Nets All Tangled 03.07.03
*yes this is sports related*
There are few things I love more than being right. Well, let’s see. There is chocolate pudding, pretending to be the tough guy, stories so long they’re indulgent, scoring in softball, high-wire writing, dragon stout beer, and spunky women. Nah, that’s a lie. I love being right more than all of that put together and wrapped in red bows.
I think about this as I watch the Sixers play the Trailblazers, this just after the Nets are eviscerated again, tonight by the San Antonio Spurs. The Nets simply cannot score. Their defense could be a little tighter; but the real problem is that they cannot score unless they are running the fast break. It was the same ineffective half court plodding last year, even as they made the finals.
But the scoring has taken a flaming nosedive. And I said it would! I did! I thought it was bull-cookies that the team and the media were piling on Keith Van Horn, the man who routinely scored the team’s first 15 points until he was adjusted for. He could have scored the team’s last 15 points… but at least he could score in a variety of ways, which is impressive for a man who spent four collegiate years (a young man’s, ah, peak) in Utah.
There is no way you could take Van Horn out of the offense and replace him. Not in points per game. Not in the numbers. But in the things Keith could do. In the quality of shots the team creates in the half court and in the running game.
Last year, Keith Van Horn would take shots in the high post, left open, waving a skinny long hand. He was a threat in the post. A threat out on the wing for a big man to guard, taking that defender away from rebounding duties. Opening up the lanes. And Todd MacCullough would clean up the garbage. The shooting guards had time and room to shoot, and less pressure to do so.
Now, those shooting guards (Kittles + Harris) are both elbow-deep in shooting slumps. The Van Horn replacement was to be Rodney Rogers (and his fat barrel belly. That comes free with the contract.) but he doesn’t have the ability to score in bunches like the supposedly inept/ deficient/ downy pillow soft Van Horn could. The center is Jason Collins, not the injured Dikembe Mutumbo.
And while Richard Jefferson and Kenyon Martin are now free to tear the orange off the rims and lay waste to people on the defensive end, sometimes in basketball people have to SCORE. Lanes can be clogged, drives can be halted. Jump shots are sometimes taken. I’ve seen it on television. It would help if those aforementioned players actually laid people to waste on the defensive end too. They look cooler than Van Horn, with the bald heads and the dunking, but still. I want to see blood, wincing, pain!
From the Nets, we get reaching, bricks, Jason Kidd shooting a whole lot, Richard Jefferson looking tired like he parties with Mr. November, Derek Jeter. For God’s sake, I want to see Dikembe again and not just for his quotables and his voice-- a cross between a smiling African phone sex operator and tires over gravel. He actually, while not understanding the offense and looking five steps slower, was more effective than Jason Collins and Aaron Williams. Besides, you never know when you’ll get the finger wagging.
I just want someone who can play. No, I just want someone who can nail his shots to complement the drives of Jefferson/ Martin/ Kidd. And being me more joy than pudding and dragon stout.
P.S. I lied. I like spunky women as much as being right.
Friday, March 07, 2003
Thursday, March 06, 2003
White Page 03.06.03
All right. Who’s in charge of this weather thing? Who didn’t read the “no snow in the Lenten season” post? I’d better stretch; got some shoveling to do.
All right. Who’s in charge of this weather thing? Who didn’t read the “no snow in the Lenten season” post? I’d better stretch; got some shoveling to do.
Tuesday, March 04, 2003
Bloated Lollipop Balloons, Late Winter 03.04.03
I feel so bloated. Like a rotund little ball-boy in a chair, typing. I don't know if my fingers and arms can overcome the immense gravity of my stomach. Processing eggs and a large cinnamon danish and coffee. Glad I laid off the pancakes. I would be lolling about the floor, gripping my tum-tum and wondering if this is what if feels to be inverted, to become a black hole. I mean, at least I didn't eat two Corner Bistro burgers at 3.30 in the morning. I'd still be feeling it. I'd be praying for flatulence as a relief.
As is, my belly feels larger than I remember it; my rib cage is probably actually in retreat as we speak. An outcome I have been hoping for, yet not accompanied with this feeling, this weight. I want wings. And hollow bones. And flight. A trampoline would temporarily do in this case.
Coupled with today's inability to tie my own laces properly-- they came undone not once, not twice, but about six times in a six block walk--I am destined to pull a Pixel and fall in some utterly comic manner. I think, really, it is my boots. They are tired of being worn on a daily basis, as I have had to this winter. They are not used to such exercise, to still stepping over blackened (as if by pepper) fillets of snow on grass, on sidewalks, on dirt, on top of empty bottles of Hennessey.
The boots are also heavy. I'd like ballet slippers with my wings, please.
I feel so bloated. Like a rotund little ball-boy in a chair, typing. I don't know if my fingers and arms can overcome the immense gravity of my stomach. Processing eggs and a large cinnamon danish and coffee. Glad I laid off the pancakes. I would be lolling about the floor, gripping my tum-tum and wondering if this is what if feels to be inverted, to become a black hole. I mean, at least I didn't eat two Corner Bistro burgers at 3.30 in the morning. I'd still be feeling it. I'd be praying for flatulence as a relief.
As is, my belly feels larger than I remember it; my rib cage is probably actually in retreat as we speak. An outcome I have been hoping for, yet not accompanied with this feeling, this weight. I want wings. And hollow bones. And flight. A trampoline would temporarily do in this case.
Coupled with today's inability to tie my own laces properly-- they came undone not once, not twice, but about six times in a six block walk--I am destined to pull a Pixel and fall in some utterly comic manner. I think, really, it is my boots. They are tired of being worn on a daily basis, as I have had to this winter. They are not used to such exercise, to still stepping over blackened (as if by pepper) fillets of snow on grass, on sidewalks, on dirt, on top of empty bottles of Hennessey.
The boots are also heavy. I'd like ballet slippers with my wings, please.
Nudist Colony Queens, Free of Wings 03.04.03
I have recently been told that my blogs focus a bit more on sports than they perhaps should. I understand this; I respect the opinions of my fellow blog-nerds and reading audience.
But I was thinking about this fact while tying my shoes for the fourth time this morning, bent over on a street, hoping no out of control cars would come careening for my glory-hole. What do I feel about this? Of course, on the surface is the first amendment right to free speech, saying whatever comes to mind-- so aptly glorified in the blog-world. But I am no constitutionalist.
And there is my extreme interest in trying to touch other people with what I love about sport-- the stories, the glory, the magic, the ethos, the good fortune, the bad luck, all on paper. While sometimes I feel I have approached success, and sometimes I have written bland recaps, I still have to say-- I am no athletic department booster.
There came the thought, this while I adjusted my body for another soul-searching shoelace-tying session, that diaries are an opportunity for us to stand naked before ourselves. Then, in turn, this blog-- a public diary-- is an opportunity for us to stand semi-nude to nude in front of friends and strangers who might ogle us from afar, who might admire our words and our lives, and might one day tell us they want to "fuck our minds" (again, thank you-- great compliment).
Isn't that what we want, all of us? Along with some body-fucking, of course. To be a little bit amazing. To be proud of our naked selves? To be able to express our naked selves? Even when we cover it up in parties and tales of our friends and our sightings, we are dutifully exposing a little bit of shoulder to view. Or a little more, in some cases. I won't uphold those statements as universally true and correct, I haven't done the research. But it comes down to this for me-- I am no nudist.
Which is a problem, in my mind. Not only when I want to flash famous people on 57th Street. But in general. I don't know anyone who is truly comfortable stripping down to nothing and standing in front of anyone else, in a non-sexual setting. Well, there are sports stars... but let's not get into that.
I certainly do not have that comfort level. This is still a shy Pico. And this means that Pico is unwilling or perhaps unable to expose himself in many facets. One of which is in the blog. Unfortunate. This means that the subject manner is reduced to sport, occassional social activities (please invite me to parties! Oh, pleeeease!), and the occasional political yammering. But... I am no nudist.
I love the fact that people are reading these musings, and I love reading about other people's lives. It's a thrill to entertain somebody in the course of their day. It's a thrill for them to think, momentarily, that I should write about sport or try to publish this cockamamie novel of mine, or that I am a riot or a trip and that I should never change being me. No matter how much I would like to strip down and find out who the hell me is, beyond sometimes wanting to be the Amusatron for a New Generation.
One day, maybe, when I become light and airy and have installed my wings software to operate my Hewlett-Packard wings-- I don't use Macs-- I will reveal a great many things. I would like to. Not for everyone else. For me. As an operation. As an attempt. To find out what I am so afraid of. To show a little shoulder, a little leg, and-- catch your breath for a second-- we'll take it from there.
I have recently been told that my blogs focus a bit more on sports than they perhaps should. I understand this; I respect the opinions of my fellow blog-nerds and reading audience.
But I was thinking about this fact while tying my shoes for the fourth time this morning, bent over on a street, hoping no out of control cars would come careening for my glory-hole. What do I feel about this? Of course, on the surface is the first amendment right to free speech, saying whatever comes to mind-- so aptly glorified in the blog-world. But I am no constitutionalist.
And there is my extreme interest in trying to touch other people with what I love about sport-- the stories, the glory, the magic, the ethos, the good fortune, the bad luck, all on paper. While sometimes I feel I have approached success, and sometimes I have written bland recaps, I still have to say-- I am no athletic department booster.
There came the thought, this while I adjusted my body for another soul-searching shoelace-tying session, that diaries are an opportunity for us to stand naked before ourselves. Then, in turn, this blog-- a public diary-- is an opportunity for us to stand semi-nude to nude in front of friends and strangers who might ogle us from afar, who might admire our words and our lives, and might one day tell us they want to "fuck our minds" (again, thank you-- great compliment).
Isn't that what we want, all of us? Along with some body-fucking, of course. To be a little bit amazing. To be proud of our naked selves? To be able to express our naked selves? Even when we cover it up in parties and tales of our friends and our sightings, we are dutifully exposing a little bit of shoulder to view. Or a little more, in some cases. I won't uphold those statements as universally true and correct, I haven't done the research. But it comes down to this for me-- I am no nudist.
Which is a problem, in my mind. Not only when I want to flash famous people on 57th Street. But in general. I don't know anyone who is truly comfortable stripping down to nothing and standing in front of anyone else, in a non-sexual setting. Well, there are sports stars... but let's not get into that.
I certainly do not have that comfort level. This is still a shy Pico. And this means that Pico is unwilling or perhaps unable to expose himself in many facets. One of which is in the blog. Unfortunate. This means that the subject manner is reduced to sport, occassional social activities (please invite me to parties! Oh, pleeeease!), and the occasional political yammering. But... I am no nudist.
I love the fact that people are reading these musings, and I love reading about other people's lives. It's a thrill to entertain somebody in the course of their day. It's a thrill for them to think, momentarily, that I should write about sport or try to publish this cockamamie novel of mine, or that I am a riot or a trip and that I should never change being me. No matter how much I would like to strip down and find out who the hell me is, beyond sometimes wanting to be the Amusatron for a New Generation.
One day, maybe, when I become light and airy and have installed my wings software to operate my Hewlett-Packard wings-- I don't use Macs-- I will reveal a great many things. I would like to. Not for everyone else. For me. As an operation. As an attempt. To find out what I am so afraid of. To show a little shoulder, a little leg, and-- catch your breath for a second-- we'll take it from there.
Wednesday, February 26, 2003
Two From Harper's 2.26.03
From Harper's Online:
President Bush dismissed last week's worldwide antiwar protests, which some estimate were the largest in human history, and said they would have no effect. "Size of protest — it's like deciding, well, I'm going to decide policy based on a focus group." The president said that he was unwilling to give Saddam "another, 'nother, 'nother last chance," and observed that "evidently, some of the world don't view Saddam Hussein as a risk to peace."
Yeah, dude. Like your constituents. But obviously, Papa Bush, you'll do what best for us. Read us a bedtime story, papa. Fill it with lies about how the world should be under the spurs of our bootheel.
Harper's Index, January 2003
Number of U.S. presidents since 1860 whose party controlled both houses of Congress by the third year of their first term : 12
Number of these presidents whose party already controlled both houses : 10
Number whose bid for reelection failed : 1
Chances that a U.S. House or Senate race last year was won by the candidate whose campaign spent the most : 9 in 10
Number of "third" parties whose candidates won state legislative seats last year : 5
Portion of the eight seats they won accounted for by Progressive Party candidates in Vermont : 1/2
Number of states that use nonpartisan commissions to draw new congressional districts : 6
Number of Louisiana's last three elected insurance commissioners convicted of corruption : 3
Percentage change since 1998 in the number of federal convictions for health-care fraud : +43
Chance that a drug dose prescribed to a U.S. hospital patient is either administered improperly or forgotten : 1 in 5
Chances that a Rwandan woman raped during the 1994 genocide is now HIV-positive : 2 in 3
Estimated number of women killed as witches in Tanzania each year : 500
Ratio of Americans killed by Timothy McVeigh and the D.C. snipers to those killed in Gulf War combat : 5:4
Ratio of kilotonnage of U.S. bombs dropped during the Gulf War to that of the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima : 7:1
Number of countries that supplied both sides during the Iran-Iraq war : 10
Number of these that are among the world's five largest arms-manufacturing countries : 4
Percentage of federal discretionary spending in 2001 devoted to "homeland security" or the Department of Defense : 51
Percentage of the $1.1 trillion in Iraqi oil contracts that are held by French or Russian companies : 69
Price charged by a Ukrainian company for a half-day tour of the Chernobyl nuclear-plant site : $460
Number of years that a former Union Carbide factory in Bhopal, India, has been leaking toxic chemicals : 18
Estimated number of people who have died there since then as a result : 20,000
Years since criminal charges were filed against him in 1991 that Union Carbide's former CEO has been in hiding : 11
Ratio of net profit earned by U.S. airlines since 1970 to federal subsidies given the industry since September 2001 : 1:1
Minimum number of box cutters taken from U.S. airline passengers since last February : 34,777
Minutes that a Massachusetts surgeon left a patient with an open incision in July while he went to deposit a check : 35
Chance that a doctor laughs along with a patient's laughter : 1 in 10
Chances that a doctor shows no response : 7 in 10
Percentage of Gulf War veterans reporting chronic postwar symptoms who share a single bacterial infection : 40
Minimum number of locals hired to act as Arabs heckling U.S. troops during an army war game in California last year : 15
Number of Arabic linguists fired by the U.S. Army since August for being gay : 7
Retail price Mattel suggests that toy stores assign its Lingerie Barbie, dressed in "merry widow" or "peek-a-boo" style : $45
Percentage change since 1990 in the number of U.S. schoolchildren labeled "disabled" : +37
Percentage of U.S. high schools receiving federal aid whose students' contact information the army sought last fall : 100
Average amount of aid each school district stands to lose if its schools do not supply the information : $762,083
Page of the No Child Left Behind education law passed last year on which this new requirement is noted : 559
Rank of Michael Moore's Stupid White Men among the New York Times's top "business" bestsellers in September : 1
Years after rapper Chuck D called Elvis Presley "straight-out racist" that he claimed "a great deal of respect" for him : 14
Factor by which the number of Americans who have "tried to impersonate Elvis" exceeds the population of Tennessee : 3
Rank of Mom, Dad, and Rudolph Giuliani among those whom recent college graduates say they most wish to emulate : 1, 2, 3
Chances that a U.S. adult does not want to live to be 120 under any circumstances : 2 in 3
From Harper's Online:
President Bush dismissed last week's worldwide antiwar protests, which some estimate were the largest in human history, and said they would have no effect. "Size of protest — it's like deciding, well, I'm going to decide policy based on a focus group." The president said that he was unwilling to give Saddam "another, 'nother, 'nother last chance," and observed that "evidently, some of the world don't view Saddam Hussein as a risk to peace."
