a bizarre negotiation. Her opening negotiating position was essentially "You take me upstairs to the champagne room, and I'll buy you all your drinks at the happy hour." My opening negotiating position was essentially "No." I don't doubt that I could have made back a fair amount of what I would have ended up spending upstairs at the happy hour; those of you who know me know that I could put the booze away in my younger, more formative years. However, I did doubt that this chick would actually show up. She offered all sorts of safeguards, like promising she'd be there, and giving me her phone number, but the real kicker was when she offered to tell me her real name. Well, she didn't tell me her real name, but she told me a riddle, the answer to which was her real name. The riddle went thusly: "I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them __________ I am." Naturally, I guessed "Dr. Seuss?", and perhaps even more naturally I don't have a happy hour date coming up.

Unrelated second point: I was at the corner store earlier today and I bought a bottle of the little-known and highly underrated RC Cola, primarily because it was on special for $0.99 (that is the underrated part). The clerk rang up the sale for $0.99, and I handed over my dollar. And the dude didn't give me back any change. He didn't even offer to give me back any change, or even reach into the penny drawer. It's like it was understood that he got to keep the penny, like I was tipping him or something. WTF? If he does that 100 times a day, that's $52 he's pocketing at the end of the year! Is this like the automatic 18% that is added into a food or beverage bill in Miami? I don't get the option of getting my change back anymore? Granted, I probably would have just put the penny into the "give a penny, take a penny" tray but at least I'd have the option, and would have gotten a little exercise out of the deal. Though I guess it all ends up in the same place - the "give a penny" tray is the convenience store's tip jar (just as the March of Dimes plastic jar at the Safeway is the supermarket's tip jar).

Stock is Falling, Number Two

2009-02-27T21:44:00.000-08:00

Kind of a two-part entry here.

ECONOMIC UPDATE:

First of all, I've been reading a book by Barton Biggs called "Hedgehogging" off and on for the past year or two. It's an account of Biggs' efforts to raise capital and run a hedge fund, and consists mainly of anecdotes about the hedge fund space and various characters he met who inhabit that space. Biggs changed the names of the characters to protect the innocent, but I came across the passage below (not a sexual reference, no matter how jacked I get reading about finance and investing) which I found especially poignant considering the book was published in 2006. This passage was uttered by "Vince", who is referred to in the book as the Bearded Prophet of the Apocalypse:

"Stocks will fall a lot further. They are still too expensive. The U.S. economy will be slow for years; too much debt, too little savings, inadequate retirement provisions. Residential real estate is the next big disaster. People are borrowing short to invest long, refinancing mostly with floating-rate mortgages. When short rates go up, debt service payments will soar and house prices will decline. Then the consumer collapses from the double whammy of the wealth effect and shrinking disposable income. It's called civilization exhaustion, and the beginning of the decline and fall of the American empire.

"Furthermore, another bubble is about to burst. Existing home prices have been rising 7% to 8% a year, financed by Fannie and Freddie. Luxury real estate values from Park Avenue to Beverly Hills and from Southampton to Aspen will collapse. In the aftermath of every burst financial bubble in history, paper wealth of all types evaporates. It was created out of thin air, and it will be blown away like mist in the wind. The price of the average luxury condo in Tokyo fell from US$1.2 million in 1990 to US$250,000 last year. In the 1930s, the price of art fell 80%. Oriental rug prices collapsed. Delayed backlash effects are always the same. Why should it be different this time? Secondary consequences take time - years - to happen, particularly when central banks cut interest rates drastically and flood the system with liquidity. But they can only be postponed, not averted. In three years, the American economy will be in a depression, the S&P 500 will be at 500, and there will be a revolution in America. It could be a fascist revolution like Germany in the 1930s."

The S&P closed at 735.09 Friday, and at last check people still seemed to have some faith in the government and in newly-elected President Ba-Rah-Rah Obama, but it looks like this Vince had an idea of what he was talking about. The author did point out, however, that the mysterious Vince had "predicted nine of the last three recessions", so maybe we won't end up speaking German after all this is said and done. But now onto more troubling matters.

DATING UPDATE:

This being 2009, the Year of Benetton, I went on a date the other night. It was a first date, and as is the norm these days, it was of the online variety. Our plan was to go to dinner, but we decided to meet for a drink first. I wanted to do this (1) to avoid having the bland "getting to know you" conversation while wedged into a table between two other couples who could easily overhear everything - we may as well just post a big red flag at our table that reads "First Date" - and (2) because this was a way to get an additional drink into her, as I subscribe to the Make Them Drink Till I'm Cute Theory of Dating. She agreed to meet for a drink first to help her figure out if she'd be able to stand my company for a longer period; if she hated me, she could pull the plug without having to suffer through the Sisqo CD and a whole meal of food.

Luckily I had all my pitches working that night, and I found this reasonably young lady to be clever and engaging. So we proceeded to dinner:

INTERIOR, RESTAURANT, SAN FRANCISCO:

A man and a woman sit at a table in the corner of a restaurant. They appear to be yuppies; their black overcoats are draped over the adjacent chairs and their high-tech telephones lay on the table. The man, OSCAR DE LA JOLLA, is nearly 37 years old, though he appears to be in his late 20s or early 30s due to his unwrinkled face and highly athletic build. He is wearing a fashionable button-down shirt with jeans, and has assumed an easy yet confident posture. He is clearly controlling the conversation. The woman, MELANIE, attractive with dark hair and dark eyes and dressed in all black, listens intently; she is obviously enjoying herself, and is beginning to look flushed due to a combination of wine and... other stimulation.

The flirtatious conversation is interrupted by a sudden burst of sound. The sound breaks the couple out of their rhythm and they momentarily appear confused, as if restaurant management has suddenly increased the volume of the restaurant's stereo to its maximum to play a popular song, perhaps one by Pink or Kelly Clarkson. MELANIE realizes that the sound is coming from her phone - it is her ringtone. She picks up the phone and peers at its LED screen.

MELANIE: Hmmm... I don't recognize that number...

MELANIE pushes a button on the front of the phone and lifts it to her ear.

MELANIE: Hello?

OSCAR glares at MELANIE, his face a combination of annoyance and disbelief.

OSCAR (to camera): Did this bitch really just answer her phone at dinner?

MELANIE begins an inane conversation with the person who has called her. After realizing MELANIE has no intention of ending her call quickly, OSCAR pulls out his cell phone and begins sending text messages - the first is to a buddy, telling him that the date will end early because MELANIE is currently on the phone and asking if the buddy would like to meet up later. The second is a "booty text" to an undisclosed female. OSCAR then proceeds to check his Facebook page, reviews NBA boxscores, buys a pair of jeans on Amazon, and runs a few searches for potential matches on the online dating website, using the search keyword COURTEOUS. Several minutes later, MELANIE finishes her call and addresses OSCAR.

MELANIE: So where were we?

OSCAR looks up from his phone, somewhat startled.

OSCAR: Huh? Oh, sorry. I didn't realize you were done with your call.

MELANIE: Oh, yeah, well, that was my friend.

OSCAR stares blankly at MELANIE for several seconds.

MELANIE: Oh! That wasn't rude of me, was it?

OSCAR: I'd say it was somewhere between very rude and extremely rude. I'm a pretty easygoing guy, and it's one thing to say "Oh, I'm sorry but I have to take this. I'll just be a second" and to wrap up the call quickly. But it's another thing to answer your phone on a first date, without even knowing who it is who's calling, and then to proceed to chat with this mystery person for five minutes. So yeah, I'd say that was very rude of you.

MELANIE: Did I just make a faux pas?

OSCAR: You could say that. In fact, you should say that.

And... SCENE!

(Wood Dog, let me know where to send the royalty check for stealing that SCENE! line. By the way, nice work on making two posts in a row. The sky is falling! The sky is falling!)

I have lashed out in the past about cell phone rudeness, particularly on public transit. However, cell phone use is so prevalent on public transit these days that its pretty much the norm. But have our societal manners eroded so far that it is OK to take a call at dinner on a first date? I haven't been on many dates since my return to SF, and this is a high-tech city, so is that what we're doing now? One of my prior first dates updated her Facebook status while on the date, but at least she had the common courtesy to wait until she went to the bathroom ("Jane is on the crapper and is also having a crappy time on her date"). My first question to myself was whether I liked "Melanie" enough to go out with her again despite the phone call, or whether that was a deal-breaker. Now I'm wondering if I'm the one who was being unreasonable by being annoyed in the first place.

Bird vs. Crow

2009-02-23T13:43:00.000-08:00

So I was invited out tonight to see a band in the hip Seattle music scene. Now let's be clear, I don't get out much. The last time I went out to see (hear?) live music in Seattle, it was back in the heyday grunge era of Seattle music. Watching Peal Jam up close at the 'Croc while wearing my fatigues and flannel shirt was the best damn time of my life.

[Editor's note: The Wood Dog had never even heard of Peal Jam, or any other grunge band, until they hit #1 on the national charts, and he wore Polo back in the 90's.]

The point is, I am out of my element. I had to do some research on this Band I am seeing tonight, so I could be prepared. The Band it turns out, is a guy. And the guy's name is Bird. Andrew Bird. After doing as much research as I could muster (8 seconds on google) I immediately identified this "genius" as a hack.

He is a total copy cat of Russel Crow (from Master and Commander), and if he doesn’t credit him tonight (or at LEAST credit Captain Jack Aubrey) as his inspiration, I call TOTAL BS.

But you be the judge.

Bird: (see the first 20 seconds of this clip when he was on Letterman)

Crow: (watch from 0:15 to 0:30 of this clip when he was at sea)

I mean, look at their styles… IDENTICAL. And Captain Jack was what, 150 years ago?

Your pencil is big and yellow.

2009-02-20T08:55:00.000-08:00

Is there an English teacher in the audience? Or even a foreign teacher that teaches English? You don't even have to be hot (see picture left) for this. I have an honest to goodness real deal English grammar question for you.

OK, here it is:

Why do we say "these are my pants"; and not "this is my pants"?

I mean, the word "pants" is a singular noun. Yet for some reason we use the plural abstract verb "are" instead of the singular abstract verb "is" in the case of pants. We should also say "where is the scissors?"- but we don't - we say "where are the scissors?"

You might suggest that it's because these words are singular nouns that happen to end in the letter "s" so we treat them like plurals. Well, you'd be wrong.

If that was the rule, then why do we say "Who IS that walrus?" and "There IS piss in your beer stein." ?? Both the Walrus and the piss are singular nouns ending in "s", but we use the proper verb "is" for both the walrus and the piss; not "are". Same thing with molasses, platypus, and ass. IS, IS, and IS.

Is it because pants and scissors have 2 components to them? Two legs, two handles, so we think of them as plurals? If that is the case, then we really are stupid. You can not have one pant and one scissor. But I think that has to be it, because this "are" phenomena also applies to similar versions of these two nouns: trousers, shears, and tongs. ARE, ARE, and ARE. This is truly baffling.

Even Anthony Edwards in the hit movie Gotcha! (1985) could get his abstract verb tenses right:

Jonathan (Edwards): "Mon crayon est grand et mon crayon est jaune."
Waiter: "Your pencil is big and yellow?"

Jonathan: "Oui!"

Waiter: "Nice for you"

[and... SCENE]

See? Anthony Edwards (even in full 80's loaf) seems to be able to master his verb tenses, in both French and English. Then again, he was just trying to score and he did end up being the target... So maybe there really is no answer to this question after all.

Screw it. Until someone can explain this to me, I am just going to say it right, no matter how I sound and how you judge me.

THIS IS MY TROUSERS

THIS IS MY TONGS

THIS IS FOR WEARING

THIS IS FOR... um, gripping and lifting hot things.

"Content" Provider

2009-02-19T01:15:00.000-08:00

So I picked up my guitar and I wrote down a tune that had been mulling and creeping and crawling around in my head. It went something like this...

-- Nick Rivers, Top Secret

It has come to my attention that my content hasn't been up to snuff of late. One might say (and two have said) that I've become a little lazy with my entries. That I've gotten content with my content. HA! Get it? It's a pun! Or a simile/metaphor. Perhaps a homonym? Onomatopoeia? I may have failed grammar, but it seems I've also failed these readers once again - this entry sure isn't going to change any opinions of the quality of my work. The entry has nothing to do with Nick Rivers, Val Kilmer, or the movie Top Secret; that quote was just to get your hopes up while disguising the fact that I'm doing a "ramblings" column (hence the mulling and creeping and crawling). But I'd like to state for the record that I attribute much of my sloppy and uninteresting writing to the fact that I've been reading a fair amount of Bill Simmons lately.

I really should get a standard opening for these posts. I like Scott Ostler's "Deep thoughts, cheap shots and bon mots" but I think he beat me to the punch on that one. How about "Boring rants, can't dance and no pants"? Not bad, but it reminds me a little too much of a typical Saturday night. We'll think on it.

THOU DOTH PROTEST TOO MUCH! As befits a single dude, I didn't do anything special for Sucker's, er, Valentine's Day. I had a few people over for a nonromantic evening of food and booze, and went out to see some band play with a few of the stragglers. I sure didn't "show her how much I love her" by buying her a diamond tennis bracelet, because I don't really know who the "her" would be at this point, and these days I've been showing my love with a dollar bill tucked into a G-string. Other people celebrated a little differently, however. Down at the Fruitvale BART Station, there was a "Love-in" to honor the memory of the dude who was shot by the BART cop on New Year's. Here's the part I loved most about this event, excerpted from the article:

For those who are not fitted in riot gear, the Choose Love BART Sit-in on Valentine's Day is a good place to start. You are invited to gather at the Fruitvale BART station and hold a moment of silence. Organizers ask that you identify yourself by wearing headphones [or] any ribbon or identifier and adding your number to this two-minute "flash-vigil."

Really? Identify yourself as a participant in the event by wearing headphones or a ribbon or identifier? IT'S PUBLIC TRANSIT! EVERYONE WEARS HEADPHONES ON BART! Since there's no cell reception, headphones are the best way to avoid speaking with or making eye contact with the muttering, urine-smelling gentleman in the seat next to you! So it must have appeared that there was this huge showing of support for the cause, and it is quite possible that the majority of those people didn't even know they were participating! I'm not saying it wasn't a worthy cause, I'm just saying that the organizers probably deemed the event a huge success but that perceived success would have been based on what was at least partially a fake number. How's this for a protest: If you object to the fact that I'm not dating Elisha Cuthbert (yeah, sloppy seconds I know), show your support tomorrow by either wearing a ribbon or talking on a cell phone while on a Muni bus. See? Half the city (and the entire 30X) is in my corner!

ATTENTION, WOMEN OF SAN FRANCISCO! Suggested by a former reader, this may become a semi-recurring blog item. Actually, one of these will be posted every time, but since we have only a semi-recurring blog, this item will by definition be semi-recurring. Anyhow, it goes like this: ATTENTION, WOMEN OF SAN FRANCISCO! YOUR SUNGLASSES ARE BIG ENOUGH! Stop the madness. For realsies.

THE UNTUCKED SHIRT: A PLAY IN THREE ACTS. Typical Marina Dude is out on the town, wearing an untucked button-down dress shirt.

Typical Marina Dude:
Sweet! Untucked shirts are still trendy. Now chicks can't tell that my metabolism has slowed down now that I'm in my thirties (well, I'm in my forties but I'll tell them I'm in my thirties), and I have the build of a guy who sits in an office chair eight hours a day while snacking on Doritos. Plus, these hair plugs are totally blending with the haircut I just got at MR. so I'm feeling pretty good about myself and my leased Mercedes. I think I'll order a Mandarin and tonic for that little hottie over there...

Typical Marina Chick:
Omigod! I am *so* over untucked shirts on dudes. Haven't they heard that sweater vests are in? Would it kill them to go to Banana or Kenneth Cole and actually look at the mannequins? Now I can't tell if any of these dudes have the abs of an Abercrombie model that I require of my random hookups. Maybe I should have stayed home and watched Brothers & Sisters on my Tivo. I guess I'll just pick the dude with the Facconable shirt, at least he has the money to support my Gray Goose and designer shoe habit...

Typical Dude Wearing a Backpack in a Marina Bar:
Omigod! I am *so* over untucked shirts on dudes. Haven't they heard that sweater vests are in? Would it kill them to go to Banana or Kenneth Cole and actually look at the mannequins? How am I supposed to bump into one of these drunk assholes and steal his wallet with that fucking untucked shirt in the way? And even if I got my hand in there it's impossible to pull out the wallet now that guys are wearing these cursed "skinny jeans." If I get caught I might have to ask this prick out to save face. These fashion trends are killing my business. I miss Wall Street; it was hella better stealing money legally...

Tales of the City

2009-02-13T16:46:00.000-08:00

I've become quite the shutterbug of late, if by "shutterbug" you mean borderline creepy guy who takes lots of blurry, uninteresting photos. However, I thought I'd take this opportunity to post some pictures of my various adventures in the big city. Keep in mind that I'm the same idiot who went to Italy in 2005 and used his camera phone to take his pictures of that trip, and that was a bad camera phone for 2005. Heck, I even used it to take a picture of a picture of Florence because I was too lazy to go there. Anyhow, my current camera phone also bites ass but at least it doesn't charge extra for that, unlike some people.

I forget where I was driving to when I took this picture, but clearly I was using my phone while driving and should go to jail for that:
You see, many people in San Francisco are generally what you might call liberals and they don't really have much use for things like conservativism, invading countries in the Middle East, funding anti-prostitution laws, or fielding a decent baseball team. And they really don't have any use for former President George W. Bush. Not sure why; the dude did a totally bang-up job for eight years. He won two wars and everything. There is the small matter of him having started those two wars, but I digress. Considering how the economy is in fine shape after deregulation of the banking industry, I think W is getting a bit of a raw deal. Anyway, some clever jokester stuck "Obama" stickers over all the "Bush" street signs the day after Election Day. This prank got some local press, but I just happened upon it without knowing it had been done, and that was kind of cool. Now I'm just wondering what the sticker guy did with all the McCain stickers he had printed up to cover his bases. Maybe they got shipped to some third world country along with all the Arizona Cardinals: Super Bowl Champs sweatshirts.

At first glance, this might seem like a shitty picture of someone using a walker to cross Van Ness Avenue. And your first glance would be right. But what was fascinating about this was that this was an incredibly slow old woman. So slow, in fact, that she couldn't make it all the way across the street before the light changed. But this was not her first time at that rodeo, no sirree. The walker is also a chair, and when she got halfway across the street she turned it around and just took a seat by the median. Traffic whizzed by her for awhile, then, when the light was about to change again, she started to get up and turn her walker around. Then she was off and running (figuratively) and made it to safety on the second "walk" signal. Well done, slow old lady!

I have an unnatural and irrational hatred of Indian food. However, that didn't stop my friends from taking me to Pasha on my 30th birthday, and that night I became the proud owner of both an "I Learned How to Belly Dance" certificate and an unhappy stomach. I've also got an unnatural and irrational hatred of all things cilantro, so please, please don't take me here for my birthday:
This place would be better:
It does look like parking would be kinda tough there, but luckily we'll be in a limo since it's my birthday. That's how we roll.

What do you call that dog (yes, it's a dog) standing by the street post? Doesn't matter, it won't come anyway. Actually, that dog is looking for the man who shot his paw. You see, these jokes would be even more hysterical if you could tell that the dog in the photo (yes, it's a dog) only has three legs! Still, the dog more or less kept up with the woman, though it definitely oversold its "hop" to garner extra sympathy. The woman gave none though, apparently she had seen that act before. Or maybe it was because the woman only has one leg herself! It seems she was recently divorced, and all she was awarded was the dog because she didn't have a leg to stand on in court. At least she still has her job at IHOP. These are the (recycled) jokes, people.

Get Some, Pussy

2009-02-12T19:23:00.000-08:00

How many times have you been sitting around the house thinking to yourself, "Chairman Meow really needs to get laid. Unfortunately, my cat isn't charming at all. In fact, he's antisocial even by cat standards. Not to mention the fact that Chairman Meow is the ugliest fucking feline on the face of the planet. Looks like he's doomed to a case of kitty-kat blue balls for the rest of his life. If only there was something I could do..."

Well, come on down to Cow Hollow, because this is your lucky day!
Litter boxes rented by the hour. Very discreet. Cash only, please.

Bachelor Party

2009-01-27T12:57:00.001-08:00

Watched The Bachelor with the girls last night. It was actually a bit more unbearable than I remembered it - I think I last watched the show with any regularity around the third season. The "Bachelor" was a blond doofus from Memphis or somewhere and he picked a hot brunette who was a teacher but they broke up soon after he became a B-List celeb for 15 seconds and realized he had a shot at Tara Reid (but then again, so did you and I there for awhile). Or maybe it was the first season of The Bachelorette, which starred the chick who came in second on the first The Bachelor - I believe she ended up with Sensitive Volunteer Fireman Emo-Dude, who pretty much ruined it for all regular guys forever. Or maybe it was The Bachelor with the dude who was stupid and kinda gay-looking who owned those wineries and breweries and tire stores in Santa Barbara. Dammit, I've watched a lot more of this crap than I realized, but thankfully I am smart enough never to admit as much in a public forum.

As I was watching this show, it occurred to me that the only way for a real man to watch The Bachelor (besides being tied to a chair with his eyelids pinned back, Clockwork Orange-style) would be to make it into a drinking game. I suspect there are already a bunch of versions of a The Bachelor drinking game out there, but I haven't run any Google searches for it so I'll just be making this one up as we go. I doubt it will compare favorably to the Brent Musberger Drinking Game, but who are we kidding? That game is a piece of intellectual genius and literary art without equal - it's the Sistine Chapel of drinking games. If this thing rises to the level of Real Men of Genius or Saddam of Death I'll be tickled pink.

So here we go off the top of my head with the beta version of the IT'S OKTO BLOG BACHELOR DRINKING GAME:

Take One (1) Drink Whenever Any of the Following Occur:

* The Bachelor or any of the girls says something is amazing:

"I never expected to come on a TV show and meet so many amazing women."

* The Bachelor or any of the girls says something is cool:

"You like bears and you were in the newspaper once because you left your teddy bear in a store and got upset? That's cool."

* The Bachelor or any of the girls mentions a connection:

"I feel like we have a really strong connection, and that you should pick me and not one of those other insane fame-hungry bitches."

* One of the girls says she feels like a princess:

"When we were up in the ABC corporate jet and I saw the reflection in the window of those diamonds ABC borrowed for the show, I felt like a princess. Fuck those peons who are suffering in this shitty economy."

* The Bachelor or any of the girls takes a drink of alcohol:
* The tray of roses is shown on screen:

Take Two (2) Drinks Whenever Any of the Following Occur:

* One of the girls says she is falling for the Bachelor:
* The Bachelor makes out with one of the girls:
* One of the girls tears up:
* Host Chris Harrison empathetically touches the Bachelor (hand on the shoulder, etc.):
"Well, you've got a tough decision ahead of you. I wish you luck."

* The Bachelor picks up a picture of a girl in the "deliberation room" and looks at it thoughtfully when deciding whether or not he should give her a rose or cut her alcoholic stalker ass.

* Host Chris Harrison helpfully tells everyone how many roses are left for the Bachelor to give out. Because the American public can't count:

"There are four of you ladies left, and the Bachelor only has three more roses to give out. One of you... (dramatic pause) is going home tonight."

Finish Your Drink Whenever Any of the Following Occur:

* One of the girls actually starts to cry:
* The Bachelor takes off his shirt:
* The Bachelor talks about how this is the hardest rose ceremony yet:
"This is the most difficult rose ceremony yet. I've made amazing connections with all of these cool women. I don't know what I'm going to do."

Do a Shot When the Following Occurs:

* Host Chris Harrison points out that this is the final rose:
"Ladies, this... (dramatic pause) is the final rose. There are two of you left, so that means one of you... (even more dramatic pause) is going home tonight. Good luck."

Personally, princess, I think this game is amazing, and that it will make a connection with the readers of this cool blog. I must say that it was the hardest blog entry I've written yet, despite the fact that I wrote it with my shirt off, but thankfully there are only thirty-four words left. In any event, this game should get you dudes good and plastered if you're ever forced to watch this show, and Lord help you if you get stuck with a two-hour episode.

The Legion of Doom - Part 2

2009-01-23T14:05:00.001-08:00

[Continued from "The Legion of Doom - Part 1"]

I walked into Red’s Recovery Room on a whim. A co-worker of mine had read that it was the “Best Dive Bar” in Northern California, so we had to check it out. We were not disappointed.

The beauty that is Red’s Recovery Room is, well, everything. The choice to go with no windows in the layout is 2-fold genius. You can’t see what’s going on inside, and it keeps that annoying sunlight out. It's dark and messy, but you love it as soon as you walk in.

They had stuffed as many pool tables as you could imagine in Red's, 6 maybe, and the Coors light was cheap. The place just reeked of the Legion, and I knew instantly that this was their new hideout. The guys there could really shoot pool too. Now all I needed was for one of the legion to walk over, and BAM!, it would be on.

But I was with a co-worker. Was this smart? I didn’t have any of my old crime fighting buddies with me. Where was Apache Chieflivenotdie when you needed him? Wonder Y-man? Red Lantern? I knew Donnie was probably taking care of the Wonder Twins right then, so he was out.

Hell, I’d even take Faux-Hawkman right now.

Right when I was about to turn and run away screaming, like say Aquman would have after noticing that the "dive bar" wasn't actually located in a body of water, when one of the legion walked over. It wasn’t one of the old guys I knew from the CC, but he was one of them all right. His mullet, tattoos and earring gave him away as a member. I crapped myself figuratively. And then I crapped myself literally. I had to do this.

Co-worker and I were having a beer and playing pool at the kids table over next to the pile of old trophies, broken pinball machine, and the fake fly trap, completely separated from the grown up tables on the far side of the bar. Mullet man came over and challenged us, said he hadn’t played for about 9 months, and said he knew our type, and we were “a dime a dozen.” Other than that he was really pretty friendly.

TUNE IN NEXT BLOG, FOR ANOTHER EXCITING EPISODE OF...
THE LEGION OF DOOM, Now in Rohnert Park!

New Digs

2009-01-22T16:08:00.000-08:00

So, I am pretty much all moved into my new place, located in San Francisco's "Cow Hollow" district. Although I may have a touch of Merrittitis, which is medically defined as a desire to have sex with one's roommate, it looks like things are working out just fine. As I was entering the hallway to my apartment from the stairwell, however, I noticed the following sign:
It is just as the great philosopher Sun-Tzu always said: "Keep your fire doors close, and your enemies closer."

Some things in the City are better than they used to be. For instance, I've learned that with handheld internet and the SF NextBus website it is entirely possible to travel efficiently by bus in this city - gone are the days of waiting for an hour and not knowing if a bus is ever going to show up. For instance, last night I went to see Frost/Nixon at the AMC Theater on Van Ness and I don't think I waited more than about 4 minutes total in taking 3 separate buses to get there and back home. I also learned that movies that get a lot of Oscar hype aren't necessarily great movies (see, e.g. Frost/Nixon). Also, I approve of the drastic rise in the number of wine bars here since I've been away. Wine bars = drunk chicks = I like my chances as a single dude in this city.

It's also nice to know that some things haven't changed. The dude with the terrible combover is still a cashier at the Chestnut Street Walgreen's, and the grossly overweight woman with the goatee is still working at the pharmacy inside the same Walgreen's. The goatee may not look so splendid in the picture, but that's because I have a shitty camera on my phone. In real life this is a site to behold, and I most assuredly have goatee envy. If you have the means, I highly recommend you stop by and check it out.

However, all is not a bed of roses - there are some things are taking some getting used to in my return to the City:

* Having to move my car or get a parking ticket on street sweeping days (thankfully these were reduced to twice a month while I was away).
* Not being able to go to places like Target when I feel like it. Seriously, Target's like 75 miles away and it requires a specially-planned weekend trip to go. Good news for the overpriced neighborhood shops, bad news when I need a pack of 750 Q-Tips. And where's the Wal-Mart? Without one of those, where am I supposed to cruise for chicks? At least there's a Costco here (and it even has a parking garage and the best meal deal on the planet: $1.50 for a Polish sausage and a 20oz refillable soda).

* Not being able to easily park in front of my place whenever I feel like it. Really? Why did we go through all the trouble of stealing all that land from the Native Americans, the French and the Mexicans if we're not going to only build sprawling cities with wide streets and plentiful parking spots? I've heard some people actually rent garage spots that are two or more blocks away from their homes. Ludicrous. Hell, my vehicle is currently 3 or 4 blocks away and I am actually thankful to be parked that close. No way am I moving before the first Friday of next month, or until I need to go to Target.
* The smell of the homeless dude who is sitting fifteen feet away from me in the Marina public library. I am as far as I can be from him and still have a power outlet for my computer, and I've been sitting here for almost two hours and I'm still not used to the smell. Dude has a table all to himself, and he's sort of looking at newspapers and intermittently tearing them in half while making a sort of exhaling/snorting noise. It's been funny watching as people can't believe their luck in getting a spot at a table, then lasting from 0-4 minutes before they move to another, more olfactorily-friendly spot. This dude isn't as creepy as the shirtless homeless dude who stood outside in the rain yesterday, pressing his face against the glass and staring at people, but he's certainly more annoying. Note to self: bring clothespin for nose on next foray to the library. [And a hot chick just sat down within the smell radius... let's see how long she lasts. Though if she leaves soon, we'll never know if it was the smell, or the fact that she was sitting across from me.]

As you may have heard, I moved in with a couple of chicks. So, an ambiguously gay dude living with two chicks? All I need to do is fall over the back of the couch a few times and I'm a modern day Jack Tripper, so start sending in your applications to be my Larry (one received already). I'm looking forward to spending some quality time down at Hottie-mista, which is the new Regal Beagle as far as I'm concerned. I even bought a couple of bottles of a wine called "Menage a Trois" ("A playful mixture of three grapes!") for the apartment 'cause I'm just that clever. I'm replacing a chick in my new place, and of course as chicks they had the cable wired up so that it worked in a path-of-least-resistance kind of way but wasn't wired up to take advantage of things like HDTV and surround sound. In fact, that's why they chose me, I am expert. So yes, I spent the other day in an apartment with two chicks fixing the cable. You can imagine where it goes from there.

Ricardo Montalban (1920-2009)

2009-01-16T10:45:00.000-08:00

Montalban as Khan, showing everyone that you can still wear a shirtless leather sweater vest, even at age 62.

Montalban shows off his latin grammy award

This past week, the great Khan died. I have not read the details of his passing, but I only hope that he went down in the glory of battle. Thank you Ricardo, for giving us all our fantasies, and for Kahn, the most noteworthy and smooth Latin American Klingon of all time:

There is not much to say, other than that the world has lost a great one, and to send a final shout out to the magnificant KHAAAAAAAAAAAAN!

The Legion of Doom – Part 1

2009-01-15T10:05:00.000-08:00

I thought the Legion was gone forever, and that my crime fighting days were over... I was wrong.

About a decade ago I fought the SF chapter of the Legion of Doom in their hidden lair, a small hideout called The Columbus Café, or the “CC”, in the Northbeach district of San Francisco. I can only assume that they were drawn there by the cheap beer, and the pool table in back. The legion would shoot pool, and get loaded off the 2 for 1 beers every Friday. I would counter their moves by playing pool, and getting loaded off the 2 for 1 beers, also every Friday.

A member or two of The Legion were always there at the CC. There was “Homeless Looking Guy” who wore a black trench coat, and didn’t seem to shower, there was “Australian Man” who had an accent, spiked hair, and ordered “pints” not “beers”; and there was “The Mexican” who just seemed like a Mexican guy. There were other minor villians, but these were the main guys; the Luthor, Solomon Grundy, and Bizarro of the team you might say. Bizarro for sure.

I would try to match them drink for drink, and challenge them at the pool table. They became my nemesis. Even if I could win a game or two, they would always use their superior powers to defeat me. I felt like that worthless superhero Aquaman, trying to stop a bank robbery on dry land:

Aquaman: STOP ROBBING THIS BANK OR I WILL SUMMON A GIANT SEA SQUID AND CRUSH YOU!

Robber: Umm, shut up or I’ll shoot you.

Aquaman: OK THEN, I’ll just be over here (eyeing the water fountain) minding my own business…

Robber: Oh jesus… [shoots Aquaman]

After fighting the Legion at the CC for five or six hours, I would usually retreat with my friends to the Bocce Cafe up the hill and regroup over $8 gnocchi and the second cheapest bottles of Chianti they had. Years passed and the Legion eventually stopped showing up, apparently looking for easier pickings than the fight I put up at the Columbus Café. Just to make sure though, I kept frequenting the CC, to ensure the evil was vanquished there forever.

Years passed, and I thought the threat posed by the Legion of Doom was over. I moved away, had kids, and stopped my crime fighting all together. That is until I visited Red’s Recovery Room in Rohnert Park, CA this past week. It was pure evil genius, I mean who would think to look for The Legion of Doom up in the Wine Country of Northern California?

TUNE IN NEXT POST FOR THE EXCITING CONCLUSION OF The Legion of Doom in the second and final episode creatively named: The Legion of Doom - Part 2...

Parting Shots

2009-01-14T12:35:00.000-08:00

I watched a sporting contest last weekend. The contest was between the New York Giants and the Philadelphia Eagles. Naturally, I favored the Giants for betting purposes, and felt the four-point spread was entirely too low. So imagine my chagrin when I turned on the TV and saw that the so-called "Giants" were merely larger-than-average humans! And their opponents, the "Eagles", looked suspiciously like humans instead of birds! I mean, they didn't even have wings like Prince Voltan or anything. To top things off, the Giants weren't any bigger than the Eaglehumans, who were also slightly larger-than-average humans. Why aren't I notified about these things?

Attention, women of Match.com - the terms "slender" and "athletic and toned" do not mean what you think they mean. I'm not saying you need to compare yourself to the women in TV or film when describing your body type, but please compare yourself to the average woman on the street and not to the average woman in a cruise ship buffet line.

It seems I am no longer getting away with cutting my own hair when it strikes my fancy. Specifically, I tried to trim my mullet a bit just before going on a trip with Miss Sunshine. Little did I know that I had basically shaved an asymmetrical hole on the back-right side of my head. So I meet Miss Sunshine, and we proceed to drive for about 3 hours to our destination. Unbeknownst to me, she was staring at the mockery I had made of my hair the whole time, as it was conveniently located in direct view of the front-seat passenger when looking at the driver. Note that we hadn't met in person yet, but in none of my online pictures is there any indication of a clipper accident so I imagine she was quite surprised. Points to her for being too polite to say anything, as I would have brought it up in the first five minutes. However, points taken away from Miss Sunshine for not actually being "athletic and toned" as claimed. I didn't notice anything was amiss until after we'd spent the day together in public and I was showering to go out for the evening - the hotel bathroom had a bunch of mirrors where you could see yourself from every angle, and I noticed it in the middle of my flexing routine. At that point I did my best to gel and comb-over the problem but there really was no fixing things short of extremely fast-acting Rogaine, or shaving the back of my head. Amazing I'm still on the market, eh ladies?

Tales of the City: When I was walking back from my date with The Connector (who got pretty wasted, but that seems to be a common occurrence on these dates - I'm thinking girls might want to think twice about going drink-for-drink with me, regardless of how "athetic and toned" they aren't), I witnessed a fight between a Muni driver and his tweaking passenger. At first I thought they were both tweaking, but when I realized the bus driver was just trying to get dude off his bus so he could continue his route, I went ahead and called the cops as requested by the Muni driver. About five minutes go by, then the pigs start arriving. And we're not talking one patrol car, but four or five. I was pretty much expecting a SWAT team and a helicopter to arrive at some point, all to slap some plastic zip ties on a skinny tweaker and drive him back south of Market where they'd probably just kick him out of the car. Must have been a slow Sunday night in the Marina.

Speaking of tweakers, I've been heading to various libraries around San Francisco to do some work during the day. Hastings Law Library is a good facility, but it is lacking something that the public libraries have. Two things, actually - free internet WiFi, and tweaking homeless people. And it doesn't seem to matter which library: the Main library downtown, the Presidio branch and the Marina branch all have an astounding array of sleeveless t-shirts, Zubaz pants worn chest-high and trash bag ponchos. I may work up the courage to photograph some of these folks to share here, but at the moment I'm not terribly excited about getting stabbed in the knee with a rusty syringe if I get too close.

It was revealed during the first round of the NFL playoffs in an inane in-game mini-feature that Atlanta Falcons rookie quarterback Matt Ryan's nickname is "Matty Ice". He acquired this nickname in college, and now his pro teammates apparently use it all the time. The reporter intimated that Ryan earned this nickname because of an ability to remain calm when under duress. Do they think we're stupid or something? Clearly the nickname refers instead to Ryan's ability to drink beer and is a play on Natural Ice, or "Natty Ice", a cheap beer with a higher-than-normal alcohol content that is commonly consumed on college campuses. I mean, dude did attend Boston College, a "drink till she's cute" school if there ever was one.

When signing a lease in the Marina/Cow Hollow area, you are required to cover 85% of your hardwood floors with rugs. When signing a lease in Haight-Ashbury area of San Francisco, you are apparently required to cover 85% of your hardwood floor with drugs. Which is probably a wash, cost-wise.

Here's my Five Word Review of Gran Torino: Overrated pile of monkey poop.

Apparently the Presidio Bowl isn't shut down yet, despite the best efforts of the city and the Fisher family. However, last night was a league night, so I was forced to go all the way down to the Yerba Buena Center to go bowling with the Life-Giver. It was awfully inconvenient, and if the Presidio Bowl closes I might be inconvenienced on a regular basis (unless ya'll chip in and buy me a Wii and that bowling game for it) and that is just unacceptable. So get involved - the last thing this city needs is another billion-dollar art museum.

Save Oscar!

2009-01-09T16:38:00.000-08:00

I have had it with this chicken shit operation. How could they fire Oscar de La Jolla? Have they even read his recent posts? They are COMEDY GOLD! Just look at the comments section where I claim that they are COMEDY GOLD, and you'll see.

And have they seen the crap that I post? And by crap I mean I mostly just post about actual "crap" like baby crap, text messaging from the toilet while crapping, and the phrase "print and poop". And really, just look at that picture from Ferris Bueller that I hacked with MS Paint right now, it's cheap, rushed, and tacky. And you haven't even gotten to my non-sequitur starting in the next paragraph. It makes no sense whatsoever.

I mean speaking of the history of Cal Basketball head coaches, I could see firing Lou Campanelli back in 1993. Hell, we held that "Fire Lou" sign up at that Cal baseball game for long enough, they had to do something.

I could also see firing Todd Bozeman, and Ben Braun too. One coach paid the price for mediocrity, and the other paid Jelani Gardner for mediocrity. There is no excuse for either.

Yes, even coach Bozeman who made the classic inspirational timeout speech to his players (in it's entirety: "SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, WASSAP? COME ON!") deserved to be canned for not learning the most important lesson in high-major college hoops: if you pay a player, at least make it a good player. Todd deserved to go, but actually got a job 8 years later coaching at Morgan State, so there is hope for Oscar De La Jolla I guess. I hear they are hiring down at the WoodDogBlog.

My point is this, some people DESERVE to be fired, and then there's Oscar. Come on. Just because nobody actaully reads this damn blog, doesn't mean that it shouldn't be good.

Hire back Oscar, and do it now. Or get ready for a lot of terrible posts like this one.

Blog Layoffs

2009-01-06T23:55:00.000-08:00

"Well, what would you say... you do here?"

-- Bob Slydell, consultant, Office Space

"Layoffs? Don't talk about layoffs! Are you kidding me? Layoffs?"

-- Jim Mora Sr., former coach of the Indianapolis Colts

SAN FRANCISCO (Reuters) - Considering the current state of the economy, it should come as no surprise that the blogosphere is not immune to the wave of layoffs currently sweeping the United States. What may be surprising to some, however, is the identity of that wave's latest victim.

It's OKTO Blog (ticker: CRAPBLOG.OB), an infrequently updated West Coast-based blog noted for its repeated violations of photo copyright law and its sporadically amusing writing from the male perspective on topics such as parenting, pop culture, and the single bachelor life, announced today at 8pm EST (5pm PST) that it has let Oscar de La Jolla go. De La Jolla, 36, was a 50% owner of the blog and was arguably its primary contributor.

A source within It's OKTO Blog management said that "with our non-existent advertising revenue and feeble merchandising efforts, we were losing money with every post. Oscar seemed to think he could make it up on post volume, but he was wrong. We're not the American auto industry."

"I'd like to thank Oscar for all the meaningful contributions he made to the blog, but the fact is he didn't make any meaningful contributions," the source continued. "The Wood Dog made a resolution to post more in 2009 and that was good enough for us. Getting the Wood Dog back allowed us to get rid of the dead wood that was Oscar de La Jolla. That guy's a total fraud now - he didn't dunk in 2008 and he doesn't even live in La Jolla anymore. With the Wood Dog steering the ship we expect to reach profitability by the end of January '09."

While exiting the It's OKTO Blog compound, a visibly shaken de La Jolla told our reporter "I don't know what else I could have done. I streaked, I had sex on a beach with a 22-year old girl, I offended multiple racial and religious groups, and I filed my own teeth, all in the name of the blog. I left it all out there, and I make no apologies. Say, I don't suppose you have a vacant spare room or teenage daughter, do you?"

(Additional reporting by Dan Williams and Adam Entous in Jerusalem, Aziz el-Kaissouni in Sharm el-Sheikh and Claudia Parsons and Louis Charbonneau at the United Nations; Writing by Alastair Macdonald and Jeffrey Heller; Editing by Samia Nakhoul)

Text Adventures

2009-01-06T21:35:00.000-08:00

Remember Zork, Infidel, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, or any of those other Infocom text adventure games you might have played on your Commodore computer? You know, back before the days of dedicated 3-D cards and internal hard drives, when you'd boot up your games on a floppy disk or a cassette, or even plug in a cartridge to play them? Me, I don't remember them, not really. I had an Atari computer, and I don't think Infocom made a lot of games for it. In any event, I was too busy playing Karateka to be bothered with text adventures.
The types of text adventures I am talking about are of course those that have occurred with members of the fairer sex. These particular members of that sex are again of course women I met on a certain infamous dating website. I'm a bit happier with the selection of those women in SF, as I'm interested in a larger percentage of them and they seem more likely to get my shtick. And my stick.

What follows are a couple of text exchanges I found amusing. You might find them amusing as well. But judging from the number of clicks on that counter on the right side of the screen, you won't find them amusing because you'll never read them, or visit or even know about this blog. You'd think the person who stole the blog shirt from our cabana at the Hard Rock Hotel in Vegas would at least do us the courtesy of reading the blog from time to time. Whore. In any event, the girls in these exchanges shall hereafter be known as the Connector and Miss Sunshine.

ADVENTURE #1: A SPORTING CHANCE

Editor's Note: This exchange occured on the first Saturday of the NFL playoffs.

Me: Man, this new no-texting-while-driving law must be killing you on your long drive.

The Connector: Some laws were made 2b broken. But luckily i m in the passenger seat. Do u no what the fine is?

Me: No, but I saw about 7 different people pulled over on the way up yesterday. I don't think they all got pinched for texting though.

The Connector: Who r u rooting for today?

Me: Well, I'm a sucker for the underdog, so I guess I'm rooting for the Palestinians.**

You see, not only did the NFL playoffs start, but Israel had also just rolled tanks into Gaza that day so the timing was appropriate even if the joke wasn't. I heard nothing further from the Connector that day. I'm starting to think I need to start including smilies and winkies in my messages, regardless of how gay it is to do so.

** This joke does not necessarily reflect the views of It's OKTO Blog or its management. In fact, it doesn't even necessarily reflect the views of Oscar de La Jolla, he was just going for the cheap laugh.

ADVENTURE #2: DOG DAZE

Editor's Note: I am planning a trip with Miss Sunshine, who owns two chihuahuas.
Miss Sunshine: My friend is going to watch the pups

Me: I better not hear any barking coming from your overnight bag.