Yeah, dude. Like your constituents. But obviously, Papa Bush, you'll do what best for us. Read us a bedtime story, papa. Fill it with lies about how the world should be under the spurs of our bootheel.
Number of U.S. presidents since 1860 whose party controlled both houses of Congress by the third year of their first term : 12
Number of these presidents whose party already controlled both houses : 10
Number whose bid for reelection failed : 1
Chances that a U.S. House or Senate race last year was won by the candidate whose campaign spent the most : 9 in 10
Number of "third" parties whose candidates won state legislative seats last year : 5
Portion of the eight seats they won accounted for by Progressive Party candidates in Vermont : 1/2
Number of states that use nonpartisan commissions to draw new congressional districts : 6
Number of Louisiana's last three elected insurance commissioners convicted of corruption : 3
Percentage change since 1998 in the number of federal convictions for health-care fraud : +43
Chance that a drug dose prescribed to a U.S. hospital patient is either administered improperly or forgotten : 1 in 5
Chances that a Rwandan woman raped during the 1994 genocide is now HIV-positive : 2 in 3
Estimated number of women killed as witches in Tanzania each year : 500
Ratio of Americans killed by Timothy McVeigh and the D.C. snipers to those killed in Gulf War combat : 5:4
Ratio of kilotonnage of U.S. bombs dropped during the Gulf War to that of the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima : 7:1
Number of countries that supplied both sides during the Iran-Iraq war : 10
Number of these that are among the world's five largest arms-manufacturing countries : 4
Percentage of federal discretionary spending in 2001 devoted to "homeland security" or the Department of Defense : 51
Percentage of the $1.1 trillion in Iraqi oil contracts that are held by French or Russian companies : 69
Price charged by a Ukrainian company for a half-day tour of the Chernobyl nuclear-plant site : $460
Number of years that a former Union Carbide factory in Bhopal, India, has been leaking toxic chemicals : 18
Estimated number of people who have died there since then as a result : 20,000
Years since criminal charges were filed against him in 1991 that Union Carbide's former CEO has been in hiding : 11
Ratio of net profit earned by U.S. airlines since 1970 to federal subsidies given the industry since September 2001 : 1:1
Minimum number of box cutters taken from U.S. airline passengers since last February : 34,777
Minutes that a Massachusetts surgeon left a patient with an open incision in July while he went to deposit a check : 35
Chance that a doctor laughs along with a patient's laughter : 1 in 10
Chances that a doctor shows no response : 7 in 10
Percentage of Gulf War veterans reporting chronic postwar symptoms who share a single bacterial infection : 40
Minimum number of locals hired to act as Arabs heckling U.S. troops during an army war game in California last year : 15
Number of Arabic linguists fired by the U.S. Army since August for being gay : 7
Retail price Mattel suggests that toy stores assign its Lingerie Barbie, dressed in "merry widow" or "peek-a-boo" style : $45
Percentage change since 1990 in the number of U.S. schoolchildren labeled "disabled" : +37
Percentage of U.S. high schools receiving federal aid whose students' contact information the army sought last fall : 100
Average amount of aid each school district stands to lose if its schools do not supply the information : $762,083
Page of the No Child Left Behind education law passed last year on which this new requirement is noted : 559
Rank of Michael Moore's Stupid White Men among the New York Times's top "business" bestsellers in September : 1
Years after rapper Chuck D called Elvis Presley "straight-out racist" that he claimed "a great deal of respect" for him : 14
Factor by which the number of Americans who have "tried to impersonate Elvis" exceeds the population of Tennessee : 3
Rank of Mom, Dad, and Rudolph Giuliani among those whom recent college graduates say they most wish to emulate : 1, 2, 3
Chances that a U.S. adult does not want to live to be 120 under any circumstances : 2 in 3
Yao Da Man! 2.26.03
You see him on the TV show, hear it on the radio. America loves Yao Ming, Houston Rockets' center. The NBA loves him too. He comes to an arena and it's like Jordan and New Year rolled into one 7 foot and 6 inch blue and red striped package. Take this bit from Lisa Olsen's NY Daily News article:
Other, lesser arenas felt the need to manufacture well-meaning yet oddly ignorant promotions when Yao came to town. Miami handed out fortune cookies, Orlando set up sushi stands. New York laid out a simple welcome mat woven from its lustrous past.
Fortune cookies are kind of... ignorant. Or silly and pandering. But sushi?! Is there even imported sushi in China? I don't think so... but then again, I don't eat sushi, so perhaps I wasn't paying attention. What, they couldn't get the discount coupons from Hunan Wok? Or get this assclown to entertain the crowd at half time?
You see him on the TV show, hear it on the radio. America loves Yao Ming, Houston Rockets' center. The NBA loves him too. He comes to an arena and it's like Jordan and New Year rolled into one 7 foot and 6 inch blue and red striped package. Take this bit from Lisa Olsen's NY Daily News article:
Other, lesser arenas felt the need to manufacture well-meaning yet oddly ignorant promotions when Yao came to town. Miami handed out fortune cookies, Orlando set up sushi stands. New York laid out a simple welcome mat woven from its lustrous past.
Fortune cookies are kind of... ignorant. Or silly and pandering. But sushi?! Is there even imported sushi in China? I don't think so... but then again, I don't eat sushi, so perhaps I wasn't paying attention. What, they couldn't get the discount coupons from Hunan Wok? Or get this assclown to entertain the crowd at half time?
Chocolate Ooh 2.26.03
I hate it when I am foiled by advertising. Though the web address makes you think "porn," or "Dirty Sanchez," it's not. I really want one of these Hershey's t-shirts. I think it'll be the cool acoutrement that brings me friendships, money, and booty out the proverbial ying-yang.
I hate it when I am foiled by advertising. Though the web address makes you think "porn," or "Dirty Sanchez," it's not. I really want one of these Hershey's t-shirts. I think it'll be the cool acoutrement that brings me friendships, money, and booty out the proverbial ying-yang.
If You Got A Problem... 2.26.03
New Top will solve it. I'll solve it too, but with more bloodshed and less style than this master.
New Top will solve it. I'll solve it too, but with more bloodshed and less style than this master.
Monday, February 24, 2003
Football's Draft is Two Months Away 2.24.03
You know how negative comments/ predictions are often prefaced with "I hope I'm wrong, but..."? Well, I hope I'm right. Because this looks like a no-brainer.
I'm talking about Carson Palmer. This guy comes out of high school, highly rated, steps on the USC field and simply stinks up the place for two and a half years. One good half year under Pete Carroll and an accidental Heisman trophy later, he's tabbed to be the first pick in the draft over a guy who I don't think ever had a very bad performance in Byron Leftwich.
I look at Palmer and I see a guy who got great protection in his last year, had an excellent defense, and capitalized on it. He's a big guy, six foot six, immobile, good arm. This translates into "he'll be killed in the pros." Unless he gets, again, great protection. Here is a telling quote, from Peter King's page on cnnsi.com:
"I believe Palmer does not radiate the leadership and command in the huddle that teams would like to see. I have concerns about his poise under pressure at times. ... Palmer lacks a quick arm, and the ball does not explode out of his hand the way teams would like to see and do see with an Elway or a Michael Vick. Palmer is a very streaky thrower. ... He does not read, react, or sense the rush as quickly as is desired, and he makes far too many boneheaded decisions."
--The late (and highly respected) draft analyst Joel Buchsbaum, writing about the consensus No. 1 pick in the upcoming NFL draft, USC quarterback Carson Palmer, in his fall 2002 Pro Football Weekly draft prospects manual
His decisionmaking got better... I guess. But I never saw the ball rocket out of his hands. I never saw anything one could call "quickness." And he's only done it for a f--kin' year. With an excellent defense to back him up. With better talent around him than 85% of the teams USC played. This is not the man to lift a franchise with below average talent in the Cincinnatti Bungles, I mean, Bengals.
You know how negative comments/ predictions are often prefaced with "I hope I'm wrong, but..."? Well, I hope I'm right. Because this looks like a no-brainer.
I'm talking about Carson Palmer. This guy comes out of high school, highly rated, steps on the USC field and simply stinks up the place for two and a half years. One good half year under Pete Carroll and an accidental Heisman trophy later, he's tabbed to be the first pick in the draft over a guy who I don't think ever had a very bad performance in Byron Leftwich.
I look at Palmer and I see a guy who got great protection in his last year, had an excellent defense, and capitalized on it. He's a big guy, six foot six, immobile, good arm. This translates into "he'll be killed in the pros." Unless he gets, again, great protection. Here is a telling quote, from Peter King's page on cnnsi.com:
"I believe Palmer does not radiate the leadership and command in the huddle that teams would like to see. I have concerns about his poise under pressure at times. ... Palmer lacks a quick arm, and the ball does not explode out of his hand the way teams would like to see and do see with an Elway or a Michael Vick. Palmer is a very streaky thrower. ... He does not read, react, or sense the rush as quickly as is desired, and he makes far too many boneheaded decisions."
--The late (and highly respected) draft analyst Joel Buchsbaum, writing about the consensus No. 1 pick in the upcoming NFL draft, USC quarterback Carson Palmer, in his fall 2002 Pro Football Weekly draft prospects manual
His decisionmaking got better... I guess. But I never saw the ball rocket out of his hands. I never saw anything one could call "quickness." And he's only done it for a f--kin' year. With an excellent defense to back him up. With better talent around him than 85% of the teams USC played. This is not the man to lift a franchise with below average talent in the Cincinnatti Bungles, I mean, Bengals.
No, Really. 2.24.03
from Yahoo News/ the Associated Press:
Overboard Shoes Drifting Toward Alaska
Mon Feb 24, 9:09 AM ET
ANCHORAGE - Thousands of pairs of Nike basketball shoes are washing up on beaches from Washington State to Alaska after spilling from a container ship in Northern California.
There's just one hitch to finding a free pair.
"Nike forgot to tie the laces, so you have to find mates," said Dr. Curtis Ebbesmeyer, an oceanographer who tracks sneakers, toys and other flotsam across the sea. "The effort's worth it 'cause these Nikes have only been adrift a few months. All 33,000 are wearable!"
A beachcomber told Ebbesmeyer about the shoe spill after finding two new blue-and-white EZW men's shoes washed up near Queets on Washington's Olympic Peninsula on Jan. 9 and 16.
Unfortunately, they were sizes 10 1/2 and 8 1/2. Both were lefts.
A little research by Ebbesmeyer confirmed that a ship lost cargo Dec. 15 during a storm off Cape Mendocino, including three 40-foot containers each carrying an estimated 5,500 pairs of shoes.
"Nikes will be soon in your neck of the sea," Ebbesmeyer said in an e-mail message to the Anchorage Daily News last week. "Only two have been found, so your readers can be amongst the first to report in!"
from Yahoo News/ the Associated Press:
Overboard Shoes Drifting Toward Alaska
Mon Feb 24, 9:09 AM ET
ANCHORAGE - Thousands of pairs of Nike basketball shoes are washing up on beaches from Washington State to Alaska after spilling from a container ship in Northern California.
There's just one hitch to finding a free pair.
"Nike forgot to tie the laces, so you have to find mates," said Dr. Curtis Ebbesmeyer, an oceanographer who tracks sneakers, toys and other flotsam across the sea. "The effort's worth it 'cause these Nikes have only been adrift a few months. All 33,000 are wearable!"
A beachcomber told Ebbesmeyer about the shoe spill after finding two new blue-and-white EZW men's shoes washed up near Queets on Washington's Olympic Peninsula on Jan. 9 and 16.
Unfortunately, they were sizes 10 1/2 and 8 1/2. Both were lefts.
A little research by Ebbesmeyer confirmed that a ship lost cargo Dec. 15 during a storm off Cape Mendocino, including three 40-foot containers each carrying an estimated 5,500 pairs of shoes.
"Nikes will be soon in your neck of the sea," Ebbesmeyer said in an e-mail message to the Anchorage Daily News last week. "Only two have been found, so your readers can be amongst the first to report in!"
I Watched the Grammys Because... 2.24.03
1. I really care what Debbie Harry's menopausal ass is wearing, it gives me wood.
2. Norah Jones inspired me to drive across the country to see my ex-lover. Who then rejected me. With a 2 x 4.
3. Sheryl Crow speaks for disaffected urban youth. Especially next to Kid Rock.
4. I wanted to see if 50 Cent and Eminem would rob the whole industry of their jewlz.
5. Ohmigod-- Avril Levigne and Pink in the same room?! I could just die! Or piss myself! I just did!
6. Nelly Nelly Nelly, can't you see, sometimes I'm mesmerized by mediocrity.
7. To find out who John Mayer, Nickelback, Eric Tingstad, and Bowling for Soup are. And still not care.
8. Wasn't there supposed to be a Clash reunion? Or was that a Gin Blossoms reunion?
9. Seeing other people rewarded for their hard work makes me work harder. Also, man, I was too high to stand up and change the channel.