Miss Sunshine: I would never subject my boys to that kind of treatment :)

Me: I don't know, you are forcing them to live in that crappy town of yours.

Miss Sunshine: Point taken but they have 1200 sq ft to roam, they would have much less in SF

Me: I think they're pretty bored, I saw them cruising for golden retrievers on dogmatch.com earlier.

Miss Sunshine: They prefer Pomeranians, much more classy

Me: I didn't think they were into foreign chicks.

Miss Sunshine: Well they are Mexican :)

Me: I figured they'd pick an American dog so they can get green cards.

(10 minutes pass.)

Me: OK, that last one was BS. Please disregard.

Miss Sunshine: Too late, you already lost a point

It seems I won't be changing my name to Text Message Casanova just yet.

New Year's Resolutions

2009-01-02T11:13:00.000-08:00

This is a post from the Wood Dog, who has been on vacation for a long, long time. Note that he had Internet access on vacation, so this has nothing to do with his lack of blogging.

So HAPPY NEW YEAR! As we do each year in Seattle, this past New Year's Eve at midnight we unsuccessfully tried to blow up the Space Needle. There's always next time I guess.

Here are some of my 2009 Resolutions, because that is what one does to start a year. A note on "New Year's Resolutions": January first is a HORRIBLE time to start making headway on any real resolution. Oh yeah, like I am going to go hit the gym with a raging hangover, or learn to cook when all the stores are closed. No way. Just so we are ALL on the same page here, resolutions are to begin on the first MONDAY of the year. Good. That gives you 3 more days to finalize your list anyway.

Resolutions:

1. Blog more ("nailing it" right now and it's not even the first Monday)

2. Lose weight. Not sure how much, but any viewer of the shirtless Wood Dog Family Mexico Videos from December 2008 will support me in this effort.

3. Stay employed at the startup. I hear it's a really good time to (A) raise money for startups, and (B) find a new job if your startup doesn't accomplish (A). So, Resolution #3 is key.

4. Build a shed. Yeah that's right, a shed. I need a new man cave, and the new pad is void of any man caviness. If I can accomplish resolution #3, then this is where I will work from. Think "small office in the back yard with heat, Internet access, poker table, sofa, no kids and a phone." This could work.

5. Pick better than 44% in my NFL pickem league. If I had only made a pick in the Thursday December 11, 2008 game, I would have qualified and won the last place award for the 100+ participant pick'em league, as I did in 2007.

6. Win Slim's NBA Fantasy League.

7. Attend a Gateway Gators game.

8. The rest are lame "be a good father" type things, so we'll just leave it at that. Happy 2009.

Welcome to the A-Hole Department

2008-12-21T10:09:00.000-08:00

A-HOLE DEPARTMENT (SPORTS DIVISION): It really annoys me how professional athletes talk about "swagger" all the time. "This was a big win for us, we got our swagger back," etc. There's even a deodorant called Swagger, which uses an NFL player as its pitchman. Just what is swagger? I think Ben Affleck's character in Boiler Room pretty well nails a working definition of swagger:

There's an important phrase that we use here and I think it's time you all learned it. "Act as if". Do you understand what that means? Act as if you are the fucking president of this firm. Act as if you have a nine inch cock. Act as if. -- Ben Affleck as Jim Young, Boiler Room

So "swagger" means being confident and cocky. Pretty much being an asshole. Yes, I was just thinking we need more assholes in pro sports. Having said all that, the Wood Dog really needs a good blog post to get his swagger back. Come on Wood Dog. Get in the war.

A-HOLE DEPARTMENT (SAN DIEGO DIVISION): Had a mellow night out last night. Didn't hook up with any chicks, so I was walking back to the car with my extraordinarily tall friend. I was wearing jeans and a sweater with a button-down underneath. My collar wasn't sticking out, and I didn't roll the sleeves of the shirt over the sleeves of the sweater - that look is so 2007. My friend was wearing khakis and a black coat. What I'm getting at is that we didn't look particularly gay, and we weren't holding hands or anything. Nonetheless, a cab goes by and a drunk dude sitting in the front passenger seat leans out the window and yells "Yeaaaaah! Go suck each other's cocks you fucking faggots!" Now there's a dude who has his swagger. You stay classy, San Diego.

A-HOLE DEPARTMENT (AUTO DIVISION):
Check the license plate frame - this car was parked in the parking lot for the San Diego State University DUI program.

A-HOLE DEPARTMENT (AIRLINE DIVISION): OK, we can all agree that flying is about 1,000% less fun when you check bags. So everyone brings carry-on bags. Generally, these are those roller bags that all look the same, and they are specifically designed by the Samsonites of the world to fit into overhead luggage compartments. Particularly, they are designed to fit in these compartments "wheels in," thus leaving room to efficiently pack the overhead compartment with as many of these roller bags as possible. So WTF is up with the person who boards the plane relatively early, puts their roller bag up in the overhead sideways instead of wheels-in, then closes the door to the overhead compartment? You've seen that person. Hell, you may even be that person. "My roller bag reigns supreme over all other roller bags! It deserves its own overhead compartment! I may be flying coach but my bag is flying first class! I cannot risk your proletariat bags possibly coming into contact with my identically-constructed bag!" Seriously, 8 times out 10 if the compartment above my seat is closed by the time I get there, I'll open it and either find plenty of space for my bag, or plenty of space for my bag after I rotate someone else's bag that is already up there. People do sometimes get a little worked up when you move their bags without asking, but I'm bigger than they are. Plus I get a little worked up over their "My bag made it in there, so fuck everyone else" attitude, so we're even. I mean, if everyone had that attitude, a lot of people would have died on the Titanic.
A-HOLE DEPARTMENT (POLITICALLY INCORRECT DIVISION): I was recently talking to a friend and was trying to make reference to a mutual acquaintance of ours. I couldn't remember the acquaintance's name, so I was trying to describe him: "...that skinny dude who works at a furniture store... talks about his daughter a lot... usually sits in that chair over there... drives a Jaguar...", etc. I got nothing but a blank stare from my friend, and I could have short-circuited the whole process had I just been able to say "You know, the black guy." That really was the best descriptor and differentiator for this dude, and I'm not allowed to use it. So, about 45 seconds of my life wasted in the name of political correctness.

A-HOLE DEPARTMENT (LOS ANGELES DIVISION): Here's a photo taken from my LA buddy's usual golf course. Jerk. However, he's not the kind of jerk who would put his bag into the overhead compartment sideways and then shut the compartment. Even if he flew commercial.

See you at the (Holiday) Party, Richter!

2008-12-19T01:31:00.000-08:00

'Tis the Season to be Jolly.

The general rule of thumb is that Holiday Jollies include Holiday parties. However, "in this economy" (my nomination for 2008's Fastest Phrase to Jump the Shark, except that the phrase "Jump the Shark" jumped the shark long before this year) many firms canceled their holiday parties. Months ago my old firm, a large and prestigious one, canceled its holiday party, and just this week that same firm canceled some more of its employees. This does not bode well for the job market.

In recognition of the holiday party cancellations, a friend and an acquaintance (two different people) threw a holiday party featuring a hosted bar and pizza for several hours. Very cool of them. Nice to see such generousity, especially in tough times. It restores a little of my faith in people, which is nice because I don't have all that much to begin with - to paraphrase the Gin Blossoms, if you don't expect too much of people you might not be let down.

I attended another holiday party last night in San Diego. Specifically, this party was at Pure Platinum in Kearny Mesa. This was an invite-only party with a guest list, like pretty much any club in San Diego. Not that I go to Pure Platinum all that often; I don't have a frequent flyer card there or anything, and I wasn't on the first wave of invites. Rather, a friend was invited and he was allowed to invite other friends. So, free boobies? What the hell.

As you might imagine if you didn't click on the link, Pure Platinum is a gentlemen's club. Now, at a holiday party at a gentlemen's club, one might expect to see girls in skimpy "naughty Mrs. Claus" outfits. One would be right.
But what enticed me to show up in the first place was the promise that the party was catered by Benihana. This was untrue, and a disappointment. I hadn't been to a Benihana since a friend's wedding in Hawaii in 1999, and was looking forward to trying it again, if only to confirm that Benihana still exists. However, as a consolation prize there was some pretty good barbeque at the party (beef, chicken, pork) as well as some salad and other goodies. Overall, a good spread.

One might also expect to see a bunch of douchebag guys at such a party. One would be right, in spades. I was really surprised at both the quantity and "quality" of the douchebags in the place - we're talking Douchebag All-Stars here, the Top Gun of Douchebags, the Best of the Best. Which of course begged the question(s): what was I doing there? And more importantly, did I belong there? I've been acting kind of douchy myself lately, but I still didn't feel at home there. It's not like I showed up with slicked-back hair wearing jewelry and a blazer, t-shirt and jeans and flirted with strippers all night, so that set me apart from the general population. But were other guys also looking at me like I didn't belong? As I may have mentioned previously, there is a "tall guy" club in San Diego. It's kind of an unspoken thing, but every dude who is about 6'5" or taller tangentially knows each other and gives each other a nod when they're in the same local vicinity. Eventually they'll end up making small talk and complimenting each other on being big motherfuckers. Does a similar club exist for douchebags? Is there some sort of pinkie-ring swear that they do to get into the club? If that club does exist I'm not in it, which I'll take as a good sign.
I was out in Manhattan Beach last weekend, at a dive bar with friends. A group of people from some work party were there, and were dressed pretty festively. Of course there were Santas and naughty elves (though not nearly as naughty as at Pure Platinum), and I did the requisite flirting with one of the elves. A female elf, to clarify. But the strongest costume I saw, and possibly the strongest holiday costume I've ever seen, was the dude who was there dressed as Jesus. I wasn't even that comfortable dressing as Jesus Quintana from the Big Lebowski because he has "Jesus" written on his bowling shirt, but this dude went all-out as the Messiah. He wasn't carrying a cross on his back or anything, but he definitely had the white robe, the sandals, and the long hair and beard. And to top it off, he was walking around with a Holy Grail. I don't think it was the real Holy Grail, because everyone knows the Grail cannot pass beyond the Great Seal. But I do know that the people around the dude kept his Fake Grail full of real red wine (Jesus Juice?), and the dude didn't spend a dime. Which makes him a genius, and quite possibly a genius who is going to Hell.

No Coffee

2008-12-18T16:30:00.000-08:00

"Put that coffee down! Coffee is for closers only. You think I'm fucking with you? I am not fucking with you."

-- Alec Baldwin as Blake, Glengarry Glen Ross

Electrifying performance by Alec Baldwin in that movie, and I think it won him an Oscar even though he only appears in that one scene, for about seven minutes. If it didn't win him an Oscar, it should have. And in it we learn that coffee is for closers only. Around Christmas time, cocoa is for cobblers only, but that is another matter.

I play in two fantasy football leagues. One is simian-related, and I care more about that league than I do the other, which is a Yahoo! league. The Yahoo! league annoys me because it is for lower stakes, because for many years it used a list-style draft instead of a live draft, because team names are limited to 20 characters, because every team besides mine has a crap team name, and because the participants aren't all that good at fantasy football. I've been playing in the Yahoo! league since 2003. It's generally a 12-team league, with eight teams making the playoffs. Since this league is full of chumps I figure I should have won at least twice by now. How's that working out for me? Let's take a look:

2003:

My Team: CIA Pencil Pushers
Playoff Seed: 3
Result: Third Place
League Champ: Da Bangers

2004:

My Team: Suck It, Trebec
Playoff Seed: 2
Result: Fifth Place
League Champ: Da Bangers

2005:

My Team: Brain-Dead Caribbeans
Playoff Seed: 4
Result: Third Place
League Champ: La Migra

2006:

My Team: Super Bowl Movement
Playoff Seed: 3
Result: Fifth Place
League Champ: Mustangs

2007:

My Team: Pats, Lies & Videotape
Playoff Seed: 1
Result: Second Place
League Champ: Boston Massholes

OK, the name Boston Massholes isn't bad. But I haven't managed to win this league once, but the supra-genius behind "Da Bangers" has won it twice? This is beyond unacceptable. I'm the Marty Freaking Schottenheimer of fantasy football - good enough to get you to the playoffs year after year, only to choke once I get there. Well, at least I've got myself in a position to fail yet again:

2008:

My Team: Ledger's Pallbearers
Playoff Seed: 4
Result: ???
League Champ: Ledger's Pallbearers OR 2 Drink Minimum

Seeing as how I drafted Tom Brady with my first pick, I consider this year to be one of my best fantasy football coaching jobs ever. However, I've still got to seal the deal. I've got to close. I've GOT TO. Especially this year: not only was I eliminated in the semifinals of my simian-based league, but I need the winnings from this league or there will be no Christmas presents this year. Or cocoa. Because cocoa is for cobblers only.

Oscar De La Jolla Has a Girlfriend!

2008-12-05T18:04:00.000-08:00

OK, maybe the title of this blog post is not entirely accurate. What I really have is that someone has offered to be my girlfriend, so its basically a done deal.
I know what you're thinking. You want proof. Well, the proof is in the pudding. In this case, "pudding" means "e-mail." After a couple of chicks broke up with me via e-mail, it's nice to receive a relationship-building e-mail instead of a relationship-killing one.

OK, so technically the offer isn't for a girlfriend in the traditional sense. You see, this chick is very high tech (as evidenced by the fact that she offered to be my girlfriend over e-mail). So this is an offer for a cyber girlfriend, but we need to learn to crawl before we walk. I'm sure we'll end up meeting in real life if this cyber thing works out as I suspect it will. Still don't believe me? Well, read 'em and weep:

----------

To: mrblack629@yahoo.com

From: "Mario Lancaster" mariolancasterfmym@yahoo.com

Cc: 19 recipients, including Oscar de La Jolla's Yahoo Mail address

Subject: hi

i'd love to be your cyber girlfriend:)i'll make your fantasies come true at www-nikaok-com switch - to .

----------

If I may wax poetic for a moment, what I love most about this chick is how her emoticon smile just lights up the room... but wait! Fuck! I just realized that I was only cc'ed on this message, and that the offer was made to some jackhole named "mrblack629". So this chick is just rubbing my nose in the fact that she's going to be cyber-boning Mr. Black629. Fine. See if I care, slut. You've probably already boned Messrs. Black #1 through #628, and are just working your way up the line. I don't want anything to do with your tramp ass. Go back to your home on Whore Island. And come to think of it, I don't want to have any sort of sex, cyber or otherwise, with any chick named "Mario Lancaster". Even if he/she/it works at Asia SF and can cover Cher's Believe with the best of 'em.
Yahoo Mail's spam filters really need some work.

Random Babblings

2008-12-03T15:24:00.000-08:00

Some random babblings while wondering if my blogmate is trapped under a heavy object. That's really the only plausible reason why the Gateway Gators schedule on the right side of the screen hasn't been updated with any scores.

WIE RHYMES WITH "WHEE!" I was browsing ESPN.com when I noticed the headline that Wie opens with 69 on hard LPGA Q-school course and I got to thinking, wouldn't it be great if Natalie Gulbis was the other half of that 69?
Insert "East Meets West" joke here as you see fit.

THE HOLIDAYS BUGGY ME. I think the dunking dream may be dead. Sort of a funny story actually. Over the Thanksgiving weekend I was out in the desert with my brother's family, doing desert things (e.g. riding ATVs and driving dune buggies, drinking American beer, burning palettes, and talking crap about the people in the next campsite) when my brother's middle son came back to the camp to tell us that the eldest son had stalled the buggy and was stuck out in the desert. We all piled into a jeep and headed out into the desert to find the stalled buggy. When we got to the buggy, there was no one around. Someone had parked their truck and trailer about 100 yards away, but the eldest son wasn't there and there was no one else around. So the people I was with who know about such things said that the throttle cable was broken and the buggy couldn't be driven without replacing the cable or rigging the cable with a clamp. My brother decides to try and start the buggy. And it starts all right, with the throttle wide open. Now, keep in mind that my brother didn't actually bother to get into the buggy before starting it. So this driverless buggy just takes off out into the desert at full speed. We weren't really expecting that, and just kind of held our beers and watched it go for a couple of seconds. And wouldn't you know, it was headed right for the only truck and trailer that was parked out there. So I start running after the thing, but it's going about 35 miles per hour and my top speed is somewhere below 20. Luckily the buggy hit a small dune and rolled onto its side about 40 yards short of the truck, and I reached it shortly thereafter and turned off the engine. However, it turns out sprinting over sand dunes isn't great for a 36 year-old calf, and it is now a 36 year-old strained calf. Hmm. "Straining my calf" sounds a bit like a euphemism for masturbation. In any event, I've been out of commission for about a week and I still need a few more days of rest. I think that pretty much puts the nail in the dunking coffin.

HOTTEST GIFT OF THE CHRISTMAS SEASON:
They're having a holiday sale on old ladies in wheelchairs at Costco but you'd better get down there fast, they were flying out the door.

UNREASONABLE HANGUP DEPARTMENT. I don't think I could date Kim Kardashian. There are many reasons for this. It's not that I don't find her attractive (I do), or that I think her butt is too big (I might). And it's not necessarily that Ms. Kardashian probably wouldn't date me. You see, she seems to prefer dating rappers and NFL players and I might not be her type. I'm not famous, I'm not terribly wealthy, and I'm not Canadian. But I wouldn't be able to date her because I wouldn't be able to get my mind around the fact that there is in existence a widely available videotape of some dude laying the wood to her.
Look, I realize that when I date someone she's been with other people. But I still like to pretend she hasn't. For instance, let's suppose a woman is proposing a type of foreplay. There are a couple of ways to do it:

Option #1: When I dated Rob, we used to rub baby oil all over each other before we did it and it was really hot.

Who the fuck is this "Rob" guy? You still think about him even though we're dating? I know that you do, just as I still think about other people, BUT DON'T TELL ME THAT YOU DO! This approach? TOTAL boner-shrinker.

Option #2: Let's try rubbing baby oil all over each other before doing it. That would be really hot.

Hmm... this girl's a little naughty... the idea to use baby oil just popped into her head spontaneously... that IS hot. See? Option #2 is MUCH better!

I'm also not attracted to any of my friends' wives or girlfriends, whether current or exes. I recognize that they are attractive people, but these women have not only been with other people, but they've been with people I know, which makes them off-limits. Seriously, any woman who would fall for the BS these dudes used to get girls, well, I can't be attracted to a woman like that. But even worse is actually seeing a person with someone else, like on the Kardashian videotape. Can you imagine the mountain of shit your buddies would give you for that? "Hey dude, caught the tape of Ray J railing your chick. Are you hitting it as hard as he did? Would you mind making a tape so I can compare for myself?" So I guess I won't be returning Kim's calls. This also means that I can't date Pamela Anderson, Paris Hilton, or Dustin Diamond. Not that I would have wanted to. Well, Screech maybe.

Unmixed Martial Arts

2008-11-19T14:04:00.000-08:00

So, Brock Lesnar beat Randy Couture by referee stoppage in that MMA heavyweight title fight. Lesnar caught Couture with a right hand in the second round, sending Couture to the ground, then Lesnar got on top of him and kept punching him in the head until the ref decided Couture wasn't intelligently defending himself and stepped in. The size differential between these two dudes was something greater than anticipated. Couture weighed in at 6'1" and 220lbs, and Lesnar weighed in at 6'3" and 265lbs. During the fight, it looked like Lesnar was at least four inches taller and 75 pounds heavier than Couture. Couture explained his loss thusly: "That's a big summbitch." He was right. Rounding out the night, Joe Rogan co-announced the fight and he was in full douchebag form as predicted right here in this blog. Joe wasn't wearing his usual ball cap though, prompting one of the girls we were watching with to say "that dude needs some Rogaine." Good idea: more Rogaine and less Rogan.

In my last post, I joked that I am going to become an MMA fighter. This is not entirely unrealistic. True, my fighting background goes only as far as a karate green belt and a couple of bar brawls so I might be a tad inexperienced. But I have what is apparently the most important trait: I'm white.

Saturday's title fight featured two white guys fighting for the heavyweight championship. The undercard was also filled mostly with white guys. As I thought more about it, most of the MMA fights I've seen are between white guys. Based on empirical evidence, I'd say that latinos are represented in MMA in about the same proportion as in the general population, and blacks are proportionally under-represented in MMA. Why is this? Although this topic probably deserves actual research and intelligent writing, I've come up with a few possibilities.

Possibility #1: MMA Intentionally Recruits White Guys and Discourages Minorities. As a relatively new sport, MMA is trying to grow itself. The demographic most coveted by advertisers are males aged 18 to 34 years old (meaning advertisers are after The Wood Dog but couldn't give two shits about me) and white males within that group are probably more affluent than minority males. So it would make good business sense to cater to young white males by featuring fighters that target audience can identify with.

Boxing has become increasingly unpopular over the years, and it seems to have been surpassed by MMA. The majority of boxers are ethnic minorities. If whites don't identify with these boxers and quit following the sport, that's a huge audience to lose and could account for the fall in popularity. I don't follow boxing, but I do know more about Kelly Pavlik's career than I do about any other boxer's. Which is to say I am vaguely aware of it. When Floyd Maywether fought Ricky Hatton, I was a bit torn as to which fighter to root for. Maywether is a black American and was viewed as the more talented fighter. He was also portrayed as an arrogant asshole. Hatton was a scrappy white fighter from Britain who was the underdog. I ended up pulling for Hatton, though I don't know how much race played into that and how much the underdog factor played into it. More recently, white European fighter Joe Calzaghe defeated black American Roy Jones Jr. in a title fight. Jones was portrayed as something of a reformed former asshole in the lead-up to that fight, while Calzaghe was portrayed similarly to Hatton, a small-town white fighter who is trained by his father, a Man of the People who never forgot about the old neighborhood. I didn't watch that fight so I didn't really have a rooting interest in it, but I will say this: Calzaghe's girlfriend is HOT.

In addition to those two title fights, I believe there are some white Russians who have been passing the heavyweight boxing title around. And I know there are some White Russians that are currently being consumed on these premises. But since these Russian fighters look more like white Americans, it may be easier for white Americans to identify with them. However, they're still Europeans so it would be tougher to get entirely behind these guys. And maybe we see that in boxing's flagging popularity.