10. The devil made me do it; I heard him through the Springsteen album, played backwards.
1. I really care what Debbie Harry's menopausal ass is wearing, it gives me wood.
2. Norah Jones inspired me to drive across the country to see my ex-lover. Who then rejected me. With a 2 x 4.
3. Sheryl Crow speaks for disaffected urban youth. Especially next to Kid Rock.
4. I wanted to see if 50 Cent and Eminem would rob the whole industry of their jewlz.
5. Ohmigod-- Avril Levigne and Pink in the same room?! I could just die! Or piss myself! I just did!
6. Nelly Nelly Nelly, can't you see, sometimes I'm mesmerized by mediocrity.
7. To find out who John Mayer, Nickelback, Eric Tingstad, and Bowling for Soup are. And still not care.
8. Wasn't there supposed to be a Clash reunion? Or was that a Gin Blossoms reunion?
9. Seeing other people rewarded for their hard work makes me work harder. Also, man, I was too high to stand up and change the channel.
10. The devil made me do it; I heard him through the Springsteen album, played backwards.
Into the Light 2.24.03
This winter's been so cold and bleak that I have decided to start putting away some of my winter sweaters early, start taking out some sleeveless shirts, and begin spring cleaning. The reasoning, of course, is that by doing these actions I can bring on spring a little faster. It's almost March, after all. I'm surrounded by grey skies and damned sick of it. It's like living under the glass bottom of a sewer.
As a side note, it is almost the end of black history month. I don't know if anyone noticed. I have been reading a book called '46 Chicago by Steve Monroe. In the book, the black characters are "colored." It's a period piece, in 1946 gumshoe language. I respect that. And in honor of that time period and in honor of black history month, I have decided to call all of my white friends washedout. I figure, that has to be the opposite of colored, right? Or is bleached the preferred term these days? Hit me back and tell me.
This winter's been so cold and bleak that I have decided to start putting away some of my winter sweaters early, start taking out some sleeveless shirts, and begin spring cleaning. The reasoning, of course, is that by doing these actions I can bring on spring a little faster. It's almost March, after all. I'm surrounded by grey skies and damned sick of it. It's like living under the glass bottom of a sewer.
As a side note, it is almost the end of black history month. I don't know if anyone noticed. I have been reading a book called '46 Chicago by Steve Monroe. In the book, the black characters are "colored." It's a period piece, in 1946 gumshoe language. I respect that. And in honor of that time period and in honor of black history month, I have decided to call all of my white friends washedout. I figure, that has to be the opposite of colored, right? Or is bleached the preferred term these days? Hit me back and tell me.
Rockout Friday Nights 2.21.03
I promised a recap of last Friday.
But I've been sleeping, you'll have to forgive me. Curled up in my bed or in front of the television (watching St. John's lose again).
This Pico had to recover, ladies and gentlemen. And from what, you'll ask?
Friday night was to be a celebration of Johnny K's 27 years on this planet in one piece. Good times. He asked me to call some heads to the Upper East. Which gave me pause. Not my kind of town, not my kind of neighborhood. It's like bad news and an advanced case of syphilis rolled into one burrito. But I agreed. Called up a disparate set of folks. Told them to come to the Upper East because... uh... I said so?
People came. I was sad about those who didn't come (and those I didn't see, apologies Julia); those who had to work (that bites, J-Izzo); and those for whom the Upper East mixed with some illin' ass sushi made them want to retch (hope you're upright, Holiday). And then there were those who made it.
Hm. I think I left high school to avoid certain people... but that's neither here nor there. And the Upper East... well, this bar was disturbing. The girls of 2000 seemed to have an okay enough time (thanks for coming) but not as good as the time I had with Silver, Steph, Lori, and AB Luuv.
See, after a pound of drinks and having been subjected to a man who, with one guitar and one forgettable voice blanched every song from Paul Simon to Bob Marley, we were itching for something else. AB Luuv, a late night DJ at [--a popular radio station--], had the answer.
Get some beers. Sit in the air studio. Drink. A lot.
It was 2 AM and as good an idea as any. Music, beer, and an all nighter like we were kids again. Kids in cabs, kids slipping into the empty studios of [--a popular radio station--] and drinking as much as we could. Except we're old and we couldn't drink that much. But we were up all night. Pretending to be the girls from Plainview who really wanted to hear a Coldplay song. Snickering at all of AB Luuv's radio stalkers. Almost answering the guys who called up for a request for Metallica or Pantera and asking, "hey, we're guys partying on a Friday night, what else could be better?" with "maybe some girls, a reason to get up in the mornings, and friends who aren't the same Jersey loser."
I passed out in the studio next door underneath pictures of semi-nude people, transvestites, and perhaps a pair of midgets. We were in the middle of the New York skyline, but the window was tinted and gave a poor indication that the sun was soon to rise... behind the drizzling rainclouds. Of course.
AB Luuv ended his shift at [--a popular radio station--]; we went our separate ways. I got home at 8, maybe 8.30 AM, and asked why my brother was up. Of course, he wakes up early. Actually, I wake early on Saturdays. Usually by 8.30. Not this day. I took my ragged ass to sleep, growled the way through the rest of the afternoon.
I promised a recap of last Friday.
But I've been sleeping, you'll have to forgive me. Curled up in my bed or in front of the television (watching St. John's lose again).
This Pico had to recover, ladies and gentlemen. And from what, you'll ask?
Friday night was to be a celebration of Johnny K's 27 years on this planet in one piece. Good times. He asked me to call some heads to the Upper East. Which gave me pause. Not my kind of town, not my kind of neighborhood. It's like bad news and an advanced case of syphilis rolled into one burrito. But I agreed. Called up a disparate set of folks. Told them to come to the Upper East because... uh... I said so?
People came. I was sad about those who didn't come (and those I didn't see, apologies Julia); those who had to work (that bites, J-Izzo); and those for whom the Upper East mixed with some illin' ass sushi made them want to retch (hope you're upright, Holiday). And then there were those who made it.
Hm. I think I left high school to avoid certain people... but that's neither here nor there. And the Upper East... well, this bar was disturbing. The girls of 2000 seemed to have an okay enough time (thanks for coming) but not as good as the time I had with Silver, Steph, Lori, and AB Luuv.
See, after a pound of drinks and having been subjected to a man who, with one guitar and one forgettable voice blanched every song from Paul Simon to Bob Marley, we were itching for something else. AB Luuv, a late night DJ at [--a popular radio station--], had the answer.
Get some beers. Sit in the air studio. Drink. A lot.
It was 2 AM and as good an idea as any. Music, beer, and an all nighter like we were kids again. Kids in cabs, kids slipping into the empty studios of [--a popular radio station--] and drinking as much as we could. Except we're old and we couldn't drink that much. But we were up all night. Pretending to be the girls from Plainview who really wanted to hear a Coldplay song. Snickering at all of AB Luuv's radio stalkers. Almost answering the guys who called up for a request for Metallica or Pantera and asking, "hey, we're guys partying on a Friday night, what else could be better?" with "maybe some girls, a reason to get up in the mornings, and friends who aren't the same Jersey loser."
I passed out in the studio next door underneath pictures of semi-nude people, transvestites, and perhaps a pair of midgets. We were in the middle of the New York skyline, but the window was tinted and gave a poor indication that the sun was soon to rise... behind the drizzling rainclouds. Of course.
AB Luuv ended his shift at [--a popular radio station--]; we went our separate ways. I got home at 8, maybe 8.30 AM, and asked why my brother was up. Of course, he wakes up early. Actually, I wake early on Saturdays. Usually by 8.30. Not this day. I took my ragged ass to sleep, growled the way through the rest of the afternoon.
Friday, February 21, 2003
This Boy Needs A Nap 2.21.03
This boy needs a nap.
That's how I zone.
Get my sleep props up and
Be still like stone.
People you can reach me
By the telephone
But it's my recorded voice
As I sleep on and on.
Less poetry. More mania. To come. Tonight will last forever, in honor of John Karol. Even though his invite tugs me to the Upper East Side, where we often looked around and said, "who made these fucking people?" as we huddled in our jackets and scrounged for change for lunch.
This boy needs a nap.
That's how I zone.
Get my sleep props up and
Be still like stone.
People you can reach me
By the telephone
But it's my recorded voice
As I sleep on and on.
Less poetry. More mania. To come. Tonight will last forever, in honor of John Karol. Even though his invite tugs me to the Upper East Side, where we often looked around and said, "who made these fucking people?" as we huddled in our jackets and scrounged for change for lunch.
Thursday, February 20, 2003
Storm Clouds 2.19.03
I walked NYC yesterday in a suit, raising my pant leg to slide by the one-skinny-man wide paths people had made at the crosswalks in Manhattan, and to walk on the kinda-paved streets of Queens. I walked through slush, high-stepped through unplowed snow paths where a few brave folks had tamped down the white stuff with footprints.
All of this to come home in time to shovel more snow and watch St. John's basketball.
I don't know why I watch. This is a team who was up 16 points on Providence College, a team with 3 Big East Conference wins aagainst 7 losses. St. John's had "slipped" to 5-5 in conference play; and they needed to win that Providence game; it's not common to receive a bid to the NCAA tournament with less than a .500 winning percentage. Okay, got that? We're all set up?
After whaling on Providence College for a half, the Providence Friars came out with this wacky new invention called "the zone." See, instead of matching up one on one, they stand there with their arms up and sometimes they inch closer to the ball. This wacky new tactic, apparently never seen by Mike Jarvis in his many years (except in the last two games, both losses), requires either 1) outside shooting or 2) a very good penetrator and a mid range jump shooter to attract the back of the zone. I know. Crazy stuff.
So St. John's loses by 6, since Marcus Hatten didn't penetrate and shoot every ball; and his teammates proved once again that the three point line is made of kryptonite-- step back more and jack it up before it gets to us!!!
That was horrible to watch.
Last night they faced the ranked Syracuse Orangemen. Those crazy kids! Talent, homecourt advantage, et cetera. But St. John's played as I remember them to-- ugly, defensive, filled with steals. In fact, they could have won. Even thought Syracuse whipped out that crazy "zone" thing again. Now, they had a plan. Wow! Anthony Glover at the free throw line, center Abe Keita looking for a pass under the basket after Glover gets the Syracuse center to commit some attention to him. A little dribble drive by Mr. Hatten.
They forgot a few things. They had chances despite 'Cuse's quickness. But Glover forgot he has the option to "shoot," Keita forgot that most big men, when covered, should bob up and down like a bunny rabbit and get someone to jump in the air; that center then pretends to shoot and goes to the free throw line (though when Mr. Keita got there he put up an airball. Nice.); and that while Hatten's not a great shooter, point guard Elijah Ingram shouldn't try to make him look good.
Elijah Ingram. Rookie from Jersey. Goofy looking high-arcing shot. Pulled a John Starks. I believe it was 2-18. Two for eighteen. From behind the three-point line. That means that he hit two shots. Fairly open. He had 16 shots that were also sometimes open. Never at the end of the shot clock. None of those went in. St. John's would rebound, they would grimace, they would struggle. Until Mr. Ingram leapt up in the air and shoot from his numbers or his ear or whatever. Criminey.
So, yeah... they lost. Again. And I just checked the stats. It's 2-20 from beyond the arc. 3-22 from the field.
I walked NYC yesterday in a suit, raising my pant leg to slide by the one-skinny-man wide paths people had made at the crosswalks in Manhattan, and to walk on the kinda-paved streets of Queens. I walked through slush, high-stepped through unplowed snow paths where a few brave folks had tamped down the white stuff with footprints.
All of this to come home in time to shovel more snow and watch St. John's basketball.
I don't know why I watch. This is a team who was up 16 points on Providence College, a team with 3 Big East Conference wins aagainst 7 losses. St. John's had "slipped" to 5-5 in conference play; and they needed to win that Providence game; it's not common to receive a bid to the NCAA tournament with less than a .500 winning percentage. Okay, got that? We're all set up?
After whaling on Providence College for a half, the Providence Friars came out with this wacky new invention called "the zone." See, instead of matching up one on one, they stand there with their arms up and sometimes they inch closer to the ball. This wacky new tactic, apparently never seen by Mike Jarvis in his many years (except in the last two games, both losses), requires either 1) outside shooting or 2) a very good penetrator and a mid range jump shooter to attract the back of the zone. I know. Crazy stuff.
So St. John's loses by 6, since Marcus Hatten didn't penetrate and shoot every ball; and his teammates proved once again that the three point line is made of kryptonite-- step back more and jack it up before it gets to us!!!
That was horrible to watch.
Last night they faced the ranked Syracuse Orangemen. Those crazy kids! Talent, homecourt advantage, et cetera. But St. John's played as I remember them to-- ugly, defensive, filled with steals. In fact, they could have won. Even thought Syracuse whipped out that crazy "zone" thing again. Now, they had a plan. Wow! Anthony Glover at the free throw line, center Abe Keita looking for a pass under the basket after Glover gets the Syracuse center to commit some attention to him. A little dribble drive by Mr. Hatten.
They forgot a few things. They had chances despite 'Cuse's quickness. But Glover forgot he has the option to "shoot," Keita forgot that most big men, when covered, should bob up and down like a bunny rabbit and get someone to jump in the air; that center then pretends to shoot and goes to the free throw line (though when Mr. Keita got there he put up an airball. Nice.); and that while Hatten's not a great shooter, point guard Elijah Ingram shouldn't try to make him look good.
Elijah Ingram. Rookie from Jersey. Goofy looking high-arcing shot. Pulled a John Starks. I believe it was 2-18. Two for eighteen. From behind the three-point line. That means that he hit two shots. Fairly open. He had 16 shots that were also sometimes open. Never at the end of the shot clock. None of those went in. St. John's would rebound, they would grimace, they would struggle. Until Mr. Ingram leapt up in the air and shoot from his numbers or his ear or whatever. Criminey.
So, yeah... they lost. Again. And I just checked the stats. It's 2-20 from beyond the arc. 3-22 from the field.
Monday, February 10, 2003
Dirty Planet, The Mis-Education President 2.10.03
There is a word I have heard bandied about, in everyday conversation, in speeches, in classes , and it bothers me to no end. I’m not the smartest guy, the best kind of rapper, the king of all that’s cool and correct, J-Lo’s taut booty, or the esteemed president, but this really irks me.
My dear friend makes the point also; and it’s popped up everywhere. From people I know. From professors. And from our aforementioned esteemed president.
Somehow, we have forgotten the roots of our words. We have forgotten how to say the most simple of words. And in doing so, we step away from the meaning of that root; step away from the images and perhaps even a culture built around the word; make it a little less real.
This is about the word nuclear. Kids, as Silver says, the word comes from the root “nucleus.” as in, splitting the nucleus of the atom to get all the explosively gooey nougat power to spill free. Now, in thinking of atoms, small and mysterious and tautly bonded, I personally think, shit, if nature can’t split the atom, there has to be something wrong with the concept of doing it with our technologies. That has got to be some shit if/ when we do it.
And from there, when we think of nuclear, we think of “nuclear power plants,” which we associate with “not in my backyard,” and “Chernobyl disaster,” and stickers with atoms flying around protecting the nucleus. That having been said, we know about nuclear power. Heard about it in schools. Have it in the back of our minds from the 80’s.
But, “nu-killer?” It’s got the word “killer” in it. It’s a whole new word. It’s got new resonance, like a new threat. You know, like Iraq. This invention of our Malaprop President seems to have caught on. Maybe my professor was joking. The people who I have personally heard it from didn’t seem to say it facetiously at all. Which disturbs me.
Is the word so hard to say? You say it as it’s spelled, really. New. Clee. Ar. Or Ur. Say it with me. Don’t be propaganda’d by Dubya. Say it with me. This is not a new threat. In fact, this is a threat that we wield over the rest of the world more than a “rogue state” or two hold over us.
There’s no need to make it a new and exotic word. There are a number of things that could bother me about the sudden use of the word… but the main one is this-- stop fucking up the language!!
There is a word I have heard bandied about, in everyday conversation, in speeches, in classes , and it bothers me to no end. I’m not the smartest guy, the best kind of rapper, the king of all that’s cool and correct, J-Lo’s taut booty, or the esteemed president, but this really irks me.
My dear friend makes the point also; and it’s popped up everywhere. From people I know. From professors. And from our aforementioned esteemed president.
Somehow, we have forgotten the roots of our words. We have forgotten how to say the most simple of words. And in doing so, we step away from the meaning of that root; step away from the images and perhaps even a culture built around the word; make it a little less real.
This is about the word nuclear. Kids, as Silver says, the word comes from the root “nucleus.” as in, splitting the nucleus of the atom to get all the explosively gooey nougat power to spill free. Now, in thinking of atoms, small and mysterious and tautly bonded, I personally think, shit, if nature can’t split the atom, there has to be something wrong with the concept of doing it with our technologies. That has got to be some shit if/ when we do it.
And from there, when we think of nuclear, we think of “nuclear power plants,” which we associate with “not in my backyard,” and “Chernobyl disaster,” and stickers with atoms flying around protecting the nucleus. That having been said, we know about nuclear power. Heard about it in schools. Have it in the back of our minds from the 80’s.
But, “nu-killer?” It’s got the word “killer” in it. It’s a whole new word. It’s got new resonance, like a new threat. You know, like Iraq. This invention of our Malaprop President seems to have caught on. Maybe my professor was joking. The people who I have personally heard it from didn’t seem to say it facetiously at all. Which disturbs me.
Is the word so hard to say? You say it as it’s spelled, really. New. Clee. Ar. Or Ur. Say it with me. Don’t be propaganda’d by Dubya. Say it with me. This is not a new threat. In fact, this is a threat that we wield over the rest of the world more than a “rogue state” or two hold over us.
There’s no need to make it a new and exotic word. There are a number of things that could bother me about the sudden use of the word… but the main one is this-- stop fucking up the language!!
Dirty Planet, Sympathy for the Huskies 2.10.03
Something has worked its way inside me. Like so much chum in a bucket. I find myself on a Monday night thinking the University of Connecticut basketball team is not only good to watch; I find myself learning about some guard named Anderson, listening for information about shot-blocker Emeka Okafor, wondering how Ben Gordon is handling his new responsibilities with Talik Brown sitting with his broken finger.
It’s that damned Jim Calhoun’s fault. Him and his prostate cancer.
For the non-sports fan, this may mean little. For the active sports fan, know that I have been born and was raised in New York City. Connecticut is like the far reaches of hell, where you get hijacked to camp, where your father’s company has their lame family picnics where there are never any girls (or boys) your age, so you run around in the fresh air (which is bad for you after breathing the NYC pollution. We’re built for it now, adaptable lungs). Connecticut is a bad place in general (Stamfiddy notwithstanding); but when it comes to college basketball…
Those hosers in Eastern Connecticut, at that cow-town University of Connecticut, they’re always big. Physical. Year in and year out they’re obnoxious. And they run over the boys at St. John’s University, the kids at Rutgers, the players at Providence. It’s not fair. They’re freaking thugs. No style. No scoring. And the championships? They are a mountain to climb. They’re not the Yankees, but they do rock white and dark blue uni‘s. Close enough.
This year they’ve managed to spot at least three teams twenty point leads out of the gate. That made me laugh. The sign of a bad team-- an inexperienced U Mass team puts a 25-point lead on you. Being U Mass, they lost. Boston College did much the same and held on. That made me laugh hard.
And then. They announce that Coach Jim Calhoun has prostate cancer. Won’t be coaching for about 4 weeks. Attacking it aggressively. Hunting down the rival Syracuse coach, Jim Boeheim, for the latter’s experience with cancer. Puts a mellow coach in place. Loses his starting point guard.
Perhaps it’s because St. John’s is starting a spiral into the crapper, called the bubble. Maybe it’s that sentimental part of me. Maybe this is a sign of declining Pico, one who can’t keep his dander up. Ladies, I assure you that’s not true. Really. Maybe it’s just interesting watching a team put their pants back on and start playing as well as they can. Maybe it’s great to see a team perform organized hellish chaos successfully.
Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ll get over it.
Something has worked its way inside me. Like so much chum in a bucket. I find myself on a Monday night thinking the University of Connecticut basketball team is not only good to watch; I find myself learning about some guard named Anderson, listening for information about shot-blocker Emeka Okafor, wondering how Ben Gordon is handling his new responsibilities with Talik Brown sitting with his broken finger.
It’s that damned Jim Calhoun’s fault. Him and his prostate cancer.
For the non-sports fan, this may mean little. For the active sports fan, know that I have been born and was raised in New York City. Connecticut is like the far reaches of hell, where you get hijacked to camp, where your father’s company has their lame family picnics where there are never any girls (or boys) your age, so you run around in the fresh air (which is bad for you after breathing the NYC pollution. We’re built for it now, adaptable lungs). Connecticut is a bad place in general (Stamfiddy notwithstanding); but when it comes to college basketball…
Those hosers in Eastern Connecticut, at that cow-town University of Connecticut, they’re always big. Physical. Year in and year out they’re obnoxious. And they run over the boys at St. John’s University, the kids at Rutgers, the players at Providence. It’s not fair. They’re freaking thugs. No style. No scoring. And the championships? They are a mountain to climb. They’re not the Yankees, but they do rock white and dark blue uni‘s. Close enough.
This year they’ve managed to spot at least three teams twenty point leads out of the gate. That made me laugh. The sign of a bad team-- an inexperienced U Mass team puts a 25-point lead on you. Being U Mass, they lost. Boston College did much the same and held on. That made me laugh hard.
And then. They announce that Coach Jim Calhoun has prostate cancer. Won’t be coaching for about 4 weeks. Attacking it aggressively. Hunting down the rival Syracuse coach, Jim Boeheim, for the latter’s experience with cancer. Puts a mellow coach in place. Loses his starting point guard.
Perhaps it’s because St. John’s is starting a spiral into the crapper, called the bubble. Maybe it’s that sentimental part of me. Maybe this is a sign of declining Pico, one who can’t keep his dander up. Ladies, I assure you that’s not true. Really. Maybe it’s just interesting watching a team put their pants back on and start playing as well as they can. Maybe it’s great to see a team perform organized hellish chaos successfully.
Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ll get over it.
Monday, January 27, 2003
Superbowl Musings 1.27.03
Now that ass clown Simeon Rice can call himself a champion. I don’t know if that pisses me off or if I’m elated that the Raiders (who have come to make a sport out of beating the hope out of the Jets) lost. Echh. At least the game was boring enough that I could laugh at Keanu Reeves in the movie Hardball... for the second time...
Now that ass clown Simeon Rice can call himself a champion. I don’t know if that pisses me off or if I’m elated that the Raiders (who have come to make a sport out of beating the hope out of the Jets) lost. Echh. At least the game was boring enough that I could laugh at Keanu Reeves in the movie Hardball... for the second time...
Friday 1.27.03
Oh yeah, throw your neighborhood in the air. If you don’t care.” -Ice Cube
--stop one--
Stephanie, and almost Silver, I thank you for karaoke. So silly. So much bad singing. So fun. Gully sang Sinatra’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and a rousing rendition of Barry White’s “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe”; Silver sang Elvis’ “In the Ghetto” (which we missed) and I forget the first song. I sang Madonna’s “Cherish,” Bon Jovi’s “Born to Be My Baby,” and Carly Simon’s “Nobody Does it Better.” I think I sounded best on Cherish. Hard to pretend to be some kind of tough guy singing that song… ah, well, no one would have believed it anyway. So we took our leave, fleet of feet, to the upper east side, then to catch a cab going west to the party party over by the Natural History Museum.
--stop two--
Dear Shevi: I have met your elusive friend Ronit. I thought, perhaps, she didn’t exist. She was all smiles and chattiness. Good times. We were surrounded by a lot of hip guys. Or European guys, I think someone said. But no one had any sort of accent. There were just a lot of… guys. And some fellas with dreds. Gully and I sat in the corner, got our drink on. The Rice-a-Homie rolled up and had a few. Then we bolted to the car; the streets on the Upper West of course were quiet and curling up to sleep, and we were off to the jam in Queens.
--stop three--
Bumping EPMD’s Business as Usual, with Rampage, featuring LL Cool J and some emphatic rhymes from Parrish Smith. Also featuring the young afro-wearing Redman. We had our swagger all set, tight beats reverberating in our heads.
But the jam in Queens was dying down. So was Gully. Propped up on a chair or hoisted on the couch, he was getting his nap on. But I found that little Tulip is just the right size to use as a guitar-- meaning she’s about the same size as a tennis racket. I never would have guessed if I didn’t lift her one-handed. I haven’t seen her in many months. Maybe even a year? But that can’t be right. Ian, who I haven’t seen in probably a year, lost his Jeff Kent porn star moustache, Molly spun more hip hop like a little Queenie, and the remnants of the party danced. The Rice-a-Homie, of course, got his hands on the record Soulflower (Pharcyde); good times.
We dropped our sleeping partner home, I got a ride home, and there was a whole lot of sleeping done after that…
Oh yeah, throw your neighborhood in the air. If you don’t care.” -Ice Cube
--stop one--
Stephanie, and almost Silver, I thank you for karaoke. So silly. So much bad singing. So fun. Gully sang Sinatra’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and a rousing rendition of Barry White’s “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe”; Silver sang Elvis’ “In the Ghetto” (which we missed) and I forget the first song. I sang Madonna’s “Cherish,” Bon Jovi’s “Born to Be My Baby,” and Carly Simon’s “Nobody Does it Better.” I think I sounded best on Cherish. Hard to pretend to be some kind of tough guy singing that song… ah, well, no one would have believed it anyway. So we took our leave, fleet of feet, to the upper east side, then to catch a cab going west to the party party over by the Natural History Museum.
--stop two--
Dear Shevi: I have met your elusive friend Ronit. I thought, perhaps, she didn’t exist. She was all smiles and chattiness. Good times. We were surrounded by a lot of hip guys. Or European guys, I think someone said. But no one had any sort of accent. There were just a lot of… guys. And some fellas with dreds. Gully and I sat in the corner, got our drink on. The Rice-a-Homie rolled up and had a few. Then we bolted to the car; the streets on the Upper West of course were quiet and curling up to sleep, and we were off to the jam in Queens.
--stop three--
Bumping EPMD’s Business as Usual, with Rampage, featuring LL Cool J and some emphatic rhymes from Parrish Smith. Also featuring the young afro-wearing Redman. We had our swagger all set, tight beats reverberating in our heads.
But the jam in Queens was dying down. So was Gully. Propped up on a chair or hoisted on the couch, he was getting his nap on. But I found that little Tulip is just the right size to use as a guitar-- meaning she’s about the same size as a tennis racket. I never would have guessed if I didn’t lift her one-handed. I haven’t seen her in many months. Maybe even a year? But that can’t be right. Ian, who I haven’t seen in probably a year, lost his Jeff Kent porn star moustache, Molly spun more hip hop like a little Queenie, and the remnants of the party danced. The Rice-a-Homie, of course, got his hands on the record Soulflower (Pharcyde); good times.
We dropped our sleeping partner home, I got a ride home, and there was a whole lot of sleeping done after that…
Friday, January 24, 2003
Wednesday, January 22, 2003
Grr. 1.22.03
I could launch a tirade about eyes-high on those shady mofo's at AOL online services, but that might also reveal the dank level of ineptidude that I've recently sunk to. And that is a place that might be perhaps a little too wide open, too dirty, too pus filled, too revelatory. If you want some revelations, go to...
I can't give you nowhere good, I got classes to attend. More to come.
I could launch a tirade about eyes-high on those shady mofo's at AOL online services, but that might also reveal the dank level of ineptidude that I've recently sunk to. And that is a place that might be perhaps a little too wide open, too dirty, too pus filled, too revelatory. If you want some revelations, go to...
I can't give you nowhere good, I got classes to attend. More to come.
Effing January 1.22.03
Though I have stepped out in the past week to do such things like drink with Gully’s rock friends; and drink again until I was face-over E-Sox’ porcelain toilet, the thing that sticks out most is how little I have done.