However, boxing's unpopularity might also be due to perceived corruption in the sport, fighters with lackluster personalities, or the increase in viewing alternatives. Muhammad Ali was an interesting and controversial fighter, and boxing was wildly popular when he was heavyweight champion though his biggest fights came against other black fighters like George Foreman and Joe Frazier. However, a controversial figure like Ali would risk losing endorsement deals in this day and age, so it may be that many boxers have made a conscious choice to be relatively boring. Additionally, in Ali's time viewers could only choose between boxing or whatever was on the other two TV channels, and they'd actually have to get up off the couch and walk over to the TV to change to another channel. It's much easier to click over to an episode of Top Chef today.

In a somewhat similar vein, some might blame the NBA's decline in popularity on the perceived Thugification of that league. In a mostly black league where the on-court players are more visible than in any other sport, did the cornrows, tattoos, on-court fights and off-court incidents cause "white flight" from the NBA? Although the majority of NBA players are probably well-behaved, media coverage of the transgressions feeds into the perception that the league is full of thugs with whom white audiences have little in common. At a minimum these incidents have led to changes in the sport, such as mandatory suspensions for players who leave the bench area during fights, and dress codes for injured or inactive players while they are on the bench during games. Although there are also white players with tattoos and cornrows in the NBA, these players are less prominent and don't receive as much media attention. I know I don't care about the NBA now (I do participate in an NBA fantasy league each year, but I don't prepare for the draft or follow the league). I did in the 1980's and early 1990's when Larry Bird, Danny Ainge, Kevin McHale, Jerry Sichting, Scott Wedman, Brad Lohaus and Greg Kite played for the Boston Celtics. That could be because the Celtics were about all I could talk about with my father during that time, or it could be because I could relate better to a team with white players. Still, I also liked Reggie Lewis, and one of my favorite Celtic players was Dirk Minnifield, a scrappy black player who was the last guy off the bench. The Boston home crowd (and me) would go wild whenever Dirk came into the game or scored a bucket. Like boxing, the NBA seems to be getting "whiter" with an influx of European players, but again it might be difficult for white Americans to fully get behind and support white European players.

So, it could be a conscious choice by MMA to seek out white American fighters, and maybe to exclude or discourage minority fighters, in order to appeal to the white American audience. I'm not saying it is, I'm saying it's possible.

Possibility #2: White Guys Wrestle. Ground-fighting is a huge part of MMA. Almost without fail, an MMA fight is going to go the ground at some point and if a fighter doesn't have ground-fighting skills he's in big trouble. At my high school, basketball season and wrestling season ran concurrently. More black guys went out for basketball than for wrestling, and most of the black guys who tried out made the basketball team. This left a bunch of open wrestling slots, and since most of the black athletes in the school played basketball, the remaining athletes to fill the wrestling slots were largely white or latino. If this same scenario is playing out throughout the country, then there's a much larger "farm system" of white and latino wrestlers who are developing the base skills to become MMA fighters. Why might blacks be more attracted to basketball? Possibly because of opportunity - there are likely a lot more basketball courts in urban areas than there are wrestling gyms. Maybe most colleges don't offer wrestling scholarships (I don't know if they do or not) while most offer basketball scholarships, so black players may pursue basketball as a "way out" of the streets and into college. It could also be that black players are attracted to basketball because it offers the potential for a pro career in the U.S. or in Europe, whereas until the recent rise of MMA there weren't as many opportunities to make a career out of wrestling.
Whites may also be attracted to wrestling because it is a more level playing field for them athletically. Although disputed, some have theorized that black athletes are more agile and have greater footspeed and jumping ability than white athletes. These athletic advantages would be largely negated in close combat. For instance, the majority of "skill position" players in the NFL, where footspeed is a primary requirement, are black. However, there are still significant numbers of white offensive and defensive lineman, for whom size and strength is relatively more important than speed. On a personal level, I don't think I've ever seen, in person, a white guy fight a black guy where the white guy tried to box the black guy for any length of time. The white guy would realize he was outmatched in handspeed, and would try to take the other guy to the ground. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't, but the strategy is pretty consistent.

Possibility #3: White Guys Bleed. Nothing makes for good spectating quite like someone bleeding all over the place. This is true in boxing, and the best hockey fights involve someone getting beaten to a bloody pulp on the ice. Empirically, it seems to me that white fighters get cut more often and become bloody messes mid-fight more often than black fighters. The blood certainly contrasts better with a white face, and the same goes for black eyes and bruises. Whites and blacks both suffer these injuries, but the purple contrast on a white face is immediately noticeable during a fight, whereas it can be difficult to notice these injuries on a black fighter until the break between rounds or the press conference afterwards. The more-visible injuries and blood on the white fighter will incite "blood lust" in the crowd, making for a more exciting experience. So maybe the equation is that simple: White MMA Fighters => Bloody MMA Fighters => Exciting MMA Fights => Popular Sport.

This... Is MMA (Part One)

2008-11-15T10:43:00.000-08:00

There's a big mixed martial arts ("MMA") fight tonight. The current UFC heavyweight champ, Randy "The Natural" Couture, is fighting Brock Lesnar, who used to be a WWF guy but now he's in the UFC. This means he can not only act but he can apparently fight as well. I watched the pair's official weigh-in yesterday. Couture's 6'1" and he weighed in at 220lbs. Dude is certainly very solid and extremely cut, but I've watched him a few times and he looked a little smaller this time than he usually is. Lesnar is something like 6'3" and he weighed in right at the upper limit of 265lbs. Lesnar's natural weight is something like 290 and the announcers speculated that he'll gain back 10-12 pounds before tomorrow night's fight. Not sure if he's using my tried-and-true method of being hung over and going to Del Taco to gain back the 10-12 pounds.

MMA's an interesting animal. A fighter can win an MMA fight by knockout, referee or corner stoppage, opponent submission, or judges' decision. Sometimes the two guys stand up and punch and kick each other (in MMA this is called striking) and sometimes they roll around on the ground with one guy's legs wrapped around the other guy's waist (in MMA this is known as ground and pound and full guard; in the Castro it is known as the Cleveland Steamer). The only real rules in MMA are no eye gouging, no nut shots and no punching the back of the head. The fighters wear light gloves and usually don't wear shoes. I think they can wear shoes, but if they do they are limited by the rules in what they can do as far as kicking. This also gives fighters something good to hold on to when they're trying to twist the other guy's ankle for a submission, so the vast majority of fighters don't wear shoes. When a fighter is being choked out or is about to have a limb broken, he can submit by tapping out, repeatedly tapping his hand on his opponent or on the mat. The referee will see this and stop the fight. Very rarely, a guy will sac up and refuse to tap out when he's being choked and his opponent will actually choke him out.

In boxing, the top-level fighters generally have impressive records, like 31-0, 45-3, etc. A boxer with more than a couple of losses probably won't be seen as a contender and he isn't going to get a title shot. In MMA on the other hand, a bunch of losses apparently aren't deal-killers. Randy Couture is 16-8; that record would make him a tomato can in boxing, but in MMA he's the UFC heavyweight champ. An MMA fighter also doesn't have to build up his reputation by winning a bunch of fights or otherwise prove himself before he is considered a contender - Brock Lesnar is getting this title shot with a record of 2-1. Apparently title shots are awarded based on perceived potential and marketability of the fighter, since MMA is still a pretty new sport and its promoters are trying to grow it. Kimbo Slice was the biggest thing in MMA since sliced bread based on a bunch of street fights like this one that were uploaded to Youtube, until he was knocked out by a relative unknown by the name of Seth "The Silverback" Petruzelli in about 8 seconds, despite outweighing Petruzelli by 55lbs. Kimbo was damned marketable though, and he looked pretty invincible against average dudes on the street.

MMA also has hot chicks. Well, hot chick anyway. Gina Carano is a part-time American Gladiator, part-time MMA fighter, and full-time babe. Gina's built about the same as my FWB from a prior blog post, and they're both 5'9". So I'm making a very educated guess that Gina looks great naked. But for now we'll just have to imagine what Gina looks like naked based on the following collage:
MMA seems to cater to the 18- to 34-year old, hoodie-wearing dude with a shaved head and multiple tattoos who drinks energy drinks all day. Do you think sales of energy drinks go up on fight day, as the shaved-head hoodie dudes are all stocking up to have their friends over? On fight nights is there a disproportionately high number of shaved-head hoodie dudes at bars that are showing the MMA pay-per-view fights? When shaved-head hoodie dudes get into fights and they're getting their asses pummeled, can they tap out? Does the opponent honor the tap out if he is also a shaved-head hoodie dude?

If you're going to be an MMA fighter, you better be prepared to get cauliflower ears. Couture is totally nailing that look, but for a lot of people the look is difficult to pull off. It's especially difficult to pull off if you're James "The Colossus" Thompson. And it's especially especially difficult to pull of if you're James "The Colossus" Thompson and Kimbo Slice has just gotten through punching you in your cauliflower ear a bunch of times:
In MMA, the light heavyweights fight at weights between 185lbs and 205lbs, and the heavyweights fight at weights between 205lbs and 265lbs. When I become an MMA fighter, I'll probably drop a few pounds and fight as a light heavyweight at 205 because I really have very little desire to get the crap beaten out of me by dudes who outweigh me by 55 pounds in the heavyweight division. I'd much rather get the crap beaten out of me by dudes who weigh 20 pounds less than I do in the light heavyweight division. So as soon as I dunk that basketball I'm becoming an MMA fighter - having a cauliflower ear has always been a dream of mine.

Internet "Published" Part II

2008-11-13T14:48:00.000-08:00

Actually it was around 1997, and not really all that far away....

Two ass clowns wanted to actually see something that they authored "published" on the Internet.

Internet Published
Episode II: The Wood Dog Strikes Back (or "iPoop therefore iAm")

It is a period of terrible Internet applications. With no blogs and no youtube, ambitious wiseasses are forced to actually email their parodies and jokes out to everyone they know, or post them on terrible web pages like jokeoftheday.com or www.thejokeyard.com/one_line_jokes/index.html. During such an e-mail, Rebel Bloggers managed to replace the words "the force" with "beer" from the script of the movie Star Wars and email it around the galaxy, thus creating an early semi-successful viral email chain. Not to be outdone, fellow bloggers steal secret plans to the Internet's ultimate weapon, the Gentleman's Glossary, a public web page with enough potty humor to destroy an entire relationship with a woman...

So there's that. I had made a pretty inane email and had it go viral. My co-blogger, Oscar De La Jolla, though took a different route entirely, and coined a phrase "Print and Poop" and published it on the Internet on the Gentleman's Glossary. Specifically:

Print and Poop
[v] The act of printing out an article from your web browser on the office printer, then picking it up and taking it directly into the toilet so you'll have something to read while taking a crap.

This entry published in the 'Glossary is actually still out there on the Internet today. Thankfully, around the year 2000, goofball.com made a power play and consolidated many of the joke websites on the Internet, and has made all of this content available to their paid subscribers. Yes, PAID subscribers. ODLJ's publication has maybe made millions for the goofball guys. Or not.

Regardless, Print and Poop was a phenomena most common in the working world, where one prints out a document (likely a fantasy sports article, or The Sports Guy before he was on ESPN Page 2, or Titash's Cal Football Preview) and takes it to a restroom stall where he reads it on the can. The printed Internet page replaced the newspaper sports section I guess, and now this phenomena had a name. Yes sir, ODLJ was "Internet Published" as well.

The tragic part of this story about ODLJ's Internet publishing success is that it's based on a VERY quaint 1997 concept of printing out articles for trips to the crapper. Anyone with a new iPod knows that you no longer need this. I am now a proud owner of an iPod Touch (left) and I do much more than just read sports articles on the crapper. I adjust my fantasy football roster, I shop for groceries, hell, I have watched full episodes of "Lost" while taking a dump. If you have one, you know what I'm talking about. Oh, and they have that cool iPhone / Minority Report interface that makes the web browsing actually easy, as well as very cool.

So I am officially discontinuing the antiquated phrase "Print and Poop" and coining the classy and more relevant term, "iPoop". Now if only I could get this published on the Internet somehow...

The Secret Lives of Amateur Dentists

2008-11-09T16:11:00.000-08:00

LIST OF THINGS YOU CAN DO WHEN YOU GET HOME FROM THE BARS:

* Hydrate with water, Gatorade, etc. to reduce tomorrow's hangover

* Eat a burrito from the 24-hour burrito place down the street

* Futilely search for your garage-door opener because your bike is currently trapped in the garage

* Sit on the couch and watch a movie

* Make booty calls or send booty texts

* File down the rough edges of your chipped tooth

LIST OF THINGS YOU SHOULD UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ATTEMPT WHEN YOU GET HOME FROM THE BARS:

* File down the rough edges of your chipped tooth

LIST OF THINGS I DID WHEN I GOT HOME FROM THE BARS:

* Filed down the rough edges of my chipped tooth

EPILOGUE:

Normally I'd have gone down the street to see Dr. Nick, the dentist who recently drilled me and filled me, to get this work done. I use drilling and filling in the dental sense, and not in the gay porn sense, though I did ask for the gas and who really knows what happens when you're under. All I know is that a sore sphincter is an apparent side effect of the gas. Still, it was a simple operation, and although Dr. Nick has a young, single dental hygienist, she isn't that hot so it wasn't worth the trip. I did date a dental hygienist for a short while earlier this year and she was pretty hot, but I went with the "scorched earth" breakup technique (and if you know me you know this is pretty much Standard Operating Procedure) so I couldn't really ask her for any favors.
In any event, I'm quite satisfied with the results, even in the light of day. However, I realize my amateur dentistry and my amateur barbering (not too tough, although the two-mirror technique required to cut the back is a bit tricky) is going to get me into trouble someday. But not today.

SLEEVE ME ALONE. Previously I blogged that at the gym, young dudes wear short socks and old dudes wear long socks. Now that I am keenly aware of gym trends, I think a similar rule may apply to shirt sleeves. Young dudes wear tanks tops or sleeveless t-shirts, and old dudes wear regular t-shirts. At first I thought this might just be a summer trend, but here we are in November and the young dudes of San Diego are still exercising their right to bare arms. Although most young San Diego gym dudes are in good shape and can get away with the sleeveless look (but seriously, it's hard not to be ripped when you're 5'7"), it's not only those guys who are doing it - yesterday a kid whose arms were the same size at his wrists as they were at his biceps was lifting in a tank top. Something to be aware of, gym-goers.

MORE PROGRESS? I was recently debating with the Wood Dog whether Darius Rucker's (aka "Hootie" from Hootie and the Blowfish) crossover into country music is a sign of progress for black Americans that should have been included in my Progress post. After all, like the Presidency and air guitar competitions, country music has pretty much been the exclusive domain of the white man. The Wood Dog's position is that it's not a sign of black progress unless Rucker scores a hit album. My position is that it's not black progress regardless because having been a member of Hootie and the Blowfish, Darius Rucker qualifies as white.
FACEBOOK OOPS DEPARTMENT. First, Buck Burnette, a backup offensive lineman for the University of Texas football team, is kicked off the team for updating his Facebook status with a racist message after Barack "N-Roll" Obama was elected as our next President. Not to stereotype anyone, but if you were compiling a list of racist-sounding names, "Buck Burnette" would be pretty high on that list. While I'm not here to debate whether the starting QB would also have been kicked off the team for updating his Facebook status with "all the hunters gather up, we have a #$%&er in the whitehouse", Buck has to be wondering who the tattletale was.

Far more tragically, Patriots cheerleader Caitlin Davis was kicked off the squad after she posted pictures on her Facebook page of herself writing on a passed-out male acquaintance:
Apparently writing "I Love Cock" and drawing a bunch of penises on the dude was OK, but if you look closely you'll see a couple of swastikas and these were a no-no. Again I ask, how did the team find out? Are sports teams now hiring Facebook police? In this case, I feel the Patriots made a mistake. I mean, I've lived in Massachusetts. DO THE PATRIOTS HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD IT IS TO FIND A GIRL AS ATTRACTIVE AS CAITLIN DAVIS IN MASSACHUSETTS? It's harder than finding the man in the boat, for crying out loud! I guess I respect the team for taking a stand, but the loss of the fetching Miss Davis, who happens to look quite a bit like a UCSD microbiologist I attempted to date last year, will be felt throughout the greater New England Area.
Vaya con Dios, Caitlin. If you need a place to stay while you figure out your next move, I've got a spare bedroom and a bucketful of magic markers.

Internet "Published". Part I

2008-11-09T13:39:00.000-08:00

Perhaps one of the reasons (to blame) for the creation of this blog was the limited, almost non-existent Internet publishing success of it's two authors. I once wrote with a buddy of mine this asinine email about Ben Kenobi explaining to Luke the ways of the force as if they were two frat guys talking about drinking beer. Well, I actually found a copy of it floating out there in the Internet ether... it looks like google somehow even archives pages that don't exist anymore. So anyway, this was once an email that went around the world back in the days before the viral tools of the Internet generation like you youngsters have today, like YouTube, facebook, and well, blogs. So that was my claim to fame, about 10 years ago. Yes sir, I was "Internet Published":

[beginning of email]

Luke: "You were in the Greek System?"

Ben: "I was once a Frat Guy, the same as your father."

Luke: "My father didn't belong to a frat. He was a tool, an RA in the dorms for four years."

Ben: "That's what your mother told you. She didn't hold with your father's ideals. She thought he should stay home. Not drink until four in the morning and then piss on things."

Luke: "I wish I had known him, when he could drink."

Ben: "He was a cunning partier, and the best boat-racer in the house. And he was a good bro. I understand you've become quite a booze hound yourself. For over five years he got so curbed he could hardly function. Before the dark times. Before his skirt"

Luke: "How did my father become a lame ass?"

Ben: "A young chick, namely your mother, who was pretty cool herself until she turned to evil, helped other women hunt down and destroy the coolness in men. She civilized and murdered the bro who was once your father. Your mother was pissed off by the dark side of Beer."

Luke: "Beer?"

Ben: [smiles] "Yes, beer is what gives a frat guy his power. It's a beverage created by hops and barley and sh** like that. It f**ks us up. Gives us beer goggles. And lets us yell stuff like "penis" in bars everywhere. Which reminds me. Your father wanted you to have this when you were old enough, but your Mother wouldn't allow it. She thought you'd follow some Frat Brother on some binge drinking crusade."

Luke: "What is it?"

Ben: "Your father's pong paddle. The weapon of a Frat Guy. Not as random or clumsy as a deck of cards or dice. An elegant weapon for a less civilized age. . ."

[end of email]

Yesiree Luke, I was "Internet published". You can even click here for the impressive google-archived entombment of this viral email on a site called "Bob's World" which no longer exists.

Coming soon! The second and concluding episode of "Internet Published"... Episode II: iPoop therefor iAm.

Progress

2008-11-06T13:37:00.000-08:00

A big deal about the "historic" election on November 4th has been made by the media elite and the media mediocre (we're looking at you Colin Cowherd and Bob Ryan, not so much for your election statements but for your general mediocrity). I agree that the election was historic: no matter which man was elected, the country was electing its first 44th President, and this would have made it into the history books whether Obama or McCain had won.
The election has been hailed as a triumph for all Americans over discrimination, as a black man cannot be elected President without substantial support of and votes from white Americans. But this election is also being hailed as something more - an even greater triumph for black Americans. Some dude on the radio was "explaining" (his word) blacks in America yesterday, and using the O.J. Simpson trial as an example. His point was essentially that American blacks were so starved for some sort of victory that they cheered O.J.'s acquittal regardless of the fact that Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman were dead. Black Americans weren't cheering because the two murdered people were white; rather, they were cheering because a black man beat the system which they feel is still very much stacked against them.

In a prior blog post, I posited (well, said in passing, actually) that white Americans would turn out and vote in large numbers for John McCain because such a vote was a vote against electing a black man as President as much as it was a vote in favor of McCain. While that may have occurred, such votes were not enough to overcome Obama's momentum, especially among young, educated and minority voters (and these are not mutually exclusive terms). Now we've got ourselves a President-elect who can utter complete sentences. And he happens to be black.
This progress has been a long time coming. Blacks have long been equal to or superior to whites in the athletic arena, and accordingly have reaped the financial benefits. I don't know that sports are a complete meritocracy; perhaps a team is more likely to retain a white guy than a black guy of a similar skill level to fill the last spot on the bench and be paid the league minimum in order to retain some appeal to a white demographic. After all, who doesn't love cheering for the dorky white guy on the end of the bench when he finally gets into the game? But as to black stars and established players, the marketplace seems to be working, and they are being paid in accordance with their abilities with no "minority discount." And some are being paid far in excess of their abilities. Dodger fans, especially, know the feeling.

Other examples of progress have been widely cited in the media. Suffrage. School integration. Civil rights. Arguably the elimination of affirmative action which appeared on many state ballots on Tuesday is a sign of progress. And arguably it is a sign of continued bias, but we're not here to debate that point.
There have been other, significant signs of progress that have gone unreported by the traditional media. Luckily for you, dear reader, that's why we're here:

The Star Wars Jedi High Council

Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic ("KOTOR") is a video game and a comic book (er, "graphic novel") series that takes place 4,000 years before the events of the Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace film. I've only played the video game and I don't want to give away the plot because it's pretty sweet. But suffice it to say that 4,000 years before the films, there was in existence a Jedi High Council. There are some humans on the council, and a Twi'lek, and a Yoda dude, among others. But it is clear in the video game that the leader of the council is this guy named Master Vrook. He looks a bit like, and is voiced by, Ed Asner. In other words, an older white male is in charge of the Jedi knights.

4,000 years later, in Phantom Menace, the JHC is still in existence, and it still has a diverse mix of humans and aliens (presumably not illegal ones) on it. But the most powerful Jedi and apparent leader of the JHC is Mace Windu, who is a younger, more dynamic leader and who is also a human black male. This is MUCH bigger than the Presidency of the United States - the Jedi are the guardians of the entire universe, and running that crew is a much bigger job than running a country. Now THAT'S progress! Some of you might complain that it took 4,000 years for a black guy to rise to that level, but keep in mind that the events of Phantom Menace took place a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. So it may have taken them awhile, but the Jedi knights were still WAY ahead of America.
S.H.I.E.L.D. (Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division)

SHIELD is an espionage and law-enforcement agency that exists in the Marvel comic universe. It is kind of like the CIA, FBI and NSA all rolled into one agency. Although SHIELD agents most recently appeared in the superhero film Iron Man, SHIELD has been around for quite some time. It was created after World War II by Agent Nick Fury. Nick Fury controls SHIELD's activities as its executive director. Although Nick Fury wears a cool eyepatch, he is not believed to hold a second job as a pirate or soap opera actor.