Pico’s seen a lot of movies. Watched a lot of Blind Date. Watched a lot of basketball. Gotten skinner. And it’s been fucking cold out. Cold like January is supposed to be. But without the snow and ice that supposed to come and create that wintry ambiance that makes January look like it’s supposed to. So mostly, this months sucks a knot.
I know Holiday agrees. This is the second worst month of the year. For me, it’s the worst. After New Year’s, I can sit and think about what I should do this year; I’ve lost any of the momentum gained in the last weeks of January. It’s simply depressing.
There was a piece on Kurt Warner I was going to write. A piece more in depth about the porcelain prayer, a note about how hot Carrot Top is.
None of it got done. I’ve spent a lot of time staying up late, watching television. Sitting on my ass. I’ll straight out admit it. Time to step it up. Go to class. Do some writing. Figure out what the friggin’ date is.
Uh, take a shower. I’m’a gonna go and do that now.
Though I have stepped out in the past week to do such things like drink with Gully’s rock friends; and drink again until I was face-over E-Sox’ porcelain toilet, the thing that sticks out most is how little I have done.
Pico’s seen a lot of movies. Watched a lot of Blind Date. Watched a lot of basketball. Gotten skinner. And it’s been fucking cold out. Cold like January is supposed to be. But without the snow and ice that supposed to come and create that wintry ambiance that makes January look like it’s supposed to. So mostly, this months sucks a knot.
I know Holiday agrees. This is the second worst month of the year. For me, it’s the worst. After New Year’s, I can sit and think about what I should do this year; I’ve lost any of the momentum gained in the last weeks of January. It’s simply depressing.
There was a piece on Kurt Warner I was going to write. A piece more in depth about the porcelain prayer, a note about how hot Carrot Top is.
None of it got done. I’ve spent a lot of time staying up late, watching television. Sitting on my ass. I’ll straight out admit it. Time to step it up. Go to class. Do some writing. Figure out what the friggin’ date is.
Uh, take a shower. I’m’a gonna go and do that now.
Friday, January 17, 2003
Off-Season Postcards: Marty Mornhinweg 1.17.02
These days, I am sitting in my house, thanking God that no one has fired me yet. Or set fire to my house. These Detroit winters are really something, nothing like California and good old San Francisco. I mean, I’ve seen snow before but, wow.
But there are no pickets in front of my window. There are no effigies of me, stuffed with toilet paper and hung off of a streetlamp.
That’s great! Now I have another off season to finish my book, “Coaching for Dummies” and then, then, the world will see I know what I’m doing! Yeah. That’s what I’m going to do!
Hey, is my wife making cheeseburgers? Mmm, I love cheeseburgers! This reading can wait. Honey? You have that root beer I like??
These days, I am sitting in my house, thanking God that no one has fired me yet. Or set fire to my house. These Detroit winters are really something, nothing like California and good old San Francisco. I mean, I’ve seen snow before but, wow.
But there are no pickets in front of my window. There are no effigies of me, stuffed with toilet paper and hung off of a streetlamp.
That’s great! Now I have another off season to finish my book, “Coaching for Dummies” and then, then, the world will see I know what I’m doing! Yeah. That’s what I’m going to do!
Hey, is my wife making cheeseburgers? Mmm, I love cheeseburgers! This reading can wait. Honey? You have that root beer I like??
Johnny On the Spot 1.17.03
This is the St. John’s men’s basketball offense, as coached by Mike Jarvis.
Elijah Ingram brings the ball over half-court. Passes it to Marcus Hatten. Hatten dribbles. Looks at defenders. Dribbles some more. Dribbles some more. Perhaps passes it into the post if he’s feeling like a philanthropist. Perhaps receives a screen. With 7 seconds left, Hatten drives down the middle, whether he has received a favorable screen, gotten his defender off-balance, et cetera. Or he passes it to Glover who uses on of his low post moves (always in slow, fat, Clarence Weatherspoon/ undersized + fat center motion) and the team throws up a brick from some distance. Then they get offensive rebounds and can’t find the hole from one foot out.
All of this is just fine in a rec league game where short mortgage brokers repeat the story about the one time they played a guy on their high school basketball team and scored all over him. But in Division I, Big East College basketball? This is becoming a little questionable.
Not as questionable, of course, as Greasy Steve Lavin out on the west coast. As the coach of UCLA, one is held to a high standard. And Steve Lavin’s teams consistently enter the season playing at a low level. That way, of course, when they get a gift invote to the NCAA tournament, people can act surprised when they actually play (such as the time the Baron Davis/ Jaron Rush team rolled over Maryland in 1998, by a score of 105- did you show up).
This year, they have found a new bottom. They have lost to St. John’s, on their home court, in a nationally televised Saturday game. It was a bricklaying stinker, a booty bowl, an effort by both teams not to win. But St. John’s using their abilities to trip over loose balls and occasionally hit one of the many three-pointers they take, managed to squeeze a victory out.
Meanwhile, out in sunny California, Jason Kapono, star forward of UCLA talks about how the team just comes out without intensity.
A few days later, Mike Jarvis tells the media, “free throws and layups can be the most difficult part of the game. It’s the psychological side to them. So much is riding on them and this game is 90% mental.”
Hm.
Well, knowing the importance of the mental side, and knowing that you can’t teach a guy to run much faster, get up much higher, or shoot straighter (that’s what training and steroids are for), then it stands to reason that the coach should handle the teaching of the mental aspect of the game. That he should keep his team prepared, mentally ready, and aggressive.
Hm.
The world is already on the Steve Lavin watch. But Mr. Jarvis, I ain’t saying nothing, but… how’s your resume look?
This is the St. John’s men’s basketball offense, as coached by Mike Jarvis.
Elijah Ingram brings the ball over half-court. Passes it to Marcus Hatten. Hatten dribbles. Looks at defenders. Dribbles some more. Dribbles some more. Perhaps passes it into the post if he’s feeling like a philanthropist. Perhaps receives a screen. With 7 seconds left, Hatten drives down the middle, whether he has received a favorable screen, gotten his defender off-balance, et cetera. Or he passes it to Glover who uses on of his low post moves (always in slow, fat, Clarence Weatherspoon/ undersized + fat center motion) and the team throws up a brick from some distance. Then they get offensive rebounds and can’t find the hole from one foot out.
All of this is just fine in a rec league game where short mortgage brokers repeat the story about the one time they played a guy on their high school basketball team and scored all over him. But in Division I, Big East College basketball? This is becoming a little questionable.
Not as questionable, of course, as Greasy Steve Lavin out on the west coast. As the coach of UCLA, one is held to a high standard. And Steve Lavin’s teams consistently enter the season playing at a low level. That way, of course, when they get a gift invote to the NCAA tournament, people can act surprised when they actually play (such as the time the Baron Davis/ Jaron Rush team rolled over Maryland in 1998, by a score of 105- did you show up).
This year, they have found a new bottom. They have lost to St. John’s, on their home court, in a nationally televised Saturday game. It was a bricklaying stinker, a booty bowl, an effort by both teams not to win. But St. John’s using their abilities to trip over loose balls and occasionally hit one of the many three-pointers they take, managed to squeeze a victory out.
Meanwhile, out in sunny California, Jason Kapono, star forward of UCLA talks about how the team just comes out without intensity.
A few days later, Mike Jarvis tells the media, “free throws and layups can be the most difficult part of the game. It’s the psychological side to them. So much is riding on them and this game is 90% mental.”
Hm.
Well, knowing the importance of the mental side, and knowing that you can’t teach a guy to run much faster, get up much higher, or shoot straighter (that’s what training and steroids are for), then it stands to reason that the coach should handle the teaching of the mental aspect of the game. That he should keep his team prepared, mentally ready, and aggressive.
Hm.
The world is already on the Steve Lavin watch. But Mr. Jarvis, I ain’t saying nothing, but… how’s your resume look?
Friday, January 10, 2003
from the NY Newsday 1.10.03
Plan: Tap Iraq's Oil
U.S. considers seizing revenues to pay for occupation, source says
By Knut Royce
SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT
January 10, 2003, 9:55 AM EST
Washington - Bush administration officials are seriously considering proposals that the United States tap Iraq's oil to help pay the cost of a military occupation, a move that likely would prove highly inflammatory in an Arab world already suspicious of U.S. motives in Iraq.
Officially, the White House agrees that oil revenue would play an important role during an occupation period, but only for the benefit of Iraqis, according to a National Security Council spokesman.
Yet there are strong advocates inside the administration, including in the White House, for appropriating the oil funds as "spoils of war," according to a source who has been briefed by participants in the dialogue.
"There are people in the White House who take the position that it's all the spoils of war," said the source, who asked not to be further identified. "We [the United States] take all the oil money until there is a new democratic government [in Iraq]."
The source said the Justice Department has urged caution. "The Justice Department has doubts," he said. He said department lawyers are unsure "whether any of it [Iraqi oil funds] can be used or has to all be held in trust for the people of Iraq."
Another source who has worked closely with the office of Vice President Dick Cheney said that a number of officials there too are urging that Iraq's oil funds be used to defray the cost of occupation.
Jennifer Millerwise, a Cheney spokeswoman, declined to talk about "internal policy discussions."
Using Iraqi oil to fund an occupation would reinforce a prevalent belief in the Mideast that the conflict is all about control of oil, not rooting out weapons of mass destruction, according to Halim Barakat, a recently retired professor of Arab studies at Georgetown University.
"It would mean that the real ... objective of the war is not the democratization of Iraq, not getting rid of Saddam, not to liberate the Iraqi people, but a return to colonialism," he said. "That is how they [Mideast nations] would perceive it."
The Congressional Budget Office estimates that the cost of an occupation would range from $12 billion to $48 billion a year, and officials believe an occupation could last 1 1/2 years or more.
And Iraq has a lot of oil. Its proven oil reserves are second in the world only to Saudi Arabia's. But how much revenue could be generated is an open question. The budget office estimates Iraq now is producing nearly 2.8 million barrels a day, with 80 percent of the revenues going for the United Nations Oil for Food Program or domestic consumption. The remaining 20 percent, worth about $3 billion a year, is generated by oil smuggling and much of it goes to support Saddam Hussein's military. In theory that is the money that could be used for reconstruction or to help defer occupation costs.
Yet with fresh drilling and new equipment Iraq could produce much more. By some estimates, however, it would take 10 years to fully restore Iraq's oil industry. Conversely, if Hussein torches the fields, as he did in Kuwait in 1991, it would take a year or more to resume even a modest flow. And, of course, it is impossible to predict the price of oil.
Laurence Meyer, a former Federal Reserve Board governor who chaired a Center for Strategic and International Studies conference in November on the economic consequences of a war with Iraq, said that conference participants deliberately avoided the question of whether Iraq should help pay occupation or other costs. "It's a very politically sensitive issue," he said. "... We're in a situation where we're going to be very sensitive to how our actions are perceived in the Arab world."
Meyer said officials who believe Iraq's oil could defer some of the occupation costs may be "too optimistic about how much you could increase [oil production] and how long it would take to reinvest in the infrastructure and reinvest in additional oil."
An administration source said that most of the proposals for the conduct of the war and implementation of plans for a subsequent occupation are being drafted by the Pentagon. Last month a respected Washington think tank prepared a classified briefing commissioned by Andrew Marshall, the Pentagon's influential director of Net Assessment, on the future role of U.S. Special Forces in the global war against terrorism, among other issues. Part of the presentation recommended that oil funds be used to defray the costs of a military occupation in Iraq, according to a source who helped prepare the report.
He said that the study, undertaken by the Center for Strategic and Budgetary Assessments, concluded that "the cost of the occupation, the cost for the military administration and providing for a provisional [civilian] administration, all of that would come out of Iraqi oil." He said the briefing was delivered to the office of Paul Wolfowitz, the deputy secretary of Defense and one of the administration's strongest advocates for an invasion of Iraq, on Dec. 13.
Steven Kosiak, the center's director of budget studies, said he could not remember whether such a recommendation was made, but if it was it would only have been "a passing reference to something we did."
Asked whether the Pentagon was now advocating the use of Iraqi oil to pay for the cost of a military occupation, Army Lt. Col. Gary Keck, a spokesman, said, "We don't have any official comment on that."
NSC spokesman Mike Anton said that in the event of war and a military occupation the oil revenues would be used "not so much to fund the operation and maintaining American forces but for humanitarian aid, refugees, possibly for infrastructure rebuilding, that kind of thing."
But the source who contributed to the Marshall report said that its conclusions reflect the opinion of many senior administration officials. "It [the oil] is going to fund the U.S. military presence there," he said. "... They're not just going to take the Iraqi oil and use it for Iraq's purpose. They will charge the Iraqis for the U.S. cost of operating in Iraq. I don't think they're planning as far as I know to use Iraqi oil to pay for the invasion, but they are going to use it to pay for the occupation."
Plan: Tap Iraq's Oil
U.S. considers seizing revenues to pay for occupation, source says
By Knut Royce
SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT
January 10, 2003, 9:55 AM EST
Washington - Bush administration officials are seriously considering proposals that the United States tap Iraq's oil to help pay the cost of a military occupation, a move that likely would prove highly inflammatory in an Arab world already suspicious of U.S. motives in Iraq.
Officially, the White House agrees that oil revenue would play an important role during an occupation period, but only for the benefit of Iraqis, according to a National Security Council spokesman.
Yet there are strong advocates inside the administration, including in the White House, for appropriating the oil funds as "spoils of war," according to a source who has been briefed by participants in the dialogue.
"There are people in the White House who take the position that it's all the spoils of war," said the source, who asked not to be further identified. "We [the United States] take all the oil money until there is a new democratic government [in Iraq]."
The source said the Justice Department has urged caution. "The Justice Department has doubts," he said. He said department lawyers are unsure "whether any of it [Iraqi oil funds] can be used or has to all be held in trust for the people of Iraq."
Another source who has worked closely with the office of Vice President Dick Cheney said that a number of officials there too are urging that Iraq's oil funds be used to defray the cost of occupation.
Jennifer Millerwise, a Cheney spokeswoman, declined to talk about "internal policy discussions."