Nick Fury originally appeared on-screen in 1988 in the movie Nick Fury: Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. as a white guy. And not just any ordinary white guy, but David Hasselhoff. Now, everyone knows you don't Hassle the Hoff. Not when he's drunk and eating a Wendy's hamburger. Or when he's cruising for chicks in the Knight Rider car. But especially not when he's a bad-ass super agent in charge of a secret espionage organization.

But the Hoff has indeed been Hassled. On-screen Nick Fury is no longer a white guy who spends his spare time running in slow motion on the beach and crooning to hundreds of enraptured Germans. On-screen Nick Fury (as well as comic book Nick Fury) is now a black guy. And not just any old black guy, but Samuel L. Jackson. Now, Sam Jackson may be the only guy, regardless of race, who is badass enough to unseat Hasselhoff. But he's done it. And now SHIELD, the super-secret spy organization that answers to no one, is being run by a black guy. Once again, progress! Instead of 4,000 years, this time it only took 20 years, and it took place right here on this planet, and in the good 'ole U. S. of A.
Progress is all around us, though we may not notice it at first. So maybe it shouldn't be much of a surprise that America elected a black President. Maybe the real surprise is that it didn't elect Samuel L. Jackson.

This Place Is Dead Anyway

2008-11-05T12:56:00.000-08:00

Random Post-Election Thoughts:

I just noticed that I seem to get an election only once every four years.

I wonder if Dick Cheney is using the Dr. Seuss book One State, Two State, Red State, Blue State to explain the election results to President G.W. Bush.

California voted to ban gay marriage yesterday, and I started growing a beard four days ago. So I already had a beard when gay marriage was outlawed! Coincidence, or just good planning? (For the last time until the next time - I am not gay, but it seems a shame to waste the jokes.)

Here's hoping that all the gays in California who wanted to get married got to do so in the 5 1/2 months or so it was legal here.

In the local elections, I came across the following piece of troubling news: San Diego Votes to Permanently Ban Booze at Beaches.

Alcohol used to be legal at San Diego beaches from noon to 8pm as long as it wasn't in a glass container, and that was a wonderful thing. Walking down to the beach in the late afternoon and watching the sunset with a drink in hand was one of the simple pleasures in life. However, there was some sort of semi-riot over a holiday weekend about a year back which led to a temporary ban on alcohol at beaches. That ban has now been made permanent by San Diego voters. So there's really no point to living in San Diego now. Unless you like to be around young, semi-brainless hotties prancing about in perfect weather. Yep, the ship has sailed on this place. Time to get the hell out of here.

Setting the Record Straight

2008-11-02T23:59:00.000-08:00

I'd just like to clarify something about my Halloween costume this year. There is a real college called Morehead State. The school's mascot is an Eagle, and it has a real basketball team.
So I was simply dressed as a member of said basketball team. Heck, I'd be one of their bigger shooting guards if I were on the team. Though to be honest with you, it looks like their style of play is a little rough for my tastes. I mean, look what that Kentucky guy is doing to the MSU player in the picture - it seems the "squeal like a pig" defense is still being taught in the South. But shame on any of you who thought I was going for some sort of innuendo with my costume. It's not like the back of my uniform said "Craven" on it or anything like that. That would have just been rude, and also would have required my Sharpie not to have run out of ink.

As Good Once As I Ever Was?

2008-10-27T14:03:00.000-07:00

I was a decent basketball player in high school. I stood 6'3" and weighed about 170 pounds (though for some strange reason my coach insisted on listing me at 6'5" and 200 pounds... it was kind of awkward when we were lining up for free throws during games and the opposing players would ask me where the 6'5" guy was). I played center, because when you go to a small and crappy high school 6'3" makes you one of the tallest players on the team. We had a couple of guys who were 6'8" a few years behind me, but they hadn't discovered their coordination yet so they were pretty useless and they spent most of my senior year on the junior varsity team. I blocked a lot of shots (more due to "quick" ups than to "mad" ups), and was a league all-star in my senior year. I suspect part of the reason I was named an all-star was so I could drive our point guard, who was a legitimate all-star, to the practices which were held about 90 miles away from our town. I could also dunk a basketball. The first time I dunked was after the season, at an all-star practice while finishing a three-man weave. I was 17 years old. Prior to that, people watching would tell me I was up high enough to dunk but I never actually had. I blamed my inability to palm the ball but the issue was probably more mental than anything else. It seems the higher level of competition pushed me a little further and I finally got over the mental hurdle. I wasn't doing any lifting with my legs at the time, figuring that since we were required to run with the cross-country team to be on the basketball team, that was enough of a leg workout. We did have a requirement of squatting 275 pounds to be on the team, and so my high school squatting career consisted of one rep at 275 pounds.
The last time I remember dunking was in college, on the backyard hoop of our frat house. I was probably 22 at the time, still 6'3" and up to about 205 pounds. I was doing a lot of lifting back then, but as all college dudes tend to do, I was focusing on flat bench and to a lesser extent curls, and pretty much neglecting everything else. Hey, the flamingo look (or "prison legs" if you prefer) was in vogue. I believe the frat house rim was an inch or two above 10 feet, and I was able to throw down pretty hard on that rim. Several years before, during my pledge semester, I unsuccessfully attempted a dunk in a very aerodynamic outfit, but that is a story for another time.

I'm 36 years old now. It's probably been 7 years since I've been on a basketball court in any sort of competitive setting. And I'm going to dunk a regulation basketball on a regulation rim by the end of calendar year 2008.

I have not done any dry runs of any kind. I have no idea if I can even touch the rim right now. I think I'm still 6'3", and I know I'm still right around 205 pounds. I've proven I can dunk at these dimensions. If anything, I'm probably carrying the weight better than I did in college - people who haven't seen me since then often comment that I've gotten bigger. Keep in mind this is with pants on. I'm not sure those p3nis enlargement pills actually did anything.

I've also never been stronger, at least not as far as my legs are concerned. I certainly don't bench what I used to (though it is hard to tell what your max is when you're only doing dumbbell presses on a fitness ball). But I do leg presses on a consistent basis and at a significant weight. We're talking plates here. One on EACH side. So I'm the real deal. Ditto on the calves. They're in fine shape.

The diet's also pretty good, mostly high-protein and low-carb with the occasional $10 Taco Bell run mixed in on hangover days. When I'm really into it, I'll go so far as to drink only vodka rocks when I'm out, in order to further reduce sugar intake (note that this is vodka with ice, not stones made out of vodka). It's that sort of staunch determination that's going to see me through on this quest. I'm also willing to shave my legs to pick up any sort of aerodynamic advantage that might offer. Hell, a chick in my 9th grade science class is convinced I was shaving them back then, and she said it loud enough to convince the rest of the class.

With all these factors in my favor, I don't see how I can fail. Except for the 14-year hiatus between dunks, that is. How much fast-twitch muscle have I lost? Well, if my friends are to be believed, pretty much all of it. When I brought up this notion to them, the response was fairly uniform. I wouldn't exactly call it overwhelming support, and if I had to try and put it into words, I'd say they couldn't reach for their wallets fast enough to bet against me, and some even asked if they could run to the ATM first.

According to the CBS Dunk-O-Meter, last year Eddie Jones dunked three times for the Dallas Mavericks at age 36. At 6'6", Jones has me by three inches, and probably more like six counting arm length. He also has the insignificant advantage of being a world-class athlete. 32 year-old Andre Miller dunked once last year at 6'2" and 200 pounds. 26 year-old Kyle Korver, the first white guy on this list, is 6'7" and he dunked only once last year. But then again, his game is more about lurking near the three-point line and looking like Ashton Kutcher. Sam Cassell on the Boston Celtics might be the best physical comparison at 6'3", 193 pounds and 38 years old. He doesn't show up on the Dunk-O-Meter, but you'd think he could still dunk unopposed in practice. In any event, it's a bad, bad thing when Sam Cassell is your best physical comparison. Because that means that E.T. is your next-best physical comparison.
Cal Ripken Jr. is 6'4", and he participated in a celebrity dunk contest at age 34. He managed to successfully dunk, but also stated that "I'm at that age, in basketball, where the legs are taking you down instead of up." I submit to you that this statement doesn't apply to me; you see, Cal Ripken Jr. was a baseball player, whereas I am an athlete. Ed Norton is 6'1" and he dunked in 1998 at age 29. Woody Harrelson is 5'10" and he dunked in 1992 at age 31. I've got a height advantage on both of these guys, and they're pansy actors and not high school all-stars.

Even chicks dunk: "Georganne Wells of West Virginia was the first woman to dunk in an NCAA game in December 1984. Candace Parker [6'4"] in 2006 became the first woman to dunk in a women's NCAA tournament game. Lisa Leslie [6'5"] was the first woman to dunk in a WNBA game in 2002. In 2008, Candace Parker became the second woman to dunk in a WNBA game on June 22. Other well-known female dunkers include Cheryl Miller [6'2"], Charlotte Smith [6'0"] and Michelle Snow [6'5"] (who did this in the 2006 WNBA All-Star Game). Many of the women in the WNBA dunk during warm-ups and practices." I used to see Lisa Leslie working out all the time at the USC rec center. She can't leg press for squat. I am way stronger than she is. Plus I'm a dude, with a Y chromosome and everything. We're just better than they are at physical stuff. If you don't believe me, ask my black belt ex-girlfriend what happened when she tried to fight me. Didn't hit her or anything, black belt or no, but she was pretty darned ineffective all the same.

I'm going to do this. I'm not going to jump on boxes at the gym, or buy any strength shoes or anything like that, and I'm still going to do it. Agree? Disagree? Strenuously disagree? There's a poll on the right.

The rug is not always cleaner on the other side

2008-10-24T17:27:00.000-07:00

Like my blogger in crime, you may not have a wife and kids like I do. And with these wives and kids you do not have, you likely also do not have the dogs, minivans, plastic toys, and mortgages, that seem to accompany you when in this stage of life. So let me give you a quick look at what you are likely missing out on. Don't get me wrong, marriage and all that comes with it is the best.

My lovely 1-year-old Yellow Lab, Barkley (shown at the right as a 2-month old puppy, damn cute I must say), started making these horrible "OH $#%&, I'm about to boot" heaving sounds at 4am last night. About a nanosecond later I BOLTED out of deep sleep and bed trying to corral her outside. Son of a bitch. It was those damn meat bones Uncle DB gave the dog last night when we were visiting his house. I KNEW this was going to happen. My adrenalin rush had slowed time down enough for me to think through these details as I sprinted down the hall, a similar phenomena to what fighter jet pilots talk about when engaged in melees over the pacific. My lovely wife then helpfully yells at me from bed "USE THE FRONT DOOR!", but alas, I had already committed to the sliding door off the family room, which leads to the back yard.

Even in my heightened state, the door lock mechanism slowed me, and during the excruciatingly long 3 seconds it took to open the back door, Barkley hurled all over the family room rug. AH CRAP. Nothing like the sound and smell of someone throwing up right next to you, dog or human, it's both disgusting and slightly bonding. Time-speed then returned back to normal for me, and I let the dog out into the back yard where she vomits a little more, and I made a half ass attempt at cleaning up the stomach contents left from my dog on our family room rug. I thought I had done an admiral job of at least attempting to address the situation.

Of course when I return to bed the whole fiasco was looked at as my fault, as detailed by my wife at 4am, for not using the front door as she had suggested.

YOU SEE? It's the best. Without a wife, how would I be able to learn from such mistakes in life and improve my behavior? I probably would have gone right back to attempting to let imminently vomiting animals out the back door. And where would that leave me? Right. More dog vomit on the rug. Man, thank god for marriage.

Yar's Revenge

2008-10-23T11:47:00.000-07:00

You may remember my friend Yar the compulsive Facebook status updater. Well, it seems Yar is at it again. Remember, these are actual Facebook status updates from an actual person, but Yar's name has been changed to protect the innocent. Gosh, I hope he's innocent.

It has been a rough few days for Yar. Things started off normally enough. Another typical day at the office for Yar...

Yar is at work. 4:33am

Yar has customised his Bowling Buddies character. 5:26am

Working hard or hardly working once again, I see. But things quickly took a turn for the worse...

Yar just learned his grandmother passed away, looking for flights back home... 8:40am

Yar, ever the dutiful grandson, arrived home the next day...

Yar is HAPPY AND SAD to be home. 2:41pm

And made the best of things...

Yar had a great day with family! 6:46pm

Yar is thankful for the friends and family he has... Thank you! 9:05pm

Although grateful for the time spent with family, the situation was far from ideal...

Yar misses his 8Mb pipe.... dialup sux. 9:20pm

And grandpa was having a tough go of it...

Yar spent all night in the hospital...grandpa wasn't feeling good.... I pray he will be ok. 6:43am

The second grandparent often dies soon after the first, as each is often the other's reason to keep on living. Yar's sadness began to mount...

Yar will miss Grandma.... RIP Grandma!!!! 8:03am

But Yar stayed strong for his family, even as he was coming to grips with his own mortality...

Yar turns 36 today...feel like 26. 8:20am

Yar won't let anything happen to grandpa on his watch!! 9:28pm

And Yar found inspiration in his grandpa's plight and his deep sadness...

Yar just wote a poem...check it out on my wall. 11:48pm

But the next day Yar just got sick of the old bastard.

Yar is hanging Grandpa... 10:52am

Lies, Damn Lies, & Statistics

2008-10-22T17:39:00.001-07:00

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(Information current as of 10/22/08. All rights reserved. This blog entry may not be reproduced or rebroadcast without the express written consent of Oscar De La Jolla, Wood Dog, Kark Hungus and Richard I. Box. This has been a Clog N' Blog Production.)

Reasons Why I'm Single: #397

2008-10-22T14:12:00.000-07:00

I'm a dork. I know it, you know it, every chick I've ever dated knows it, and a few of the animals in the more accessible cages at the San Diego Zoo know it. Those animals also know I'm a sexual deviant, but it is up to the government to make that case so I won't go into it here. As a testament to my dorkiness (and because people don't really like me, but computer games can't ignore me), I've usually got a computer game of some sort going. However, my computer is a laptop and it's getting a little long in the tooth so it can't really handle a lot of the games being made today. Also, many of today's computer games are these online "massively multiplayer" games which require interaction and cooperation with other people, which sort of defeats the purpose of me playing a computer game. So lately, I haven't had anything going and I got a little desperate. I own an Xbox 360, and I ventured on down to Fry's Electronics to see what games they had there on deep discount. After digging through the bargain bin, I came home with a little title called Blue Dragon.

Now, Blue Dragon is a role-playing game but it is a Japanese role-playing game, which seems to be its own subcategory of these games. The game is in English and all, but I guess it has what you might call a Japanese "sensibility" to it. Which is another way of saying I don't know what the fuck is going on in the game. Apparently the Nippon are really into this sort of shit, and I might need to start hanging out with them so I can begin to understand this game. Here's what I know so far:

There are these three kids (two boys, Shu and Jiro, and one girl, Kluke). They have gigantic heads (like Josh Brolin) and eyes and they look like they're about 11 years old but the manual says they are 16 or 17. As you can see from the picture, Shu has kick-ass Japanese videogame hair. These kids live in a village in the desert. By village, I mean a small area with about 4 buildings. The three kids, their families, and maybe 2 other people seem to live in this village, for a total of about 10 people. So the village they live in is a lot like Blythe. There is no discernible economy in this village, very much like the U.S. right now in that regard. Every year for the past 10 years, purple clouds form and a "land shark" swims through the sand under the village and destroys the village with its metal fin, which sticks up above the surface of the sand. When this happens, the people of the village climb up onto a platform they've built above the desert floor. When the land shark is finished, they go back down and rebuild the village. It hasn't occured to anyone to move the village, or to rebuild the village on the platform.

Before the latest land shark attack, the three kids were exploring the Ancient Ruins near the village and they constructed a large metal net from metals they found in the Ruins and use that net to capture the land shark by snaring its metal fin. However, the land shark broke the net and the three kids fell with the land shark down a hole into the Ancient Ruins. There they meet a purple dude on a hovering chair who has a little sidekick who repeats everything the purple dude says. He reminds me a lot of the little creature who was Jabba the Hutt's sidekick in Return of the Jedi. The purple dude threatens to kill the children, and they run away into the Ruins chased by robots. Then they find a drilling machine, but none of them knows how to drive the drilling machine so they can't escape. A voice tells them to swallow the globes of light that just sort of appear out of nowhere and they can use the magic of the globes to drive the drilling machine. So THAT'S how you get kids to swallow your "globes of light" - Lord knows promises of Jolly Rancher candies isn't working any more. Anyway, the kids swallow the globes, and this gives the kids blue shadows which fight for them and cast spells and stuff. Then the kids run into a whiny half-cat child called Marumaro who is always screaming about nothing in particular but who also has swallowed a globe of light and whose shadow kicks the most ass of any of them in combat. Turns out the cat's village has been made sick and so it has been looking for the cure in the Ancient Ruins. The four of them find the cure and go back to the cat's village in the drilling machine (which they can now drive since they swallowed the globes of light) but the cure doesn't work. Turns out it is a false cure, but one of the children's parents is a doctor and she remembers her parent curing a similar illness with a particular flower, which can only be found in the Forest of the Dead. So they go there, fighting poo snakes along the way. In case you were wondering, poo snakes are snakes made out of pink feces. After the cure is obtained and the cat's village is cured, the cat people all get together and do a dance of appreciation, and then the three kids and the one cat set off for the Valley of the Mural Monsters. But they can only enter the Valley if the cat people do another dance in front of the stones at the Valley's entrance.

So, so far so good. But I've got a few questions:

1. What am I supposed to do with Mystery Part Alpha?

2. Does that fucking cat EVER stop talking? If I hear "Woweee!!! Shu, those Robots are kicking your ass!!!" or some other such crap one more time I'm putting my hand through my TV.

3. What am I supposed to do with Ancient Phonograph? Use it to "spin" house music at the cat village town hall? I still haven't found any Ancient LP's...

4. I've also got Broken Part of Eternal Engine. Who's going to pay to fix it? Was Eternal Engine under warranty? How did an Eternal Engine break in the first place? I mean, isn't it eternal? IT SAYS SO RIGHT IN THE NAME!!
5. Is the Pirate Queen (see above) a 9 or a 10? (The manual says she's 20 years old so this is a totally legit question.)

Saturday Noggin' Live

2008-10-22T11:08:00.000-07:00

After a trip to the Bay Area this past weekend, I was doing a little catching up on my Tivo'ed items. Entourage still sucks. Got about halfway through Good Night and Good Luck which is decent so far but I'd say it got noticed by the Oscar committee for its leftist "taking on the government"-ness as much as for its quality. The Mad Men episodes are still piling up and though I have heard they are good, I haven't gotten into watching them yet. Same thing happened to me with Flight of the Conchords.

In addition to Entourage, I usually watch SNL on a weekly basis. This is mostly because recording it in HD takes up a significant portion of my Tivo storage space, so I need to clear that space or I risk missing a recording of Robot Chicken.

This week's host was Josh Brolin, who stars in Oliver Stone's recently released film W. Brolin managed a decent line in his monologue (paraphrasing: "I recently starred in a movie about politics in the United States. It was called No Country For Old Men and it was about John McCain.") but was otherwise pretty forgettable. Except for one thing, that is. The size of his noodle. MY GOOD GOLLY. We are talking pumpkin on a toothpick here. That's no moon, that's a space station. I mean, the man's head on his body looks like an oversized Taylor Made driver head on a graphite shaft, and trust me it was absolutely terrifying in HD:

Granted, the dude's married to Diane Lane:

And before that (and maybe during) he's probably laid more pipe than Joe the Plumber, but if you ask me, I'd rather be anonymous and have a head without its own gravitational pull.

Sunday Quick Hits

2008-10-12T14:07:00.000-07:00

The purpose of this blog entry is to record some thoughts that have been creeping and crawling around in my head. Or maybe its just because we're woefully behind pace on our October blog entries.

PAC-MAN FEVER. Dallas cornerback Adam "Pacman" Jones was involved in another altercation earlier this week. Not terribly surprising, considering the Pacman's history of getting into dust-ups at "scrip clubs" and just general lawlessness. This one was a little unusual, however, since the altercation was with one of the bodyguards hired by the Dallas Cowboys FOR THE PURPOSE OF MAKING SURE THE PACMAN DOESN'T GET INTO ANY ALTERCATIONS. The Pacman apologized to his teammates for bringing on unintended controversy and vowed it would not happen again.
I'm not sure I believed him when he apologized after the Las Vegas scrip club shooting by taking out a full page ad in the Nashville Tennessean, promising "he'll win back trust" of his teammates and fans." "To my family, teammates, coaches and fans, I recognize that I have lost the right to ask for your patience and understanding," Jones wrote. "However, I will do everything in my power to regain your trust and respect."

And I didn't really believe him when he sent his letter to NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell asking for reinstatement to the NFL. "Over the past year and a half, I recognize that I have made mistakes and have not lived up to the standards expected of a professional athlete. However, with the help of the NFL and the Dallas Cowboys, I feel that I have turned a corner. I assure you that I will not repeat any of my mistakes."

A-ha! This time he didn't repeat his mistakes. Getting into a fight with a team employee assigned to keep him out of fights is a completely new mistake. And I'm betting it will be the last mistake. I'm pretty sure the Pacman has cleaned up his act for good. And I'm also pretty sure Charlize Theron is going to come to my door wearing only lingerie in 5 seconds. And 4... 3... 2...

DUNGEONS AND DRAG-QUEENS. There's a "game" on Facebook called Dungeons & Dragons: Tiny Adventures. You create a hero and choose its class (fighter, wizard, etc.), choose its equipment, and send it on adventures. There's little to no interactivity (like many Facebook games) so its not that fun - its a lot like watching a random number generator that only rolls every 10 minutes. However, I did get a good laugh out of the game when my hero, the aptly named Jerkface Buttsucker, found a powerful new weapon - a Flaming Rapier. Buttsucker and his Flaming Rapier; I don't know if gets any gayer-sounding than that. That is, unless Buttsucker happens to find a Teabag of Holding...

OBLIGATORY HOT CHICK PICTURE AFTER A GAY REFERENCE:

Whatever happened to Brandy from Joe Dirt?

OWN IT TODAY. Matrix Revolutions and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull are bad movies. I know this for two reasons. First, I saw the movies. Second, advertisements for the DVD versions of these movies focus on "owning the trilogy" or "completing the collection." Selling the forest instead of the tree? That's a bad sign...

I MAY BE LEGEND, BUT I AM NOT SMOOTH WITH THE LADIES. Watched I Am Legend the other day. Basically, a cancer-curing virus has mutated and pretty much wiped out the Earth's population. There are a few remaining "normal" people, and the rest of the survivors are super-strong zombie types who are killed by ultraviolet light. Will Smith is a normal survivor living alone on Manhattan and trying to find a cure for the virus. Decent movie, full of logic holes (there's no way that dog survives for three years without being on a leash) but reasonably entertaining nonetheless. So, about 3/4 of the way through the film, a woman and a boy find Will Smith. The woman is a latina from Sao Paolo, so she complies with the Immutable Law of Interracial Movie Relationships. This Law came about because the flyover states are offended by certain interracial relationships, and this in turn could hurt the box office. Basically, black guy and latina woman = OK (see Will Smith and Eva Mendes in Hitch); white guy and black woman = OK (Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard); black guy and white woman = not OK (with some exceptions, but not in blockbuster-type films). Seeing as how Will Smith is whiter than I am, I don't know why this law still applies to him, but it seems to nonetheless.
Anyway, the chick has been traveling around with this boy, and although she thinks she's heading to a colony in Vermont to link up with additional human survivors, it is pretty clear she hasn't seen or interacted with anyone but the boy in quite some time. The boy isn't old enough to have gone through puberty, so she hasn't seen a man in three years. I imagine she's raring to go. Will Smith hasn't seen a woman in three years, and I'm going to go ahead and give him the benefit of the doubt and say he hasn't been having sex with his dog so he's got to be raring to go as well. They get to talking, and the chick is saying things like "It was God's will that I found you." Perfect opportunity for Fresh Prince say a few things about fate bringing them together, how they might be the last two people left on the face of the Earth and do you want to go out with a bang, stuff like that. Personally, I'd have told her that she's probably not as hot as the chicks in the Vermont colony - shots at the old self-esteem always work like a charm, and I gotta think that even the last woman on Earth is a little insecure. No matter what he says though, its a freaking layup. I mean this chick made him bacon and eggs after saving his life and stitching up a nasty knife wound in his leg. I think its safe to say she's into him. There's probably only one way for him to screw this up, and that is to pick a fight with her, and maybe get into a religious discussion. So what does Will Smith say? THAT SHE'S WRONG, THERE ARE NO SURVIVORS AND THERE IS NO GOD. Will Smith completes the self-grenading by getting pissed at her for cooking the bacon because he was "saving it." Well he sure ain't gonna be makin' any bacon with that kind of game.

Adventures in Facebooking

2008-10-10T08:53:00.000-07:00

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, there was a website called Facebook. You may have heard of it. If not, go check it out for a second. We'll be right here when you get back.

In a nutshell, Facebook is a site oriented toward adults, for keeping in touch with people. Because emailing them or speaking with them on the phone is too difficult. Myspace could be used for the same purpose, and I've even dated someone who maintains a Myspace page and she was totally normal and age-appropriate (and darned attractive I might add). However, that site is generally thought of as being younger, more immature, more ghetto, and more pedophile-friendly. I've actually got a Myspace page, and my three nephews, aged 5, 10 and 12, are my Myspace friends. I figured I'd stay in touch with them that way, since they are on that site all the time. However, considering my Myspace name is "Creepy Uncle" and my nephews are my only Myspace friends, I think I can see where the Myspace pedophile concerns come from.

Here are a few things that have happened to me during my short stay on Facebook:

EPISODE I: THE PHANTOM FRIENDSHIP

As you may know, I am a member of a popular online dating site. Note that it is the site that is popular, and not my profile on the site. Actually, that isn't true. I get all sorts of emails and comments about my profile, and some of them aren't from the website administrators, the FBI or libel attorneys. I have noted, however, that a lot of the emails I get are from persons who don't meet my "requirements". For instance, I received an email yesterday from a rather attractive blonde woman. When I checked out her profile, it showed that she has two children living with her at home. I don't have a long list of initial deal-breakers (though am a master of finding things wrong with people once I am dating them), but preexisting children are on that list. In fact, preexisting children ARE that list. I don't know if I want kids, but I do know that I don't want someone else's kids.

Anyhow, I emailed a chick on the online dating site who lives in San Francisco. It was very late (very early actually), and I had maybe had a few cocktails earlier and was in a mood. I've pretty much conquered my drunk dialing problem (though I still have a problem with drunk booty texting from time to time), but I decided it was a good idea to go ahead and send some dating emails out. Because if you're going to piss someone off with drunken emails, why not have it be a total stranger who definitely won't want to date you once they see what you're really like on the weekends. I am going to make a fortune selling breathalyzer locks for people's cell phones and computers, I shit you not.

So a couple of these chicks did respond, but one of them did not. However, I did get a Facebook friend request from her a few days later. What's that about? Is this how we let people down easy nowadays? I don't like you in that way, I just want to be friends, not actual friends but Facebook friends, which means I will have no further interaction with you after I click the "Send Friend Request" button. I wasn't all that interested at first, but rejecting me? That's hot. Now I'm pretty sure she's my soul mate. She's not heard the last of me.

EPISODE II: ATTACK OF THE STATUS UPDATES

I've become Facebook friends with a dude I knew in high school. I recognized his name but I don't remember much about him. Except that we dated for 3 years and he dumped me right before Senior Prom. Kidding. We didn't break up until the end of the summer after senior year, because we both headed off to different colleges. Kidding again. I had Driver's Training with the dude, meaning he, I and one other person all shared the same "Student Driver" car with our instructor. We never dated, but I did get rear-ended by him a few times. Kidding again. It was a Hummer. Not the student driver car, but the act. But that doesn't mean I'm gay, because *he* was blowing *me*. Right, Pedro? TOTALLY KIDDING, by the way.

I'm not here to name any names, so let's just call this dude "Yar". You know, like in Yars Revenge. Except a whole lot more like the dude's first name spelled backwards. I haven't kept up with Yar over the years, but through the magic of Facebook status updates, I now know exactly what Yar is up to at any given moment. So here are a couple of days in the life of Yar, though if you are my Facebook friend you probably already get this crap published to your Wall or News Feed or something:

Yar is working... 5:15am

Yar traveled to Valley of the Dead in Elven Blood. 5:19am

Yar had to travel to the Valley of the Dead for work? Holy shit! Yar's job sounds pretty dangerous!

Yar is listening to a pointless conference call. 6:36am

You know what they say: "Dead men tell pointless tales."

Yar needs to go into a different line of work. 7:24am

I told you the Valley of the Dead sounded dangerous.

Yar is having a Birthday Party on the 17th.....who's in? 9:03am

Yar is heading home.... 12:58pm

Almost four hours and no responses to the birthday invite... sucks, man. I'd go home, too. Find a pillow and cry it out.

Yar is going home.. 3:55pm

Dude, you were leaving three hours ago! We really need to work on your organizational skills.

Yar is playing Elven Blood.....not doing well LOL. 7:01pm

And on to the next day in the life of Yar...

Yar can help with any IT related issues you may have :). 12:56pm

But if you have Elven Blood related issues forget it. Yar totally sucks at that game.

Yar is going to dinner with friends. 3:16pm

Unlikely, based on the Birthday Party response.

Yar is looking for a 4th for golf saturday. 3:24pm

Incidentally, he's also looking for a 2nd and a 3rd for golf Saturday if you're available...

Yar is working hard or hardly working.... 4:58am

I see from Facebook that Yar is married. My question is, why? With lines like this Yar should be out there killing it! A new chick every night of the week! Poor, shortsighted bastard.

I hope Yar doesn't read this blog. There's a Yars Revenge joke here but I can't make it funny so we'll just move on.

EPISODE III: REVENGE OF THE RANDOM HOOKUP

On Facebook, one of the first things you do when you "friend" someone is to check out their friends. That way, you see if there are other people out there you should be "friending", or if they know any hot chicks. In fact, the chick from Episode I found me through a mutual friend.

So, as I was cannibalizing a friend's friend list, I saw that she is friends with a girl I used to know. And used to like, actually. We hooked up a few times, beginning during the Drive for Five, but there was always something a little weird about it. If I had to guess I'd say she had a boyfriend and was hooking up with me on the side, or it could have been our age difference (I think the spread was six years, 30 - 24, at the time). Another strong possibility is that I was acting like I liked her and that weirded her out. In any event, I tend to meet about one chick a year that I think I could be interested in, and this chick was one of those chicks. Hasn't changed her last name, and her profile picture is of her with another chick... interesting. And stalkerish of me. But I wouldn't mind finding myself in the same room with this chick again, to see what happens. The smart money would be on her pretending she didn't remember me. And the really smart money would be on her genuinely not remembering me. But she'd be thirty now, and everyone knows Chick + Thirty + Single = Desperate. It's the new math. It's right up there next to the quadratic equation and Area = Pi R Squared. And that was also back before I was the chiseled block of tooth-bleached unstoppability that you now see before you. Hang out with our mutual friend a little more, engineer a chance meeting with tequila present, and let nature run its course. Money in the bank.

Pro Shopping

2008-10-01T19:58:00.000-07:00

We Americans love us some NFL jerseys.

I went with my brother to Pittsburgh a few years back for a regular season game against the visiting New England Patriots. Now Pittsburgh is a fine town, albeit with some unusual rules about drinking. My brother and I spent Saturday day and night on Carson Street, which is across the river from Hines Field, PNC Park, and our hotel. Carson Street's claim to fame is that it has something like 100 bars on a 1-mile stretch of the street, so my brother and I went to investigate this claim. We believe this claim to be true.

As in California, Pittsburgh has a 2am last call. However, they run it a little differently in the 'Burgh. First of all, they don't set their clocks ahead 20 minutes and start pressuring you to move toward the door and finish your drinks at 1:35 so you'll be out of the bar and on your way home well before two. Rather, you have until 2am in real time to order your last drink, and you can stay until 3am to finish it. You also aren't limited to buying one drink at 1:59; you can buy a six-pack if you want and sit there for an hour and drink it. If you don't finish, you are allowed to take the unopened beers with you. In fact, there didn't seem to be any liquor stores per se (or if there were any then they closed much earlier in the evening) - so if you wanted to keep drinking after the bars closed you had to buy beer from the bar. If I recall, your limit was a six-pack per person. My brother and I bought a twelver for the walk over the bridge back to the hotel, and this made for a much more interesting trip. When it comes to last call, I like Pittsburgh's style.

I've always been a little reluctant to wear sports jerseys. Of course, I wore them in high school when I was actually on a team (with a t-shirt underneath my basketball jersey since my guns weren't quite as developed then as they are now):
But seeing as how I'm not actually on any pro teams at the moment it doesn't usually make much sense to me to wear a team's jersey. Don't get me wrong, I can see why people would buy certain jerseys, like this one, this guy's jersey or this guy's jersey. But I'd rather go for something in the team's colors with an understated logo. At my age, I am too old to be wearing jerseys, and this way it is much easier to hide if your team loses - you don't need to get into fights all night with drunken fans of the other team, or have to go home and change. In San Diego, I've even seen a dude try to fight a chick wearing a Minnesota hockey jersey after Maine or Michigan or Boston College or some other insignificant college beat Minnesota in the Frozen Four, which is apparently a March hockey tournament. "Hockey" is apparently a sport that involves ice skates, a large stone and a broom.

On the morning of the game in Pittsburgh, I was getting dressed and was all prepared to wear jeans and a button-down to the game, it being a crisp fall day and all. However, my brother had a dilemma - he had brought 5 or 6 jerseys and couldn't decide which one to wear. The Pats being on the road, they were going to wear their white jerseys, so this narrowed the choice down to three. In the end, he chose his authentic game jersey. I was a little concerned for his safety, as I had heard Pittsburgh fans are pretty fanatical, so I went ahead and put on one of his spare jerseys, a Tom Brady replica model. I left the hotel feeling a bit foolish, but I was going to stay with my wingman - it is harder to kick the crap out of two fools than it is one.

On the way out of the room and down the hall to the elevator, a member of the housekeeping staff (hey, it was three hours earlier for us and we had been out late) told us to be careful dressed like we were. And we soon found out why - before we left the hotel we saw about 20 people wearing various Steelers jerseys. These people had already had a few cocktails, and they began hurling various insults, the most common being "Hey Marsha Brady!" I no longer felt foolish; I maybe even felt a little threatened, except that my brother and I are two of the tallest people in Pittsburgh, and we're both pretty big dudes. Sure, there were plenty of big fat guys out there that could give us some trouble, but by the time they caught one of us they'd be too tired to fight anyway.

So, I'd say on an NFL game day, in the immediate Heinz Field area the population of Pittsburgh consists of about 60% jersey wearers. That was the most common accessory, with the second-most common being the porn moustache, running at about 40%. The 'staches were probably split about 85/15 between guys and chicks. So, in flyover states such as Pennsylvania, where there isn't all that much else to do, wearing jerseys is widely accepted.
Despite a few minor altercations (Steelers fans throwing cans at us in the parking lot, starting a "Here we go Patriots" chant in a bar during the early games and getting shouted down by the entire bar, me returning to the wrong seat in the stadium after a beer and bathroom break, trying to kick a Steelers fan out of my seat, and having beer, popcorn and pretzels thrown at me as a result), we were treated to one heck of a ballgame. After the Steelers scored the tying touchdown late in the fourth quarter, I was surprised by the reaction of Steelers fans. There was 1:21 left in the game, and the prevailing attitude was "Crap. We left Brady with too much time. We're going to lose." Can't blame them though - they were right, as Tom Brady drove the Patriots to a game-winning field goal as time expired, which in turn drove the Pats fans to a night of celebration in Pittsburgh. Man, I hate it when the other team comes to my city, beats my team, and parties it up in my city afterwards. As a fan of the Cal Bears, this used to be a common occurrence, especially when it came to USC and UCLA fans. Those beautiful, arrogant f*cks.

But back to the jerseys. Seeing as how I hooked up (in the SoCal/young female definition of the word) with a Steelers fan after the football game, I'd say jerseys might even be the preferred attire - one of the reasons I hooked up with her was that "I looked so cute in my Tom Brady jersey." For the record, she looked just fine in her Hines Ward jersey mid-hookup, as Tom Brady ended up screwing the Steelers a second time that day.

When Doug Christie played in the NBA, I guess he made a lot of hand signals and the like during games that were special little "I love yous" to his wife Jackie. He got a lot of crap for this from teammates, and a reality show was made of the couple's relationship. That show has the distinct honor of being the only reality show in history to fail, even though dude was pretty well whipped which should have made for good TV. Formerly talented ESPN columnist Bill Simmons used to write (and probably still does, since he hasn't had any new material since the first Gulf War) about buying a Doug Christie jersey for your friends who are whipped by their girlfriends, as kind of a funny insult. Such a jersey was in fact purchased for a friend of mine (let's call him "Squishy") at one point. I wasn't around the couple very much, but I understand he was pretty whipped. I do recall a time that she logged into his account during our fantasy draft and they were typing back and forth to each other in the draft chat room, so I'm willing to take others' word for it.

In a similar vein, I am a Pats fan and some friends decided to purchase a jersey for me they deemed appropriate. At the time, there was a cornerback on the Patriots who wore #21. He was named Randall Gay. These pranksters decided that a "GAY 21" jersey would be perfect for me. The reason that it would be perfect for me is that I am gay. I'm really not, but that was the running joke for about 36 years and counting now. This was just after a woman accused Michael Vick of giving her herpes, and he apparently had sought herpes treatment under the alias "Ron Mexico." The Atlanta Falcons jersey "MEXICO 7" became a very popular item, and the NFL cracked down on the customization of its jerseys. So my friends couldn't order me a "GAY 21" jersey since this was not permitted by the NFL, even though there was an actual "GAY 21" player. I understand the NFL eventually started selling that jersey, though by that time my friends had moved on to other endeavors - they have the attention spans of hummingbirds on crack.

I checked out the NFL.com website to see what can be done with customized jerseys. I tried to create an Atlanta Falcons "MEXICO 7" jersey. Turns out you still can't create that jersey, or any jersey with "MEXICO" on the back, regardless of the team or the jersey number - you come up with an error that says "Your current entry cannot be processed. Language deemed inappropriate, derogatory, or profane will not be accepted. Please create a new entry."

So I decided to test how sophisticated the NFL's Inappropriate, Derogatory and Profane Detector really is. Facebook supposedly has a sophisticated BS Name Detector, though my friends Dee Monk and Pats Flamer might disagree. I discovered the following jerseys can be ordered without the NFL so much as batting an eyelash (no Photoshopping here - these images comes from the NFL Shop website, having been deemed a "Great Choice! To purchase your customized jersey, click on "ADD TO CART"):
Nope, nothing inappropriate, derogatory or profane there. But thank God you can't order a MEXICO jersey. The NFL - it's a family league!

It's OKTO Ramble

2008-09-30T11:27:00.000-07:00

Is it total BS that my wife proposed to me on Facebook, and I ignored the request? I just thought it would be a bit lame for a mass e-mail to go out to my 76 friends (of which only 15 are fake) declaring our life-long commitment to each other. I have had to declare that publicly once before, and I got a SWEET party out of it. I just didn't see the upside here.

There is though a bit of risk with just being Facebook Friends with my wife. I have already had one person note that my wife is "Facebook available", and he was saying he might make a move.

Here's another reason why Cricket is lame. Not only is it a slower version of baseball, but you also get weak news headlines like the recent: "England loses their sixth wicket just before tea on the first day of the third Test at Edgbaston." What the hell does that even mean? It sounds like someone is misplacing Ewoks before caffeinating up during finals week. Losing Wickets before tea on the first day of tests? It's excruciating.

Do you want to know just how excruciating Cricket is to me? OK, picture yourself after reading that last paragraph. Yes, I KNOW, THAT excruciating.

I don't easily get mad, but I purchased a lottery ticket the other day, and the pure complexity, and time it took to figure out, just really angered me. Why should I be forced to apply advanced chaos science to a lottery ticket to discover if I won the $5 or not? I seriously have no idea if this ticket has value. Please click on the picture to the right and tell me, I'll just send it to you.

It seems like every time I visit my grandparents in their sweet retirement complex I hear some total gem from one of the residents. Like my last visit I was in the elevator going down to dinner, and a nice old guy explained to me that the "computer was going to just change everything." It was a tough point to argue.

I am by no means in the know on music these days as I generally listen to such things "Dora's Music on the Go" and not so much the latest Ne-Yo track. That said, I hear by declare the most catchy song of 2009 to be "It's Love" by Chris Knox. Come on, you've seen the Heineken "Share the Good" commercial, right? And since this post may put my manliness in question, I'll just go with it and also declare Heineken Premium Light to be a damn fine beer too.

Clarifications

2008-09-27T23:18:00.000-07:00

OK, I'm bagging the courier font (but that is not all I'm bagging these days). People tell me its hard to read, I don't like the way it looks, and I find I am far less funny when I write in courier. So, in a show of solidarity with our brothers in the former Soviet Union, I am switching to the Georgia font. Note that the switch has nothing to do with the formerly highly-regarded UGA football team, which was tragically bludgeoned to death by Nick Saban and the University of Alabama earlier today.

First, I note that The Wood Dog seems to be on to something with respect to the Mariners being crappy. In fact, one of their players, a fellow by the name of Ichiro Suzuki, noticed as much all the way back in May:

"Playing on this team and seeing what is happening around me, I feel that something is beginning to fall apart. But, if I was not in this situation, and I was objectively watching what just happened this week, I would probably be drinking a lot of beers and booing. Usually, I enjoy Japanese beer, but given the situation, if I was objectively watching the game, I wouldn't care if it was Japanese beer, American beer or beer from Papua New Guinea."

Ichiro was unable to offer further comment, as he had to immediately rush off in his tricked-out Honda Civic to the Seattle Waterfront Arcade to sing karaoke and play Dance Dance Revolution Ultramix, in order to get his mind off his complex about his smaller-than-average penis. They're Asian stereotypes, people. Work with me.

Secondly, I want to clarify that Erinn Hayes (from my Hump Island) is hot. It is hard to tell anything from the picture I posted last time, except that she might be a soccer mom, and she certainly pales in comparison to the lovely Miss Bibb. There aren't really any "hot" pictures of Erinn out there, probably because she is being marketed as a "funny" female lead and thus we are supposed to like her for her "talent." Her acting talent, that is. Alternatively, there might not be sexy photos of her out there because she is married and has a child and thus doesn't want to slut it up too much, but since I refuse to acknowledge the existence of said husband and child, this cannot be the reason. I suspect FHM or Maxim will eventually catch up to her once she becomes a little more famous; however, after watching part of the first episode of her current show "Worst Week," I doubt great fame and riches will come her way as a result of that show. Hopefully for Erinn, she won't have the same career arc as Andrea Bendewald, who NBC kept trying to ram down our throats by putting her in every show it had, but who never really found her niche. I wonder who Andrea Bendewald blew to get so many opportunities, and if that person is bisexual.

Having said the above, I enter into evidence the following Exhibit A, which should prove (a) that Erinn Hayes is indeed hot, and (b) that I'm not gay (with such evidence being sorely needed after the last sentence of the previous paragraph):

Glad we got that cleared up. Now, if I could only say the same thing about my bacne...