Using Iraqi oil to fund an occupation would reinforce a prevalent belief in the Mideast that the conflict is all about control of oil, not rooting out weapons of mass destruction, according to Halim Barakat, a recently retired professor of Arab studies at Georgetown University.
"It would mean that the real ... objective of the war is not the democratization of Iraq, not getting rid of Saddam, not to liberate the Iraqi people, but a return to colonialism," he said. "That is how they [Mideast nations] would perceive it."
The Congressional Budget Office estimates that the cost of an occupation would range from $12 billion to $48 billion a year, and officials believe an occupation could last 1 1/2 years or more.
And Iraq has a lot of oil. Its proven oil reserves are second in the world only to Saudi Arabia's. But how much revenue could be generated is an open question. The budget office estimates Iraq now is producing nearly 2.8 million barrels a day, with 80 percent of the revenues going for the United Nations Oil for Food Program or domestic consumption. The remaining 20 percent, worth about $3 billion a year, is generated by oil smuggling and much of it goes to support Saddam Hussein's military. In theory that is the money that could be used for reconstruction or to help defer occupation costs.
Yet with fresh drilling and new equipment Iraq could produce much more. By some estimates, however, it would take 10 years to fully restore Iraq's oil industry. Conversely, if Hussein torches the fields, as he did in Kuwait in 1991, it would take a year or more to resume even a modest flow. And, of course, it is impossible to predict the price of oil.
Laurence Meyer, a former Federal Reserve Board governor who chaired a Center for Strategic and International Studies conference in November on the economic consequences of a war with Iraq, said that conference participants deliberately avoided the question of whether Iraq should help pay occupation or other costs. "It's a very politically sensitive issue," he said. "... We're in a situation where we're going to be very sensitive to how our actions are perceived in the Arab world."
Meyer said officials who believe Iraq's oil could defer some of the occupation costs may be "too optimistic about how much you could increase [oil production] and how long it would take to reinvest in the infrastructure and reinvest in additional oil."
An administration source said that most of the proposals for the conduct of the war and implementation of plans for a subsequent occupation are being drafted by the Pentagon. Last month a respected Washington think tank prepared a classified briefing commissioned by Andrew Marshall, the Pentagon's influential director of Net Assessment, on the future role of U.S. Special Forces in the global war against terrorism, among other issues. Part of the presentation recommended that oil funds be used to defray the costs of a military occupation in Iraq, according to a source who helped prepare the report.
He said that the study, undertaken by the Center for Strategic and Budgetary Assessments, concluded that "the cost of the occupation, the cost for the military administration and providing for a provisional [civilian] administration, all of that would come out of Iraqi oil." He said the briefing was delivered to the office of Paul Wolfowitz, the deputy secretary of Defense and one of the administration's strongest advocates for an invasion of Iraq, on Dec. 13.
Steven Kosiak, the center's director of budget studies, said he could not remember whether such a recommendation was made, but if it was it would only have been "a passing reference to something we did."
Asked whether the Pentagon was now advocating the use of Iraqi oil to pay for the cost of a military occupation, Army Lt. Col. Gary Keck, a spokesman, said, "We don't have any official comment on that."
NSC spokesman Mike Anton said that in the event of war and a military occupation the oil revenues would be used "not so much to fund the operation and maintaining American forces but for humanitarian aid, refugees, possibly for infrastructure rebuilding, that kind of thing."
But the source who contributed to the Marshall report said that its conclusions reflect the opinion of many senior administration officials. "It [the oil] is going to fund the U.S. military presence there," he said. "... They're not just going to take the Iraqi oil and use it for Iraq's purpose. They will charge the Iraqis for the U.S. cost of operating in Iraq. I don't think they're planning as far as I know to use Iraqi oil to pay for the invasion, but they are going to use it to pay for the occupation."
Wednesday, January 08, 2003
Glock Hop 1.8.03
My poor little laptop. My laptop is in need of space, room, open air, fewer downloads. Funny enough, though, when I think of MP3's to erase, and I look through my downloaded files, I think of my little brother, the fledgeling rap artist, Agua Dulce. I think of him because every time I think I know exactly what's on my computer, he makes me realize that the world is a much more random place where every permutation of 50 Cent's instrumentals, or Wu-Tang's instrumentals can find their way into my files.
Even more interesting is how people simply have lost the art of spelling. Freestyle. The variations of 50 Cent and Biggie. The addition of the letter Z to make things hard.
There are apparently many unheard and unreleased and rare radio tracks, tracks of these cats "in da club," audio of who disses who, tracks on so and so versus so and so.
All of this on my laptop and I never even knew it. Rap artists are battling while I go to sleep. Facing each other down while I get the paper. Practicing their "freesties" when I'm in the city. I wonder what sound they'll make when I kill them.
FROM MY LAPTOP. I don't want none of those rappers thinking I got beef. They might come to my desktop with that mess and start rhyming about how I drop pop hits and start claiming they robbed me at the Source Awards.
My poor little laptop. My laptop is in need of space, room, open air, fewer downloads. Funny enough, though, when I think of MP3's to erase, and I look through my downloaded files, I think of my little brother, the fledgeling rap artist, Agua Dulce. I think of him because every time I think I know exactly what's on my computer, he makes me realize that the world is a much more random place where every permutation of 50 Cent's instrumentals, or Wu-Tang's instrumentals can find their way into my files.
Even more interesting is how people simply have lost the art of spelling. Freestyle. The variations of 50 Cent and Biggie. The addition of the letter Z to make things hard.
There are apparently many unheard and unreleased and rare radio tracks, tracks of these cats "in da club," audio of who disses who, tracks on so and so versus so and so.
All of this on my laptop and I never even knew it. Rap artists are battling while I go to sleep. Facing each other down while I get the paper. Practicing their "freesties" when I'm in the city. I wonder what sound they'll make when I kill them.
FROM MY LAPTOP. I don't want none of those rappers thinking I got beef. They might come to my desktop with that mess and start rhyming about how I drop pop hits and start claiming they robbed me at the Source Awards.
Tuesday, January 07, 2003
The Giants a/k/a Big Blue It 1.7.02
I love the Daily News. Great coverage, still, of the Giants’ debacle by the bay, where they lost 39-38 in truly appalling fashion. And the News pointed out all the things we knew. The holder could have called a time out. The team should have sat Matt Allen (the holder) down and told him exactly what his options were. The team should have gotten a couple more experienced guys to do the kicking chores. Shaun Williams could have saved the Giants 30 yards in penalties by not listening to Terrell Owens talk shit on the field-- he would have drawn two yellow-hanky unsportsmanlike conduct penalties.
And the 49ers couldn’t give a rat’s ass.
And the Giants still gave up the game.
And they gave up the game almost in the same way they gave up the playoff game in the 1997-8 playoff season, Jim Fassel’s first year as a head coach. Nice if he had some pow-wows with all the important people, the kicking team; the defense as they were being shredded, some kind of reminder to keep their heads.
Instead, we have great articles, a reminder that something is genrally wrong with the football operation in Giant-land, and a chance for Tiki Barber to watch his twin beat on the team that stole a game from his team. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Family? Once you forget the energy and passion the players and especially the fans put in; once you forget about the hopes of people who live with the ins and outs of Big Blue, it all comes down to family, right?
I’m trying to convince myself of that. Of something besides “that game sucked ass.”
On a side note, there is also a note that the Mets’ Roger Cedeno will be in better shape, and may be playing center field next to Cliff Floyd (overrated) and Jeromy Burnitz (who taught him that swing?). I wonder what Timo Perez did to ask for this kind of screwing. What, a centerfielder who can actually field, throw, run a little (though not steal bases) and get on base shouldn’t play? Over a guy who doesn’t hit for power, isn’t the base stealer that he once was, gets on base less, and has no idea where the ball is when he’s in the field? Hm.
I love the Daily News. Great coverage, still, of the Giants’ debacle by the bay, where they lost 39-38 in truly appalling fashion. And the News pointed out all the things we knew. The holder could have called a time out. The team should have sat Matt Allen (the holder) down and told him exactly what his options were. The team should have gotten a couple more experienced guys to do the kicking chores. Shaun Williams could have saved the Giants 30 yards in penalties by not listening to Terrell Owens talk shit on the field-- he would have drawn two yellow-hanky unsportsmanlike conduct penalties.
And the 49ers couldn’t give a rat’s ass.
And the Giants still gave up the game.
And they gave up the game almost in the same way they gave up the playoff game in the 1997-8 playoff season, Jim Fassel’s first year as a head coach. Nice if he had some pow-wows with all the important people, the kicking team; the defense as they were being shredded, some kind of reminder to keep their heads.
Instead, we have great articles, a reminder that something is genrally wrong with the football operation in Giant-land, and a chance for Tiki Barber to watch his twin beat on the team that stole a game from his team. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Family? Once you forget the energy and passion the players and especially the fans put in; once you forget about the hopes of people who live with the ins and outs of Big Blue, it all comes down to family, right?
I’m trying to convince myself of that. Of something besides “that game sucked ass.”
On a side note, there is also a note that the Mets’ Roger Cedeno will be in better shape, and may be playing center field next to Cliff Floyd (overrated) and Jeromy Burnitz (who taught him that swing?). I wonder what Timo Perez did to ask for this kind of screwing. What, a centerfielder who can actually field, throw, run a little (though not steal bases) and get on base shouldn’t play? Over a guy who doesn’t hit for power, isn’t the base stealer that he once was, gets on base less, and has no idea where the ball is when he’s in the field? Hm.
…On Boston Public 1.7.03
This show has reached levels of ridiculous previously reserved for the cast of FAME and the current composition of the New York Knicks. The shit is hot. Kids come in and they’re in gangs, every semester someone else is pregnant, good looking teachers bone each other, and the fellow who looks like Arroz gets some from a rather cute I-banker. Now if only they made fun of themselves more often…
I thought my high school had some drama. If it was anything like that, I would never want to graduate! I’d just stay and chronicle the whole happening.
It would be more active (better?) than simply going to places and watching television, wouldn’t it?
This show has reached levels of ridiculous previously reserved for the cast of FAME and the current composition of the New York Knicks. The shit is hot. Kids come in and they’re in gangs, every semester someone else is pregnant, good looking teachers bone each other, and the fellow who looks like Arroz gets some from a rather cute I-banker. Now if only they made fun of themselves more often…
I thought my high school had some drama. If it was anything like that, I would never want to graduate! I’d just stay and chronicle the whole happening.
It would be more active (better?) than simply going to places and watching television, wouldn’t it?
…On The New Year 1.07.2003 [--the first time the new year has been written--]
I wish I could sit here, as snow blows over suburban Queens streets and sticks as it did not in Manhattan, and offer you some insights about the turning of a new leaf and the coming of a new year; or some humor about what sociopolitical hijacks are to come; or some hope that the coming year is going to be more fun and more pain-free (esp for myself, for Gully, and for the unofficial Ms. Idaho). I wish I could offer political commentary on the Republican National Convention, now scheduled for New York, August, 2004. It would be off the chain if I could delve into the depths of the US’ hospital ship, specially equipped to deal with victims of chemical warfare, now on its way across the ocean to the Persian Gulf.
Instead you get this--
Man, I have been sleeping a g-ddamned lot recently.
I’m nearly a narcoleptic. Admittedly, it is because I have spent a lot of time flouncing around the city, seeing people I haven’t seen since I started school. Upper West Side. Cobble Hill. Lower East Side. Chelsea. SoHo. That’s the best part about New Year's; this time of year brings people together in bunches, pulls them out of work and into the bottle where they belong. And when I don’t pass out in front of them (face-in-lap or face-at-ceiling), or lose the power of speech, or suddenly become too shy to drop my… guard, they are a blast to be around.
New Year’s was pretty damned good. And that’s ALL I’m saying.
Yaaaaaawwwwwnnnn. Good luck in the naughty 2-K-Tré.
I wish I could sit here, as snow blows over suburban Queens streets and sticks as it did not in Manhattan, and offer you some insights about the turning of a new leaf and the coming of a new year; or some humor about what sociopolitical hijacks are to come; or some hope that the coming year is going to be more fun and more pain-free (esp for myself, for Gully, and for the unofficial Ms. Idaho). I wish I could offer political commentary on the Republican National Convention, now scheduled for New York, August, 2004. It would be off the chain if I could delve into the depths of the US’ hospital ship, specially equipped to deal with victims of chemical warfare, now on its way across the ocean to the Persian Gulf.
Instead you get this--
Man, I have been sleeping a g-ddamned lot recently.
I’m nearly a narcoleptic. Admittedly, it is because I have spent a lot of time flouncing around the city, seeing people I haven’t seen since I started school. Upper West Side. Cobble Hill. Lower East Side. Chelsea. SoHo. That’s the best part about New Year's; this time of year brings people together in bunches, pulls them out of work and into the bottle where they belong. And when I don’t pass out in front of them (face-in-lap or face-at-ceiling), or lose the power of speech, or suddenly become too shy to drop my… guard, they are a blast to be around.
New Year’s was pretty damned good. And that’s ALL I’m saying.
Yaaaaaawwwwwnnnn. Good luck in the naughty 2-K-Tré.
Friday, December 27, 2002
Hiding. 12.27.02
I have been in a silo. On a desert island. Stuck in the muck. Deep in my basement. Rolling with the homies. Okay, I have been sleeping and playing video games and sitting on my ass. And I am going to do it some more. Once I feel a little better. Hopefully there will be more entries before the New Year's bonanza. Unitl then, chew on this cake:
From the EURweb:
SNOOP BOWL GOES WELL Doggy done did it now.
We just know they were having themselves a good ol' fashioned time down at the inaugural Snoop Bowl last week. MTV reports WC shouted from the sidelines: "The police is gettin' their ass whooped. Finally, y'all on the other end of the stick."
Snoop Dogg, who has certainly clashed with authorities a few times over the years, settled the score last Thursday at Long Beach City College's Veteran Stadium, where his All-Stars beat the Inland Empire Police Department Enforcers 33 to 21. And the D-O-Double-G left the game a hero, not only for organizing the event, but for scoring six of the Snoop Dogg All-Stars' points and entertaining players on both teams with his touchdown dance.
"It was a tight dance, I'll give him that," said Levi Baker, a lineman for the Enforcers. After catching a slant in the center of the end zone, Snoop got down on his knees, put his hands behind his head as his teammates "frisked" him and then motioned as though he were being handcuffed.
"It's all out of love," said WC, the self-proclaimed Ghetto Heisman winner who performed at halftime. "All the funds are going to charity, and I'm loving it. Everybody's supporting the community. A lot of kids are out here. It's great."
HIP-HOP RESOLUTION PASSED
November is official Hip-Hop month for NY State. According to reports out of allhiphop.com, the New York State Senate recently passed the Hip-Hop History Month resolution, proclaiming November the official month to celebrate Hip-Hop history in the state of New York. The bill was sponsored by State Senator Pedro Espada, Jr. and had Zulu Nation founder Afrika Bambaataa as a powerful backer. It was passed by both the Democrats and Republicans.
I have been in a silo. On a desert island. Stuck in the muck. Deep in my basement. Rolling with the homies. Okay, I have been sleeping and playing video games and sitting on my ass. And I am going to do it some more. Once I feel a little better. Hopefully there will be more entries before the New Year's bonanza. Unitl then, chew on this cake:
From the EURweb:
SNOOP BOWL GOES WELL Doggy done did it now.
We just know they were having themselves a good ol' fashioned time down at the inaugural Snoop Bowl last week. MTV reports WC shouted from the sidelines: "The police is gettin' their ass whooped. Finally, y'all on the other end of the stick."
Snoop Dogg, who has certainly clashed with authorities a few times over the years, settled the score last Thursday at Long Beach City College's Veteran Stadium, where his All-Stars beat the Inland Empire Police Department Enforcers 33 to 21. And the D-O-Double-G left the game a hero, not only for organizing the event, but for scoring six of the Snoop Dogg All-Stars' points and entertaining players on both teams with his touchdown dance.
"It was a tight dance, I'll give him that," said Levi Baker, a lineman for the Enforcers. After catching a slant in the center of the end zone, Snoop got down on his knees, put his hands behind his head as his teammates "frisked" him and then motioned as though he were being handcuffed.
"It's all out of love," said WC, the self-proclaimed Ghetto Heisman winner who performed at halftime. "All the funds are going to charity, and I'm loving it. Everybody's supporting the community. A lot of kids are out here. It's great."
HIP-HOP RESOLUTION PASSED
November is official Hip-Hop month for NY State. According to reports out of allhiphop.com, the New York State Senate recently passed the Hip-Hop History Month resolution, proclaiming November the official month to celebrate Hip-Hop history in the state of New York. The bill was sponsored by State Senator Pedro Espada, Jr. and had Zulu Nation founder Afrika Bambaataa as a powerful backer. It was passed by both the Democrats and Republicans.
Tuesday, December 17, 2002
The Fabulous Mobile Experiment 12.17.02
Crushed to the side of a two-seater Jamaica Bus careening over asphalt bridges and apartment complex-neighborhoods on my way home. It's 5.00 pm and the bus is packed. I have not slept much, my hip hurts, and I am tired of looking at statistical output. The woman next to me has a sizeable bag bouncing off of my knee. Some child is talking incessantly in a language somewhere between human and Teletubby.
And I hear it. The cell phone is equipped to ring in a tune that I would say is Gilligan's Island, but I know what the owner is going after.
The Big Tymers' "Hood Rich." Which sums it up; he begins to talk in top volume about somebody getting "the papers," all while looking up from under his low-slung winter hat at the people staring at him. Ignoring the fact that we don't need to hear someone else's conversation. But when you're hood rich, you don't need courtesy.
Crushed to the side of a two-seater Jamaica Bus careening over asphalt bridges and apartment complex-neighborhoods on my way home. It's 5.00 pm and the bus is packed. I have not slept much, my hip hurts, and I am tired of looking at statistical output. The woman next to me has a sizeable bag bouncing off of my knee. Some child is talking incessantly in a language somewhere between human and Teletubby.
And I hear it. The cell phone is equipped to ring in a tune that I would say is Gilligan's Island, but I know what the owner is going after.
The Big Tymers' "Hood Rich." Which sums it up; he begins to talk in top volume about somebody getting "the papers," all while looking up from under his low-slung winter hat at the people staring at him. Ignoring the fact that we don't need to hear someone else's conversation. But when you're hood rich, you don't need courtesy.
Showed You Stars You Never Could See 12.17.02
Me, my big ass pimple, and my overweening vanity stepped out last night, courtesy of the pimpin’ styles of Arroz the Rice-A-Homie. I walked out of a statistics test with my head in the air and some funk on my feet. Checked my shirt to see that it was properly out of my pants, my cuffs undone, my eyes almost covered by the floppy grey hat. Shoes mad shiny. The weight of statistics translated into a trickling sarcasm.
Hell yeah. I was straight. Time for the yearly 40 Acres premiere party.
This one was for the movie “25th Hour,” starring Ed Norton. And if it wasn’t for that blamed Stats test I would have been up in that piece watching the movie too. Now, the thing is, I don’t consider myself a fame whore. I don’t usually go around drooling and fawning because someone is on television or on the silver screen. There are a few people who come off as the cutest, though, and some of them were striding out of the Ziegfeld Theatre at 10.30 pm last night. I watched them come out as I applied vaseline to my lips and held my coat tight to my chest.
Al Roker isn’t the cutest but that’s funny as hell. The woman who plays Lila on the TV show “Angel” was all over the premiere and the party. Dave Chapelle, Lisa Ling (yumm…), Ed, Selma Hayek, Rosario Dawson (again, yumm...), Philip Seymour Hoffman, Annabella Skinny-orria, Tony Siragusa and two of his chins.
Et cetera. Looking back on those cheap thrills, I was much more elated by the food/ likker/ bad music that covered the museum in Chelsea where this event was held. So much freestyle, so out of time. But I let the l’il freak out the box a bit, thanks to Kiri and Imana and Brandon and John and Tara and of course, the Rice-A-Homie and the Flower Girl. The floor was slippery and the slide steps were working; the knees and hamstrings held up; it was on like Donkey Kong.
We rode back to Bklyn in a cab, rehashing the movie and the night, with a lot of love in the cab. Even the driver was a good guy, chillin', chatting with us, almost pulling the Flower Girl along before she stepped inside.... It was funny at the time.
It’s too bad I got to be up in this computer lab working on statistical output very, very, very slowly.
Me, my big ass pimple, and my overweening vanity stepped out last night, courtesy of the pimpin’ styles of Arroz the Rice-A-Homie. I walked out of a statistics test with my head in the air and some funk on my feet. Checked my shirt to see that it was properly out of my pants, my cuffs undone, my eyes almost covered by the floppy grey hat. Shoes mad shiny. The weight of statistics translated into a trickling sarcasm.
Hell yeah. I was straight. Time for the yearly 40 Acres premiere party.
This one was for the movie “25th Hour,” starring Ed Norton. And if it wasn’t for that blamed Stats test I would have been up in that piece watching the movie too. Now, the thing is, I don’t consider myself a fame whore. I don’t usually go around drooling and fawning because someone is on television or on the silver screen. There are a few people who come off as the cutest, though, and some of them were striding out of the Ziegfeld Theatre at 10.30 pm last night. I watched them come out as I applied vaseline to my lips and held my coat tight to my chest.
Al Roker isn’t the cutest but that’s funny as hell. The woman who plays Lila on the TV show “Angel” was all over the premiere and the party. Dave Chapelle, Lisa Ling (yumm…), Ed, Selma Hayek, Rosario Dawson (again, yumm...), Philip Seymour Hoffman, Annabella Skinny-orria, Tony Siragusa and two of his chins.
Et cetera. Looking back on those cheap thrills, I was much more elated by the food/ likker/ bad music that covered the museum in Chelsea where this event was held. So much freestyle, so out of time. But I let the l’il freak out the box a bit, thanks to Kiri and Imana and Brandon and John and Tara and of course, the Rice-A-Homie and the Flower Girl. The floor was slippery and the slide steps were working; the knees and hamstrings held up; it was on like Donkey Kong.
We rode back to Bklyn in a cab, rehashing the movie and the night, with a lot of love in the cab. Even the driver was a good guy, chillin', chatting with us, almost pulling the Flower Girl along before she stepped inside.... It was funny at the time.
It’s too bad I got to be up in this computer lab working on statistical output very, very, very slowly.
Monday, December 16, 2002
Wit's Beginning? 12.16.02
So, it is almost New Year's. High time for us to get our plans in order. Time to think about people we'd like to kiss at midnight. And other people we'd like to recline with in a "I did what/who on New Year's?" A time to end the night singing Hall & Oates or Squeeze or "Total Eclipse of the Heart" at top volume while human flotsam lie prone about our beer-soaked feet.
Holla!
This is also the time of year where (instead of studying for my statistics final) I am making pancakes and thinking of lists I could make, best of the year, top tens of the year, that sort of thing. Now, I know you people out there. Y'all are mad crafty, crazy witty, just itching to give some input. Am I right? Don't even contradict me to be funny. Please. I'll come right through that computer screen with my kilt + sandals + porn star bib and show you the business!
So look out for some lists in the next two weeks. If there is a list you'd like to see, email me at normanrose@hotmail.com.
So, it is almost New Year's. High time for us to get our plans in order. Time to think about people we'd like to kiss at midnight. And other people we'd like to recline with in a "I did what/who on New Year's?" A time to end the night singing Hall & Oates or Squeeze or "Total Eclipse of the Heart" at top volume while human flotsam lie prone about our beer-soaked feet.
Holla!
This is also the time of year where (instead of studying for my statistics final) I am making pancakes and thinking of lists I could make, best of the year, top tens of the year, that sort of thing. Now, I know you people out there. Y'all are mad crafty, crazy witty, just itching to give some input. Am I right? Don't even contradict me to be funny. Please. I'll come right through that computer screen with my kilt + sandals + porn star bib and show you the business!
So look out for some lists in the next two weeks. If there is a list you'd like to see, email me at normanrose@hotmail.com.
The Knuckle and The Hammer 12.15.02
I suppose topics for today could involve the brutality of man. Religious responsibility and Boston’s ex-Cardinal Law. Or the ridiculousness of the transit strike.
I was going to step away from all three topics and scribble something inconsequential. Like something about that ridiculous yammer mouthed young lady from last night’s Schmarley gathering.
I should have been sleeping instead of listening to someone talk in a high pitch about:
* some British boy,
* the wonder of the bar Down the Hatch,
* some other things I was trying hard not to pollute my virgin ears with.
I should have been sleeping instead of listening to the new Ghostface album in Arroz’ whip late last night, before I realized I was real drunk and had slept three hours the night before.
I was glad for the ride home. It’s a long and rolling journey between there and here. Up and around Queens or down and around Brooklyn, through suburban lengths lined by lights. I slept in my home but I am still tired; but I was awake enough to see the counter press conferences by Bloomberg/ Pataki and then by Transit Workers‘ Union President Roger Toussaint.
I was impressed with this press conference for a couple of reasons. The blatant hypocrisy of having given the firemen a 15% raise and then offering other essential workers of the city, of a service more of us use and a service we use more often, nothing. Though fire protection is essential, so is transit.
Bloomberg/ Pataki gave us reasons to believe that the union is doing bad things, and it is illegal to use your employee leverage-- withholding your work product-- ask for concessions from your management. The duo told us that we are in this together.
According to Patakaerg, the MTA is working in “good faith” to present a reasonable offer with an understanding that there is a tight fiscal environment. Bloomberg told us that we’re just going to have to ride our bikes, and that maybe people will die (thanks for the throwaway comment, Mike! This is due to the traffic congestion. By the way.), all in that pleasantly nasal voice and through the gritted teeth.
Amazing. In contrast, I was seduced by TWU’s president. Toussaint, in the face of disparaging, dirty-underwear-in-face commentary from our Governor and our mayor, in the face of public loathing (we really cannot handle getting around the city without subways), stood tall. In a gentle Trinidadian accent, he delivered his speech. Measured tones. Confidence. One simple expression.
He calmly explained a few things that I had not even heard. Their concerns for safety issues. The fact that the MTA has not opened their books to either the union or the city comptroller. The prescription benefits the TWU workers lose when they retire. The mention that their workers are disciplined at higher rates than comparable organizations (other city units?) across the nation.
Again, it was not even the fact. It was the feeling. These come off like simple requests-- for honesty, for good faith, for some sense of equality. For a measure of decent benefits. A request for transparency. The good faith that the MTA speaks about was questioned-- knowing the contract would be up at the end of the year, why wait until after the elections to start with the offers?
The way Toussaint spoke, he won me over. It is not the evil man who is taking away our subways. Really, the evil men who are taking our subways might be our elected officials; might be their appointed leaders; might be the insistence on not stepping into the fray. Though they step in enough to mention with a wagging fatherly finger that strikes are illegal, children! So exactly what’s illegal or bad faith for the other side?
While we are, as Mayor Bloomberg warbles “go to sleep, preparing for the worst,” and as he sleeps and prepares to be filmed on his bicycle (Mayor, will you subsidize my new vehicle?) let’s hope there is no strike and if there is one… it is short and deals are made before we have our inter-city wrestle fest in cars, and on buses, on commuter vans, and on our new bikes… in the snow.
I suppose topics for today could involve the brutality of man. Religious responsibility and Boston’s ex-Cardinal Law. Or the ridiculousness of the transit strike.
I was going to step away from all three topics and scribble something inconsequential. Like something about that ridiculous yammer mouthed young lady from last night’s Schmarley gathering.
I should have been sleeping instead of listening to someone talk in a high pitch about:
* some British boy,
* the wonder of the bar Down the Hatch,
* some other things I was trying hard not to pollute my virgin ears with.
I should have been sleeping instead of listening to the new Ghostface album in Arroz’ whip late last night, before I realized I was real drunk and had slept three hours the night before.
I was glad for the ride home. It’s a long and rolling journey between there and here. Up and around Queens or down and around Brooklyn, through suburban lengths lined by lights. I slept in my home but I am still tired; but I was awake enough to see the counter press conferences by Bloomberg/ Pataki and then by Transit Workers‘ Union President Roger Toussaint.