Speaking of hot chicks, I caught part of Leaving Las Vegas earlier this evening. Hadn't seen any of that movie before, but HOLY CRAP IS ELISABETH SHUE HOT IN THAT FILM. She didn't do that much for me in Karate Kid or Adventures in Babysitting or Cocktail or anything else I may have happened to see her in, maybe because she always seemed to be carrying about 10 extra pounds of baby fat, but not so in LLV. We're talking marathon shape here. We need to find out whatever she did to get into shape for that film and spread the word to the women of America, nay, The World. We owe it to them. We owe it to ourselves. Hell, I think she takes the title of "Miss Movie Hot Chick 1995" from Sandra Bullock in Speed.

In other news, over the past week The Wood Dog pissed away second place in our fantasy baseball league, and now is destined to finish third. I don't think the monetary difference is what's burning The Wood Dog's beans, but the fact that our friend Obnoxio is the one who is going to finish in second. Obnoxio pretty much finishes first or second every year, and he's become the guy we love to hate in that league. Add to that the thumping I'm about to lay on The Wood Dog in our fantasy football league tomorrow, and the guy just might give up fantasy sports altogether. I do suspect he'll keep playing fantasy NBA basketball though, since (a) our annual draft is always a good time, and (b) there is no longer an NBA team in Seattle.

A hundred (million?) reasons to hate the Mariners

2008-09-25T07:25:00.000-07:00

Congratulations Seattle Mariners, you have just made history. With your 6-5 loss to the Angels of Anaheim last night, you have become a team to be logged in the annals of baseball history forever.

Last night our beloved M's recorded their 100th loss of the season, a metric used to identify the worst of the worst teams in the major leagues. But that's not all THAT impressive, right? Every year there is usually one, maybe two teams that achieve this impressive feat of losing over 61% of their games; an honor in recent times bestowed upon such storied franchises as the Kansas City Royals, Tampa Bay Devil Rays, and Pittsburgh Pirates. Since 1980, 27 teams have achieved this feat in fact, so no big deal, right?

However, what NO other team has done in history, not until September 24, 2008 that is, is to lose 100 games while spending over ONE HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS (US$100,000,000) in player salaries on the season. Well done Seattle Mariners, you have REDEFINED the phrase "shitty team".

The M's have become the anti-money-ball franchise. Where Billy "Money Ball" Beane has made a career of maximizing the dollar return on a team's win-loss record for the Oakland A's, the Mariner executitves have found ways to spend more for much less than anyone has ever before in the business.

What people in other cities may not understand is that Seattle really is a baseball town. While we Seattle Baseball Fans KNOW that this season there is less than a 39% chance at seeing a Mariner win when we go to the ballpark, about 30,000 of us still show up to see the spectacle. Game after game. So there is absolutely no negative reinforcement to our ownership group for producing a losing team. They have a good cable contract in Seattle, international television revenues (every game is shown live in Japan), and great merchandise sales on top of the 30,000 fools buying tickets, hotdogs, and Ichi-Rolls (a sushi item only available in Safeco Field) 81 times a year. What's not to like for the owners?

This mentality of making money over winning ball games explains such things as signing up Kenji Johjima for another 3 years at the extraordinary price tag of $16.5 million. He keeps the Japanese fans watching. Kenji was one of the the worst hitting catchers in the majors this year, but almost worse is the fact that one of our only positions of strength in our minor league system is AT CATCHER. Jeff Clement is a minor league player of the year, and is dying to play full time catcher in the bigs. This was one of maybe ONE positions where we were fine going into next season.

The other man from Japan on the squad is superstar Ichiro. If you want to witness how huge this guy is, ust walk around the ballpark before or after a home game. Inevitably, you will see a 5-tourist-deep swarm of Japanese fans, taking their photo next to the lifesize PICTURE of Ichiro. Now I admit that Ichiro is a fantasic ballplayer, and the best player on the Mariners. Though he does contradict almost every single Billy Beane Money Ball theory in what attributes of a player you should be investing your money in. Fans though, especially in Japan, love this guys. Ichrio keeps the Tivos recording games in Tokyo, even if according to some critics "Ichiro doesn't walk enough" or "Ichiro doesn't hit for power" or "some of the other players on the team want to beat up Ichiro". (No seriously, per Seattle Times reporter Geoff Baker's Blog today, certain players wanted to beat up Ichiro earlier this year. He's not quite the clubhouse leader you usually get for $16 million a year)

So maybe, just maybe, our crack owners and exec staff aren't morons at all. They have created "Japan's Team" for the international revenue, and for the locals, we have a beautiful fan-friendly ballpark, and we have signed expensive, underperforming guys like Raul Ibanez and Yuniesky Betancourt (left picture) who fans LOVE. Look at how cute Yuni is in that picture! He's like a god damned stuffed animal. It's the only explanation for why Willie Bloomquist defies all odds and statistics and remains on the Mariner payroll. Fans LOVE him. My buddy Doug Miller who was briefly the MLB.com beat writer for the M's told me that he received more fan questions about Willie "F-ing" Bloomquist than almost all of the starters. He's that gritty overachieving, white "Baseball Player" that people want to see... don't mind that he owns the longest hitting streak without an extra-base hit in the majors.

I have read that Kids and Females are the target audience that the ownership group is trying to reach with their "product" in the Seattle Mariners. They wisely assume that actual "baseball fans" are going to show up anyway. Kids and females LOVE players like Yuni. They love their Ichi-rolls, the Mariner Moose, and apparently they could give a crap about winning baseball games.

Maybe the joke is really on guys like me. I am too dumb to realize that this team is EXACTLY what the owners want. It has NOTHING to do with the 100 losses. They spent $100 million on making a Disney Land in Seattle, and really there should be no expectations of anything changing.

But hey, the good news is that we kept pace with the Washington Nationals, who also lost last night, and who remain one game behind the Mariners for the coveted first pick of the draft next year granted to the worst team in baseball. Not that we'll do anything with it. Go M's.

I Was Born a Ramblin' Man

2008-09-23T00:51:00.000-07:00

I used to think that these ramble posts were a bad idea, in that you are wasting fertile blog topics in one paragraph that could become entire posts. But after re-reading my post about seeing porn on my boss's computer, I realize that some topics are only worth a paragraph, if that, and you don't need to stretch them into thousand-word posts...

Movie Review Section, Part I: I recently watched "Cinderella Man" starring Russell Crowe and an actress who used to be Renee Zellweger. I think this was the only film directed by Ron Howard which wasn't nominated for a bunch of Oscars and didn't make wheelbarrows of cash ("Far and Away" might also fall into this category though). You may recall that this film did so badly at the box office that the studio offered a money-back guarantee for those who went to see the movie and didn't enjoy it. Do you think that guarantee is still in effect? Because I want back the 144 minutes I wasted watching that paint-by-the-numbers steaming pile of monkey crap. I'll be invoicing Ron Howard for... carry the one... 0.33% of my September cable bill. Wish me luck...

You will note that I have been posting in this Courier font, while The Wood Dog's blog entries are in Trebuchet or whatever that much more readable default font is. Therefore, there are now three ways to determine which of us wrote a particular blog post: (1) look at the font; (2) look at the bottom of the post; and (3) it was me, because The Wood Dog doesn't post any more. I now have a lot more sympathy for pregnant women than I used to. I mean, seeing as how hard it is to blog for two, I can imagine it is quite a chore to eat for two...

My Hump Island needs updating. For those of you who aren't familiar with the concept, you choose five people to be stranded with you on your Hump Island, the idea being that there is really nothing to do on the island except have sex with the other stranded people. In other words, it is a slightly more clever way of asking someone to name the five people they find most attractive. Some couples in relationships name five people besides their significant others with whom they are allowed to have sex without cratering the relationship. I guess that is kind of like Hump Island, except it doesn't involve an island. The catch is that people named in either instance must be famous people - this allows other people to judge your taste and precludes you from claiming immunity for boning the hot barista at the local Starbucks, which theoretically could happen. But if you somehow manage to nail Elisha Cuthbert, you should totally get away with it. Anyway, my Hump Island used to consist of Anna Kournikova, Charlize Theron, Kristy Swanson (see The Chase or click here before you kill me for that one), Katherine Heigl (anyone noticing a type?) and Jessica Alba. I haven't finished updating my Hump Island, but let's start with Leslie Bibb (Mrs. Ricky Bobby, and the reporter Iron Man boned) and, heading over to the dark side, Erinn Hayes (from some new CBS "comedy" called Worst Week; she looks to me like she's the love child of Jessica Alba and Jennifer Garner):
Oh what the hell, let's put Elisha on there too. Hubba, hubba...

What exactly does "hooking up" mean? I always thought it meant "heavy petting" or "making out" - basically, something more than a goodnight kiss. After hearing a couple of girls deny hooking up with me to my face (not that I blame them for lying about it, but I am pretty sure it happened; I mean, I was there and all), I finally asked what they thought it meant. Turns out girls (these girls at least) think "hooking up" means "having sex". Is it a generational thing (these girls were younger)? Is it a NorCal-SoCal thing? Is it a boy-girl thing?...

During the MLB All-Star break, ESPN had three of their "fantasy sports experts" on to make predictions for the second half of the season. First of all: Oh My God. These are the guys who weren't cool enough to get invited to play Dungeons & Dragons in junior high:
Secondly, does anyone keep track of whether these tools actually know what they are talking about? They sure tell you when they were right, but are they right more often than not? Near as I can tell, to be a fantasy expert for ESPN, all you have to do is have a podcast where you say "this is, uh, this is very true" a lot, you quit paying attention to baseball to focus on football and admit to this on your baseball podcast, and you often call in to work instead of actually going to work because you were out drinking the night before, which you also admit on-air. I'm pretty sure you get fired for that sort of thing at most other jobs - is ESPN hiring?...

Chronology of one of my recent relationships: Boy meets Girl. Boy attempts to date Girl. Girl refuses, as she doesn't trust Boy because she thinks Boy is a player because he rarely calls. Boy and Girl become friends. Girl realizes Boy isn't a player, he is just a little odd about calling and texting. Boy expresses no further interest in Girl, since they are friends. Girl starts to like Boy. Boy and Girl date for 48 hours. Girl breaks up with Boy because she realizes he will never be as attentive as she would like. Girl and Boy don't speak for several months. Girl e-mails Boy and says she wants to be friends. Boy and Girl become friends with benefits. What is the point (assuming there is one)? Well, mostly so I could throw in the "friends with benefits" line and piss off any married people who may be reading. But also, that it is useful to have chick friends, especially hot ones. They will tell you things that you need to change, things that other hot chicks will notice and be put off by. Like that you need to change what you're doing with your hair. That you need to buy different jeans or shoes. That you need to wear cologne. That you need to either look into penile enlargement surgery or make a ton of money. You know, the sorts of things that might not occur to you on your own. I would like to thank Girl for two specific recommendations. First, Girl made me switch to short socks. Used to be I would wear full-length tube socks at the gym, and would just push them down around my ankles. Girl informed me that this was Wrong and something that Old Guys do. Next time I was at the gym, I looked around and saw that no one was wearing socks. They weren't even wearing clothes, and there were only dudes in there. Then I realized I had somehow wandered into the San Francisco Gold's Gym. So I hightailed it out of there and headed to my local 24-Hour Fitness. Sure enough, guys who looked to be in their twenties were wearing short socks. Guys who looked to be in their fifties and sixties were wearing long socks, sometimes pushed down, sometimes not. There weren't really any guys in their thirties or forties; those poor sods were probably at home, wrangling toddlers and otherwise keeping busy not using the treadmill they bought for the home office. Seeing as how I'd rather be identified with guys in their twenties than with Old Guys, chest waxing be damned, I made the switch to short socks and I am a much happier man for it. Secondly, Girl informed me that my flannel boxers, which had things like dogs and plaid patterns on them, are not sexy. I thought they were cute and intriguing, like a Bugs Bunny tie I had in college, but then I thought further and realized that the Bugs Bunny tie wouldn't play in this day and age. Girl instructed me to acquire black boxer-briefs. After a few false starts (tip: don't buy Under Armour underwear - they feel and wear like compression shorts) I've acquired appropriate undergarments, including some black boxer-briefs:
Once again I can work out, and prance around the house afterwards, with confidence...

George Takei (rhymes with "gay", not with "guy") got married recently. Takei is a gay man, and he married his longtime partner, a man by the name of Brad Altman. I have no problem with this - I think gay marriage is fine just so long as I don't wake up in Vegas one morning hung over as all get-out and married to a dude. You know, because why buy the cow. Takei is best known as Lieutenant Sulu on Star Trek (though he did attain higher ranks throughout his career - he was Captain Sulu in "Star Trek 6: The Undiscovered Country", and is known as the Rear Admiral at the San Francisco Gold's Gym). So Takei is boldly going where no man has gone before, except for himself, and he's been going there for years. Not my line, just passing it along...

I don't know what in the hell I am going to be for Halloween. So far my only idea is to be The Most Interesting Man in the World. Near as I can tell, this would require a tuxedo jacket, no tie, white hair and beard, and I would have to drink Dos Equis all night:
Not my cleverest, not by a long shot. Oh, I long for the heady days when I was Jared from Subway for Halloween. Now that was a costume with some sex appeal...

Is there a bigger asshole on the baseball diamond than the guy who makes two outs in the same inning when his team bats around?...

Suppose you're "manscaping". And I don't mean general manscaping, but in the area of the twig and berries. And suppose that while trimming the twig, you accidentally cut down a significant portion of the surrounding forest. And suppose that to that point the forest has never been a Brazilian forest. And further suppose you are expecting a female botanist who has previously visited that part of the world to return for further research. Should you just clear-cut the entire area, or wait until that portion of the forest re-grows naturally?...

Movie Review Section, Part II: I also recently watched the Oscar-nominated film "Michael Clayton", which is the story of a law firm "fixer" - Clayton doesn't actually practice law but instead supposedly comes up with practical solutions when things go wrong. Throughout the film Clayton is constantly praised by the partners in the firm for the value of the services he provides. However, HE NEVER ACTUALLY FIXES ANYTHING. Clayton is asked to help out a client who has just committed a hit-and-run on a pedestrian and fled the scene. How does he "fix" the situation? He tells the guy to hire an attorney. Gee, thanks. Clayton is also asked to take care of a firm partner who is defending one of the firm's major clients in a toxic tort suit. The partner has quit taking his medication and is acting erratically, and his behavior is compromising the case. Clayton's job is to bring the partner back home, and get him to take his medication again so he can win the case. How does that turn out? Well, after Clayton finds him, the partner ditches Clayton and puts together thousands of binders containing damaging evidence against the firm's client, and is murdered afterwards. Nice job again, Clayton. Aces, really. What would the firm do without you?...

Every now and again, people get all worked up over a sports team's name being offensive. You can't call your team the Redskins, because that's offensive to Native Americans. You can't call your team the Redmen, because that's offensive to Native Americans. You have to change your Chief Wahoo logo, because it's offensive to Native Americans. I'm personally not offended, but I probably don't have enough Native American in me (and no, I don't want a Native American in me, no matter which gym I happen to be in) to be offended. But what I'm wondering is, why don't people make a big deal about people's names being offensive? I don't mean names like Mike Hunt, Oliver Closeoff, Haywood Jablowme or former SF Giants pitching coach Dick Pole, but racially offensive names. Many people's surnames came about for practical reasons. If two guys were named John, and one was a tailor and the other was a bricklayer, they might be called John Taylor and John Mason. If two guys were named Steve, and one was a blacksmith and the other was born to a guy named Jack, they might be called Steve Smith and Steve Jackson. So what the hell happened with Rolando Blackman and his Caribbean cousin Will Blackmon? No one's pissed about those names? I guess if they were pissed they could just legally change their names, but I think name changing has kind of gotten out of hand recently...

The Orifice

2008-09-16T00:27:00.000-07:00

I am not a terribly conventional creature. My actions and reactions are pretty much my actions and reactions, without considering the social or political consequences of such actions. Luckily, I've been able to get away with this for the most part, as people pretty much seem to find me funny and likable. They do throw in the occasional "get away from me you f*cking weirdo," but I feel I am, on balance, favorably received. Your mileage may (and probably does) vary.

In my prior life as an office monkey, I noticed that there are certain decorums that are followed. For instance, if one were hung over, one would call in with "food poisoning" and the other office members are not allowed to openly question the truth of that statement. If you enter the office of another person, and that person has just farted, you are supposed to just stand there and continue the conversation, and pretend you don't smell the fart. Which reminds me, I should take this opportunity to apologize to those poor bastards who have had and future bastards who will have the misfortune of having to follow that rule on my protein powder and banana days. Same rule applies when someone stinks up the bathroom. If you see that someone is using the stall you're supposed to finish your business as quickly as possible and get the hell out of there, to save that person the embarrassment of having to emerge from the stall and face someone after having just taken the Browns to the Super Bowl. However, sometimes you may be entering the bathroom just as the pooper is washing his or her hands. In that case, you know they stunk up the room, and they know they stunk up the room, but you're not allowed to say anything like "Whew! Mexican food last night, eh?" All you can do is not acknowledge it. And figure out that person's pooping schedule so you don't walk in there at the wrong time again.

I was once faced with a uniquely awkward situation at the office. Specifically, I went in to ask a question of my Superior. Superior is a bit more chronologically advanced than I - let's say late sixties (age, not date of birth). In any event, I strolled in to ask how a certain matter was going. Superior's computer is set up such that Superior would be using the computer while facing away from the door; in other words, people standing in the doorway to this office can clearly see the computer screen. I often set up my office this way, with the intention that I will be discouraged from checking my fantasy baseball team at work if I am concerned about getting busted for doing so. In reality, it just meant that I pressed Alt-Tab whenever I heard footsteps in the hall. Probably the worst possible solution, as it made me both paranoid and counter-productive. And so did the black helicopters hovering outside my office window at night.

In any event, I think you can see where this is going - I couldn't have telegraphed it any more if I were using Morse Code, or if I were a Jeff Tedford-coached quarterback trying to throw a pass in the NFL. When I walked in, Superior had porn on his computer screen.

There it was, basically a full-screen picture of an attractive and buxom young woman, on her knees and performing fellatio on a (mostly) off-screen gentleman. I use the term gentleman because everyone knows porn acting attracts only persons of the highest moral character and integrity. As does porn viewing, and blogging about finding porn on other people's work computers. I guess, in theory, I could have gone to HR with some sort of "hostile work environment" complaint. However, I feel like our society is entirely too sensitive and litigious already, and besides, this was my kind of porn. Now, Superior doesn't strike me as a "porn on the work computer"-type. I strike me as that type, so I know what I'm talking about here.

Superior used e-mail and Word and other basic applications, but I also had to help with certain computer issues (such as "making it make sound") when the IT people weren't available, so I know Superior isn't all that tech savvy. Superior may not even know about Alt-Tab to change to a more work-acceptable application, because Superior sure as sh!t didn't do that. The porn just sat there on the computer screen. Based on what I saw, Superior had clicked on the wrong web site or e-mail attachment some time before - likely some program installed itself on Superior's computer and hijacked it, generating porn pop-ups, and possibly of the type that couldn't be Alt-Tabbed out of.

I feel like I had a good relationship with Superior, and I knew I wouldn't be working there much longer. I mean, Superior gave me crap for my date's inappropriately short dress at our Holiday Party. So one of us could have acknowledged the porn on the computer. But office decorum held. I didn't say "Whoah! Look at the sweater puppies on that hose hound!" or "Looks like you could use an extra hand," or even "Oops" followed by an awkward departure. Any of these reactions would have let Superior know that I knew.

Rather, I strolled to the other side of Superior's office and continued my line of questioning while pretending to be interested in a picture of Superior with some pseudo-celebrity on the bookcase, a picture I had seen and been told the story behind several times before. And to Superior's credit, there was no panic. Superior's voice stayed level as my questions were answered, and I left after 30 seconds or so - just long enough to make it look like I wasn't trying to get out of there. I did turn to leave in such a way that I never faced the computer screen again, though.

To this day I don't know if the porn still resides on Superior's computer. In some respects I feel like I should have said something, because I feel like I might have been the best hope at getting it removed. Can you really contact IT to have them uninstall porn from your computer? I mean, I guess you can, but does anyone actually do that? And its not like you could just accidentally lose the computer, or arrange for it to be stolen - the computers were imaged and this just would have resulted in the porn popup program being restored along with the rest of the system. So maybe its still there. Hell, maybe its supposed to still be there, and Superior is just at the career point of not giving a crap anymore - keeping the Swingline stapler, finishing the coffee and surfing porn sites on the computer. Lucky bastard.

Free Parking?

2008-09-12T21:29:00.000-07:00

Well, now we know where they park the Popemobile. The question is, are you supposed to tip Jesus when he brings your car around for you?

I kid God sometimes, because I believe He has a sense of hu

The little differences between Football, F*ing, and Frogs

2008-09-12T09:03:00.000-07:00

In case you didn't know this, when you have kids, your life changes a little. Though sometimes when your life changes slowly over time, you don't really realize how much things have changed in total. It's like the ancient Chinese proverb about the frog in the boiling water. Roughly translated using the Mandarin I have learned from watching "Ni-hao Kai Lan":

When making frog soup, or boiled frog, or if you are just some sicko who likes to boil frogs, don't just throw ole green-face in the boiling water, because he'll hop right out. But if you put the frog in cool water, and then slowly heat it, he'll swim around and not notice the water getting hotter, and then he'll eventually fall asleep and WAKE UP ONE MORNING WITH A WIFE, TWO KIDS, A DOG, TWO MORTGAGES, AND A FUCKING MINI VAN.

My Mandarin is a bit rough, but I think that's close.

The point of the story is this. I was comparing various stages of life the other weekend when talking to two friends and then looking in the mirror. One friend lives as a single bachelor in San Diego, the other has a serious girlfriend but is still living the dream in San Francisco without the weight of the kids, etc, and then there's me, who wakes up each morning like that frog in the water approaching 212 degrees. We are all about 35 years old, so how different could our lives be at this point?

It was a Cal game day, and Friend 1 had just called to explain to me the difficulties of having sex on the beach with a hot 22 year old he had just met the previous night. It's very overrated you know, piling a hot 22 year old outside, in the sand. It's uncomfortable, and that sand... so sandy. And he was tired after such a long night with such a nice girl. Yeah, it sounded like torture.

Friend number two was calling me from Raleighs five hours before kickoff in Berkeley, explaining the intricacies of the drinking game he was engaged in with another buddy. You see, whoever finished their pitcher of beer last had to stay and hold the table while the winner got to go take a leak. It had the supreme simplicity and utter genius of such famous drinking games as "Beer an Inning" or "Pass the Pitcher" or the popular variant of this game, "Pass Titash's Beer". To a guy with kids, this sounded like a dream day. OK, maybe the night with the 22-year old did too, but the beer drinking and football gameing did sound pretty damn nice.

And then there was Friend #3, who we'll call "me". At that point of the day, I had been up for about 7 hours, awaken by our dog who had some type of bowel issue. I was standing outside in my PJ's with our dog who was just poised like a damn statue in the "crapping" position, apparently unable to do the deed, but continuing to try. I was just standing there in the yard, trying to hide behind my newspaper, while my dog was apparently trying to break the modern day Crapping Time Record for Canines. Of course that's when my neighborhood arch nemesis "Nick" walked out of his house with his golf clubs, looking like he had already run a half-tri, showered, and was ready to hit the links with the boys. I said hi to Nick, and he helpfully explained that he was in fact going golfing, in case the golf clubs weren't clue enough, all the while ole Barkley kept trying to crap in various locations in my lawn. That's when I realized that there are only 2 types of guys who are up and outside at 6:15am on a Saturday: the guys about to attack 18 holes with the fellas, or the guys with the sick dog shitting all over the yard. I gave Nick my typical knowing nod, and then retreated back into the house.

Over the next several hours that morning I had the pleasure of being taught from the woman I love the finer points of safely packing crystal glasses in boxes for our imminent move to the burbs.

When 1pm rolled around and I got the updates from the boys about how their days were going and I noticed how damn hot the water had gotten in my pot. And just to be clear, I love my life and where it is... I mean who doesn't like a nice warm bath, right? It just makes you a little sleepy is all. Sooo sleepy.

Transetiquitte

2008-09-11T22:58:00.000-07:00

First things first: This post is not about the sex change operation I'm currently saving up for.

San Francisco is probably the public transit capital of the West Coast. It is possible to take public transit elsewhere, but the other cities are just too spread out and the transit systems too unreliable to really count on doing so. San Francisco's public transit system also sucks, but there are so many buses and underground trains that the failure of one doesn't screw up the system quite as much; there is probably another bus or train coming in 5 or 10 minutes, whereas in LA or San Diego you're looking at a 30-minute wait at a minimum if something goes wrong. And something usually goes wrong.

I used to be a bus commuter in San Francisco, and I expect I will be again soon. Seeing as how I lived near the beginning of the bus line, I generally got a seat on the bus, and usually a window seat. In those days, I was generally wearing a suit and tie and reading the SF Chronicle, which was a rag of a paper but it only cost $0.25. It was well worth the money for the sports page on the way in and the crossword and jumble on the way home. This is especially important for me, as I don't talk on cell phones in public. Don't get me wrong, I would love to talk on my cell phone in a public place if only someone would call me.

In my years of riding the bus (generally the 41, which was a great bus if you were looking for hot chicks in business suits with still-damp hair) I noticed that about 90% of the time, the available seat next to me was the last available seat that was taken before people had to stand. And I kept the newspaper in my lap, rather than try the old "lay it on the seat next to me so no one will sit down" trick. Further, when someone did sit down it was generally a guy, although the bus was usually pretty evenly split between males and females. I never did figure out why this was, but I do have a theory. Four theories, actually, if you count the Baldwin Dick Theory, which has no application here.

Theory One (The Southwest Airlines Theory): If people are given a choice of seats, the last seat to be taken will be the middle seat between two fat guys. As applied here, I am kind of a big dude. Not gigantic, but larger than average and fairly broad. Call it 6'2" and 210lbs, and (at the moment) not at all chubby. The point being that I am broad enough to protrude sideways into the seat next to me a bit. Even when wearing pants. So, when someone is walking down the aisle looking for a seat, unless they are a small person chances are if they sit next to me they'll either have to sit partially in the aisle, or they will have to sit and be touching me. I'm pretty against being leaned against or touched in public by strangers (unless by a hot stranger, or by The Stranger), and I assume others feel the same way. This theory might not entirely hold water though, because I am by no means way larger than all other guys on the 41. That is, unless I happen to be heading back to the Marina in the evening and the bus is also carrying R2D2 and a bunch of Ewoks for a late meeting at LucasArts. I am probably in the Top 3 or so on any given trip, but it still doesn't explain why my seat fills up last. Could it be something about me, specifically? Well, that brings us to...

Theory Two (The Evil Eye Theory): Some people have told me I should smile more. In this context, "some people" means everyone I know, plus a fair number of strangers on the street. Granted, I do smile more now that I have started bleaching my teeth (and I highly recommend you do this - the Whitestrips in the store work fine, but be prepared to have to keep using them), but I am also apparently a bit of a scowler. I know I do it when I am concentrating on something, like when a problem is being explained to me and I am trying to follow it (I am a visual person - I can't look at the person while they are explaining the problem to me or I will stop listening and start concentrating on things on their face). So it is possible that I am scowling while reading about how crappy the A's, Giants, Niners or Raiders are, or when I am trying to come up with a four-letter word for "Internet Collection of Useless Posts About Trivial Subjects." Maybe this scowl communicates "American Psycho" to those around me, which would explain why it is usually a dude who bites the bullet and sits next to me.

Theory Three (The Intimidation Factor): Let's just face it - I am so damned good looking that people are afraid to sit next to me. The hottest girl in the room is the loneliest girl in the room - other chicks think she's a bitch and don't like being her friend because they don't want to compete with her, and dudes think she is out of their league. Similarly, I am the loneliest dude on the bus. Men want to be me, and women want to be with me. Now, I am approached by women fairly frequently, but it is usually at a bar after they have had a few cups of the Liquid Courage (or if you prefer, the Loudmouth Soup or Social Lubricant), and are not in such an enclosed space where their neighbors, co-workers and co-commuters will be able to hear everything as I reject them, and will go on to discuss that at the water cooler all day instead of the latest episode of The Hills or Dancing with the D-List Pseudo-Celebrities.

I've given the above theories considerable thought, created a spreadsheet and analyzed the raw data, and I don't see how the answer could be anything but Theory Three. Some would say that my score of 4.7 on "Hot or Not" argues against Theory Three being correct, but everyone knows that only ugly, petty and jealous people visit that website. So, in a bit of Schadenfreude those ugly, jealous, petty bitches gave me a low score that doesn't at all reflect reality. I'm going with Theory Three and I think its perfectly reasonable to do so. I know what you're thinking, and no, the "Maybe It's Because You Stink" Postulate doesn't apply here - this happens to me on the morning "just showered and brushed my teeth" ride as well as the evening "maybe the caesar salad for lunch and raw onion for a 3pm snack weren't such a hot idea" ride home.

Wow, that was quite a sidetrack, as none of the above was even the point of this post. Here is the point: Suppose you are riding the bus, all the seats are full, and you are sitting in the aisle seat. You have no relationship with the person you are sitting next to; following Standard Operating Procedure you both ignored each other when you sat down and just read whatever you had with you, continued sending text messages to someone else, or kept on listening to your iPod, much as you would on an airplane. Now, you live at the end of the bus line, so gradually the bus empties out as you go along. When a seat comes completely empty and you are still doubled up, are you supposed to get up and move to that seat? Are you being rude in doing so, tacitly making some sort of unspoken but disapproving statement about the person you were sitting next to? Or are you actually being courteous in doing so by giving the other person more space?

It seems like moving is the thing to do; strangers don't really talk to each other in public any more. Everyone is busy doing something else that doesn't involve the person next to them - it is either "leave me alone" (iPod or book) or "someone who isn't here is more important than you are" (cell phone or Blackberry). Both cases would seem to favor moving. Maybe this doesn't apply when people are faced with a common enemy and weren't expecting to have to wait - maybe their friends are there with them and they didn't bring a book or iPod - like when waiting in line to get in somewhere, or when attending a sporting event. I think people pretty much talk to those around them in these situations, but in general they do not engage other people.

I guess this leads to a bigger question - if a stranger says hello on the street, are we as a society generally happy for the sentiment, or are we suspicious of the person? I would think people would generally be suspicious, and especially so if a guy is saying hello to a girl (but if it is a girl saying hello to a guy, the guy will assume, correctly, that the girl wants to have sex with him). Is the media to blame? "Seven Bodies Found in Neighbor's Freezer" tends to make the news a heck of a lot more often than "Stranger Smiles, Says Hello and Goes On His Way." Used to be children could go door-to-door on Halloween and collect candy, and then actually eat that candy. Now we've got sanctioned trick-or-treat events at malls, and even these now occur in daylight. People just don't trust people any more. It's too bad, but it seems to be the way of the world. And now I have more apples and razor blades than I know what to do with.

Lately, I've been throwing a small wrench into this idea; I've been intentionally making small talk in semi-social situations, such as elevators and supermarket lines. I've also been intentionally farting in those situations, but that is a whole other social experiment and we've already run long here. In any event, I've found that people are generally OK with interacting, if only because it is a change from everyone ignoring everyone else. I even know a few married people whose relationships started this way: A guy starting chatting up his seat-mate after a few drinks on a Southwest flight and went on to marry her, and a girl married a guy who asked her directions on the BART train (turns out the guy knew where he was going and just wanted to chat her up, but that is another issue altogether). So these instances can have a happy result. That is, if you consider marriage to be a happy result, a conclusion about which I am still undecided.

So what does all this mean? Heck if I know. Maybe it means nothing. Maybe it means that only good-looking single people should talk to strangers in public. For me, it means that if I end up sitting next to a hot chick on the bus and she's not wearing an engagement ring, I'm going to chat her up. When the extra seat opens up, she's not going to want me to leave because she'll be engrossed in stimulating conversation about which Batman actor was the hottest, or whether Michael Phelps is attractive. If we aren't deep in conversation then I'll get up and move to the empty seat. Because that clearly means that she is a lipstick Lesbian, or that she doesn't speak English, or my version of Spanish. Or that she stinks.

Standing Pat

2008-09-08T22:30:00.000-07:00

The quarterback, widely considered to be the best in New England Patriots history, is knocked out for the season with a devastating injury. A lightly-regarded backup, who was a late-round draft pick and who has almost no live game experience, is pressed into service. The Patriots go on to win the game, but the outlook for the rest of the season appears bleak. The team will almost certainly have to rely heavily on its running game, but the running game leaves much to be desired - in the prior year, no running back approached 1,000 yards rushing or scored more than 6 TDs.

The year, of course, is 2001, and Drew Bledsoe has just suffered internal injuries from a hit by New York Jets linebacker Mo Lewis. Tom Brady took over the team and efficiently executed conservative game plans week after week. The team won 11 regular-season games and made an improbable run through the playoffs to defeat the St. Louis Rams in the Super Bowl.

Can the Patriots hope to catch lightning in a bottle again? It is true that Matt Cassel hasn't started a non-exhibition game since high school. At USC, he backed up two Heisman trophy winners, first Carson Palmer then Matt Leinart, so as far as we know he was the third best college quarterback in the country and was just stuck behind the only two players better than he was. In any event, Bill Belichick and Josh McDaniels should be able to adjust their game plan from week-to-week to play to Matt Cassel's strengths, assuming Belichick and McDaniels are able to identify any such strengths. The rest of the team is solid, though the defense may be a little suspect. Sure would be nice to have an Aaron Rodgers ready to step in, but the Pats have focused on developing other areas of the team and have pretty much neglected the backup quarterback position. One the one hand, that makes sense, as Tom Brady hadn't missed a start in something like 7 years. However, I consider that streak to be somewhat fluky, as Brady was listed as "Probable" to play each week on the team's injury report; apparently Brady has been nursing a right shoulder injury for his entire career. In NFL parlance, if a player is listed as Probable he has only a 75% chance of playing that week, so it is pretty lucky that the other 25% never happened and Brady was always able to play.
What can we really expect from Matt Cassel? Well, according to the Madden 2009 player ratings, Tom Brady and Peyton Manning are the two best QBs in the game, each with a rating of 99/100. Brady also scores a 99/100 in a stat called "Importance." I don't own the game so I don't know what that means, but I'm guessing it would be a bad thing to lose a player with an Importance rating of 99 to a major knee injury. Matt Cassel's overall Madden rating is a 76/100, so he is equally as "good" as Andrew Walter, and not as good as John Beck, who rates a 78/100. Not a whole hell of a lot to hang your hat on.

I expect the Pats will remain competitive all year, and that they will make the playoffs, perhaps with a 10-6 record. Tony Kornheiser is on record as saying the Pats without Tom Brady are the Kansas City Chiefs. Maybe that is accurate, seeing as how the Chiefs were in a position to tie Sunday's game late in the 4th quarter. But as we all know, Tony Kornheiser is an idiot who spends way too much time talking about his fantasy team. He is so bad and annoying as an announcer that I watched tonight's MNF contest between the Packers and the Vikings with the sound muted. I wish he'd go back to his day job, as co-host of ESPN's Pardon the Interruption, and then I wish he'd get fired from his day job, and then I wish he'd get hit by a bus as he is walking out of the TV studio carrying his fern and paperweights.

This news more or less ruins the NFL season for me. I am much more interested in the NFL than in any other sport, and much more interested in the Pats than in any other team. I even got a new Pats shirt for the season. I'll still root for the Pats, and will still watch them while wearing the new shirt, but it will be hard to get as emotionally invested in this season, especially since I was a little tentative after attending last season's shocking Super Bowl loss. And I can take no solace in my primary fantasy football team this year. Not only did I draft a terrible team, but I drafted a terrible team full of players I dislike. My team in my brother's league is much better, but my first round draft pick in that league was one Thomas Edward Patrick Brady, so you can imagine how that season is going to go.

Some vaguely interesting ideas have been floated about, such as Daunte Culpepper signing with the Patriots. However, we need to think a little more outside the box here. The Patriots need to re-sign Drew Bledsoe and name him the starter. Drew's only been out of the league for a year and he's only 36, so he's probably not in terrible physical shape. Then, Belichick and McDaniels will call only passing plays and will instruct the offensive linemen not to actually block anyone (i.e. the coaches should tell all the offensive linemen whatever they told Matt Light before the Super Bowl last year). When Drew Bledsoe gets hurt, Matt Cassel will become a star. After all, it worked for Tom Brady and Tony Romo.

P.S. I'm guessing this guy is having second thoughts, or if he's really hardcore he's scheduling elective reconstructive knee surgery:

Vice Piece of Ass

2008-08-31T02:15:00.000-07:00

Am home from a night out at the bars. I didn't bring anyone home, which is kind of the exception and not the rule these days. But you probably figured that out, since I am blogging at this hour. Not sure if I have the stones to blog in front of a chick... I have heard that nerds are the new jocks, will need to get back to you on that one.

Am sticking with The Plan: drink a can or two of Lo-Carb Monster and only have a couple of beers - keeps me high energy enough to engage drunk people, but sober enough to do good work. Had my A-Game tonight (per the usual), but wasted it on some C-Level girls (per the semi-usual - must re-evaluate strategy). These chicks were friends of an acquaintance, and they were lawyers, and I felt compelled to try and entertain all three of them. Sadly, these weren't the fun type of lawyers who hit the bottle hard when they're out of the office. Rather, they were the stick-in-the-mud lawyers who don't drink at all and look down on the glitter and belly-shirt set. I look down on those types of girls as well, particularly down on their D'ecolletages. Being tall has its advantages. If you have the means, I highly recommend it. Hang upside-down from a bar in your closet, Bobby Brady-Style, if you must.
You may have heard that John McCain picked his running mate. Some chick from Alaska, possibly an Eskimo chief, named Sarah Palin. Bold move, picking a chick. I guess it might help Republican chances with the estranged Hilary Democrats, and shows a hint of progressiveness from the GOP. I also understand that she is pretty much a hard-line conservative, which I suppose is intended to help garner the support of the right-wing GOP base who may feel McCain is too much of a middle-of-the-road Maverick. Personally, I don't think McCain needs to pander to the right-wing base - I suspect they'll come out and vote for McCain to prevent Obama from winning, regardless of whether they actually want to vote for McCain. I also think there will be a high Republican turnout for this election, for the simple fact that a lot of people in the flyover states will get out and vote McCain to prevent a black President from being elected. Unfortunate in this day and age, but probably accurate. I assume these same people would resist having a woman in office, but I guess McCain's analysts determined that a female Vice President is a lesser evil than a black President. I guess these same analysts have also determined its OK for McCain to choose a running mate who is significantly more attractive than the woman McCain was recently accused of having an affair with.

Now, I don't know a damn thing about politics, so feel free to disregard that last paragraph, nay, this entire blog, as nonsensical rubbish. Let's get down to brass tacks. I Googled this Sarah Palin chick. Now maybe its the beer and associated friskiness, maybe its the fact that I made the mistake of taking the trolley part of the way home to save a few bucks and to possibly run into drunk, poor chicks, or maybe its the fact that I do feel a soul-crushing loneliness from time-to-time that comes with being eternally single, but I got to thinking [CUT TO INTERIOR, BRAIN: SHOT OF HAMSTER HALF-HEARTEDLY RUNNING ON WHEEL] - is this Sarah Palin chick hot?
Don't be fooled by the official photographs that are out there. They're intentionally trying to underplay Palin's hotness - remember, they tried this with Rachael Leigh Cook in "She's All That" by putting glasses on her, pulling her hair back and dressing her in baggy, frumpy clothes. We weren't fooled then, and we won't be fooled now - this chick was runner-up in the Miss Alaska pageant in 1984, and is more than hanging in there at age 44. Maybe the country is ready for a female Vice President. Maybe it isn't. But I am pretty sure the country isn't ready for this Cougarrific female Vice President. Suppose I'm the Iraqi ambassador to the United Nations, and I'm meeting with the Vice President to discuss the security situation in Iraq. Am I going to be concentrating on what Vice President Palin is saying while I'm half-expecting one of the Secret Service bodyguards to produce a boom box while the Vice President shakes out her hair and starts gyrating to "Pour Some Sugar on Me"? Will European heads of state start paying more attention to the Dollar-to-Euro exchange rate so they'll know which denomination of Euro would be appropriate to slide into the Vice President's G-string? (Note to European heads of state: $1 = 0.68 Euro as of this writing - go with a full Eurodollar and you'll score points for being a big spender.) If the McCain-Palin ticket does win, I hope her advisors are smart enough to advise Miss Palin to dust off the F*ck Me Boots from the above photo for the really important meetings.

Cal Football Preview

2008-08-28T11:56:00.000-07:00

Every year, the fantastic mind of Titash Bardhan breaks down the Cal football team, and it's upcoming season in tremendous detail. He blesses the world by documenting these thoughts in a Cal Football Preview, a manifest of his passion and insight. You may have heard of Mr. Bardhan, now very famous for such diverse works as "T's Cal Football Preview 2007", "T's Cal Football Preview 2006", and "2006 Cal Football Game Notes: Arizona State Game Notes."

For this year's Cal Football Preview, go to T's Cal Football Home Page and enjoy.

GO BEARS.

What Happened in Vegas

2008-08-25T23:18:00.000-07:00

The Happiest Place on Earth may or may not be Disneyland, but it sure as shootin' ain't the Southwest Airlines terminal at McCarran airport on a Sunday afternoon. Some suggestions for the Southwest marketing department: "The Crappiest Place on Earth," "The Best Place on Earth to Find Angry Degenerates in Wife Beaters Who Just Lost Money They Couldn't Afford to Lose." Note to Southwest - go ahead and include the royalty checks for these slogans in the same envelope with my Rapid Rewards statement.

Speaking of marketing slogans, "What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas" has pretty well been beaten to death by the Vegas Chamber of Commerce and by apparently being the title of a recent RomCom. The slogan may be tired, but I think the concept still applies. Therefore, I will not be blogging about my trip to Vegas this past weekend. For the most part, that is - the following is a true Vegas story from the weekend, expressed in song:

[To the Tune of "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers]

On a warm summer's evening
in Vegas at the Westin
I sat next to the Gambler,
he was too drunk to speak.
So we took turns a-starin'
as the dealer turned up blackjacks,
but when his cocktail glass was empty,
he began to speak.

He said "Bro, I've read a book
'bout basic blackjack strategy.
I know when to double down
or split a pair of fives.
So if you don't mind me sayin'
I've been cut off by the waitress.
See that Asshole playing first base?
I'll give him some advice."

So I motioned to the waitress
and mouthed the words "Coors Cutter,"
the Gambler stared at Asshole
as he stayed on soft sixteen.
The room got deathly quiet
as the Gambler's eyes went glassy
"If you're gonna play the game, Asshole,
stop playin' like a queen."

Then I heard him say:

"You gotta know when to hit 'em,
know when to split 'em.
Stop playing like an Asshole,
you give Americans a bad name.
I just bet this guy eight dollars
that I'll fight you in the alley.
Now crush out your cigarette,
you're an Asshole and you're lame."

Then down sat a new player
from New York, and with dreadlocks.
He was pleasant company,
did not play like a fool.
But the Gambler he was drinkin'
and thinkin' he was clever,
called dreadlock guy "Warm-io"
'cause he didn't look that Cool.

Then the Gambler, he decided
I should hook up with the pit boss.
She was high-mileage, forty-eight,
and that is being kind.
The Gambler waves her over,
tells her I'm rich, in real estate.
If the pit boss had been younger,
I guess I wouldn't mind.

Then I heard him say:

"You gotta know when to hit 'em,
know when to split 'em,
take even money on a blackjack,
or double down for less.
You never order Alabama Slammers
when you're sittin' at the table -
now they'll only bring me coffee,
must've slurred the words I guess."

"You gotta know when to hit 'em,
know when to split 'em,
take even money on a blackjack,
or double down for less.
Your never order Alabama Slammers
when you're sittin' at the table -
now they'll only bring me coffee,
must've slurred the words I guess."