I was impressed with this press conference for a couple of reasons. The blatant hypocrisy of having given the firemen a 15% raise and then offering other essential workers of the city, of a service more of us use and a service we use more often, nothing. Though fire protection is essential, so is transit.
Bloomberg/ Pataki gave us reasons to believe that the union is doing bad things, and it is illegal to use your employee leverage-- withholding your work product-- ask for concessions from your management. The duo told us that we are in this together.
According to Patakaerg, the MTA is working in “good faith” to present a reasonable offer with an understanding that there is a tight fiscal environment. Bloomberg told us that we’re just going to have to ride our bikes, and that maybe people will die (thanks for the throwaway comment, Mike! This is due to the traffic congestion. By the way.), all in that pleasantly nasal voice and through the gritted teeth.
Amazing. In contrast, I was seduced by TWU’s president. Toussaint, in the face of disparaging, dirty-underwear-in-face commentary from our Governor and our mayor, in the face of public loathing (we really cannot handle getting around the city without subways), stood tall. In a gentle Trinidadian accent, he delivered his speech. Measured tones. Confidence. One simple expression.
He calmly explained a few things that I had not even heard. Their concerns for safety issues. The fact that the MTA has not opened their books to either the union or the city comptroller. The prescription benefits the TWU workers lose when they retire. The mention that their workers are disciplined at higher rates than comparable organizations (other city units?) across the nation.
Again, it was not even the fact. It was the feeling. These come off like simple requests-- for honesty, for good faith, for some sense of equality. For a measure of decent benefits. A request for transparency. The good faith that the MTA speaks about was questioned-- knowing the contract would be up at the end of the year, why wait until after the elections to start with the offers?
The way Toussaint spoke, he won me over. It is not the evil man who is taking away our subways. Really, the evil men who are taking our subways might be our elected officials; might be their appointed leaders; might be the insistence on not stepping into the fray. Though they step in enough to mention with a wagging fatherly finger that strikes are illegal, children! So exactly what’s illegal or bad faith for the other side?
While we are, as Mayor Bloomberg warbles “go to sleep, preparing for the worst,” and as he sleeps and prepares to be filmed on his bicycle (Mayor, will you subsidize my new vehicle?) let’s hope there is no strike and if there is one… it is short and deals are made before we have our inter-city wrestle fest in cars, and on buses, on commuter vans, and on our new bikes… in the snow.
Friday, December 13, 2002
Northern Neighbors 12.13.02
I do believe our Toronto neighbors are getting a little too into this "Bush is a Moron" thing. They probably believe that if they yell about his stupidity long and loud enough Americans will listen. Like we listen to Canadians except when they're being dry and funny. Please. Even then we're not paying that much attention. Quick-- name me the capital of Toronto. Ha! It's a city, there is not a capital of a city, silly! Name the province Toronto is in. Too slow, it's Ontario.
Ah, Toronto, home of a huge Caribana festival, my dear uncle and aunt, and suspiciously clean streets... here is one more article from the Star. Thanks to "yallgonmakeme losemymind jones," on the defamation of the character of morons everywhere:
Nov. 26, 2002. 01:00 AM- Bush fails to meet moron criteria
THOMAS WALKOM
The debate over whether George W. Bush is a moron continues to sputter.
Morons are outraged at being lumped in with the U.S. president.
Americans,meanwhile, are mildly amused that it has taken Canadians so long
to discover the obvious.
The controversy exploded last week when Francoise Ducros, an adviser to
Prime Minister Jean Chrétien, was overheard at a NATO meeting in Prague
saying,"What a moron," apparently about Bush.
Morons say this is an outlandish slur. "We're nice people," explained one.
"We don't threaten other countries or use the courts to steal
elections.George W. Bush may be a dangerous lunatic. But he's no moron."
Chrétien seems to agree. "He's not a moron at all," the Prime Minister told
reporters on Thursday, referring to Bush.
Still, the opposition parties are not content. The Canadian Alliance argues
that if Bush discovers he is a moron, this could affect Canada-U.S.
relations.
Chrétien, however, says there is nothing to worry about. Bush, he said,
doesn't read Canadian newspapers. Or any newspapers, for that matter.
According to the International Dictionary of Medicine and Biology, most
morons are "educable and do not require institutionalization but need some
supervision in working at some simple job by which they can become
self-sustaining members of society."
Some have argued that this definition fits Bush to a tee. In most
matters,they note, he is carefully supervised by Vice President Dick Cheney,
Defence Secretary Donald Rumsfeld and Attorney General John Ashcroft.
Cheney and Rumsfeld run Bush's wars while Ashcroft stifles domestic
opposition. At home in the White House, first lady Laura Bush is chargedwith
watching over the president.
"Since the president's inauguration, he's only been left unsupervised
once--towatch a football game on television," recalled one expert. "And look
whathappened. He fell off the couch, choked on a pretzel and hurt his head."
While the Canadian media have gone gaga over the Bush-is-moron story,
Americans seem to have taken it in their stride. "Once again, Canadians have
discovered the obvious," editorialized the Wall Street Journal dismissively.
"Duh, Canada" riposted the New York Post.
In a lengthy analysis, the New York Times pointed out that Americans
havelong made a practice of electing dead people to the Senate and morons
tothe presidency.
"This kind of flexibility is what makes U.S. democracy so vital," the Times
went on. "Why should the Senate be denied the wisdom of those who have
passed on? Why should the presidency be the preserve of the mentally
capable?"
I do believe our Toronto neighbors are getting a little too into this "Bush is a Moron" thing. They probably believe that if they yell about his stupidity long and loud enough Americans will listen. Like we listen to Canadians except when they're being dry and funny. Please. Even then we're not paying that much attention. Quick-- name me the capital of Toronto. Ha! It's a city, there is not a capital of a city, silly! Name the province Toronto is in. Too slow, it's Ontario.
Ah, Toronto, home of a huge Caribana festival, my dear uncle and aunt, and suspiciously clean streets... here is one more article from the Star. Thanks to "yallgonmakeme losemymind jones," on the defamation of the character of morons everywhere:
Nov. 26, 2002. 01:00 AM- Bush fails to meet moron criteria
THOMAS WALKOM
The debate over whether George W. Bush is a moron continues to sputter.
Morons are outraged at being lumped in with the U.S. president.
Americans,meanwhile, are mildly amused that it has taken Canadians so long
to discover the obvious.
The controversy exploded last week when Francoise Ducros, an adviser to
Prime Minister Jean Chrétien, was overheard at a NATO meeting in Prague
saying,"What a moron," apparently about Bush.
Morons say this is an outlandish slur. "We're nice people," explained one.
"We don't threaten other countries or use the courts to steal
elections.George W. Bush may be a dangerous lunatic. But he's no moron."
Chrétien seems to agree. "He's not a moron at all," the Prime Minister told
reporters on Thursday, referring to Bush.
Still, the opposition parties are not content. The Canadian Alliance argues
that if Bush discovers he is a moron, this could affect Canada-U.S.
relations.
Chrétien, however, says there is nothing to worry about. Bush, he said,
doesn't read Canadian newspapers. Or any newspapers, for that matter.
According to the International Dictionary of Medicine and Biology, most
morons are "educable and do not require institutionalization but need some
supervision in working at some simple job by which they can become
self-sustaining members of society."
Some have argued that this definition fits Bush to a tee. In most
matters,they note, he is carefully supervised by Vice President Dick Cheney,
Defence Secretary Donald Rumsfeld and Attorney General John Ashcroft.
Cheney and Rumsfeld run Bush's wars while Ashcroft stifles domestic
opposition. At home in the White House, first lady Laura Bush is chargedwith
watching over the president.
"Since the president's inauguration, he's only been left unsupervised
once--towatch a football game on television," recalled one expert. "And look
whathappened. He fell off the couch, choked on a pretzel and hurt his head."
While the Canadian media have gone gaga over the Bush-is-moron story,
Americans seem to have taken it in their stride. "Once again, Canadians have
discovered the obvious," editorialized the Wall Street Journal dismissively.
"Duh, Canada" riposted the New York Post.
In a lengthy analysis, the New York Times pointed out that Americans
havelong made a practice of electing dead people to the Senate and morons
tothe presidency.
"This kind of flexibility is what makes U.S. democracy so vital," the Times
went on. "Why should the Senate be denied the wisdom of those who have
passed on? Why should the presidency be the preserve of the mentally
capable?"
Thursday, December 12, 2002
From the Toronto Star on the Dubya 12.12.02
*thanks to the dark-haired jlf in chi-town*
Taken from the Toronto Star; written by Murray Whyte; title- "Bush anything but moronic, according to author"; maybe you can still see the Nov. 28 article.
Bush anything but moronic, according to author; Dark overtones in his malapropisms
MURRAY WHYTE
When Mark Crispin Miller first set out to write Dyslexicon: Observations on a National Disorder, about the ever-growing catalogue of President George W. Bush's verbal gaffes, he meant it for a laugh. But what he came to realize wasn't entirely amusing.
Since the 2000 presidential campaign, Miller has been compiling his own collection of Bush-isms, which have revealed, he says, a disquieting truth about what lurks behind the cock-eyed leer of the leader of the free world. He's not a moron at all — on that point, Miller and Prime Minister Jean Chrétien agree.
But according to Miller, he's no friend.
"I did initially intend it to be a funny book. But that was before I had a chance to read through all the transcripts," Miller, an American author and a professor of culture and communication at New York University, said recently in Toronto.
"Bush is not an imbecile. He's not a puppet. I think that Bush is a sociopathic personality. I think he's incapable of empathy. He has an inordinate sense of his own entitlement, and he's a very skilled manipulator. And in all the snickering about his alleged idiocy, this is what a lot of people miss."
Miller's judgment, that the president might suffer from a bona fide personality disorder, almost makes one long for the less menacing notion currently making the rounds: that the White House's current occupant is, in fact, simply an idiot.
If only. Miller's rendering of the president is bleaker than that. In studying Bush's various adventures in oration, he started to see a pattern emerging.
"He has no trouble speaking off the cuff when he's speaking punitively, when he's talking about violence, when he's talking about revenge.
"When he struts and thumps his chest, his syntax and grammar are fine," Miller said.
"It's only when he leaps into the wild blue yonder of compassion, or idealism, or altruism, that he makes these hilarious mistakes."
While Miller's book has been praised for its "eloquence" and "playful use of language," it has enraged Bush supporters.
Bush's ascent in the eyes of many Americans — his approval rating hovers at near 80 percent — was the direct result of tough talk following the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks. In those speeches, Bush stumbled not at all; his language of retribution was clear.
It was a sharp contrast to the pre-9/11 George W. Bush. Even before the Supreme Court in 2001 had to intervene and rule on recounts in Florida after a contentious presidential election, a corps of journalists were salivating at the prospect: a bafflingly inarticulate man in a position of power not seen since vice-president Dan Quayle rode shotgun on George H.W. Bush's one term in office.
But equating Bush's malapropisms with Quayle's inability to spell "potato" is a dangerous assumption, Miller says.
At a public address in Nashville, Tenn., in September, Bush provided one of his most memorable stumbles. Trying to give strength to his case that Saddam Hussein had already deceived the West concerning his store of weapons, Bush was scripted to offer an old saying: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. What came out was the following:
"Fool me once, shame ... shame on ... you." Long, uncomfortable pause. "Fool me — can't get fooled again!"
Played for laughs everywhere, Miller saw a darkness underlying the gaffe.
"There's an episode of Happy Days, where The Fonz has to say, `I'm sorry' and can't do it. Same thing," Miller said.
"What's revealing about this is that Bush could not say, `Shame on me' to save his life. That's a completely alien idea to him. This is a guy who is absolutely proud of his own inflexibility and rectitude."
If what Miller says is true — and it would take more than just observations to prove it — then Bush has achieved an astounding goal.
By stumbling blithely along, he has been able to push his image as "just folks" — a normal guy who screws up just like the rest of us.
This, in fact, is a central cog in his image-making machine, Miller says: Portraying the wealthy scion of one of America's most powerful families as a regular, imperfect Joe.
But the depiction, Miller says, is also remarkable for what it hides — imperfect, yes, but also detached, wealthy and unable to identify with the "folks" he's been designed to appeal to.
An example, Miller says, surfaced early in his presidential tenure.
"I know how hard it is to put food on your family," Bush was quoted as saying.
"That wasn't because he's so stupid that he doesn't know how to say, `Put food on your family's table' — it's because he doesn't care about people who can't put food on the table," Miller says.
So, when Bush is envisioning "a foreign-handed foreign policy," or observes on some point that "it's not the way that America is all about," Miller contends it's because he can't keep his focus on things that mean nothing to him.
"When he tries to talk about what this country stands for, or about democracy, he can't do it," he said.
This, then, is why he's so closely watched by his handlers, Miller says — not because he'll say something stupid, but because he'll overindulge in the language of violence and punishment at which he excels.
"He's a very angry guy, a hostile guy. He's much like Nixon. So they're very, very careful to choreograph every move he makes. They don't want him anywhere near protestors, because he would lose his temper."
Miller, without question, is a man with a mission — and laughter isn't it.
"I call him the feel bad president, because he's all about punishment and death," he said. "It would be a grave mistake to just play him for laughs."
*thanks to the dark-haired jlf in chi-town*
Taken from the Toronto Star; written by Murray Whyte; title- "Bush anything but moronic, according to author"; maybe you can still see the Nov. 28 article.
Bush anything but moronic, according to author; Dark overtones in his malapropisms
MURRAY WHYTE
When Mark Crispin Miller first set out to write Dyslexicon: Observations on a National Disorder, about the ever-growing catalogue of President George W. Bush's verbal gaffes, he meant it for a laugh. But what he came to realize wasn't entirely amusing.
Since the 2000 presidential campaign, Miller has been compiling his own collection of Bush-isms, which have revealed, he says, a disquieting truth about what lurks behind the cock-eyed leer of the leader of the free world. He's not a moron at all — on that point, Miller and Prime Minister Jean Chrétien agree.
But according to Miller, he's no friend.
"I did initially intend it to be a funny book. But that was before I had a chance to read through all the transcripts," Miller, an American author and a professor of culture and communication at New York University, said recently in Toronto.
"Bush is not an imbecile. He's not a puppet. I think that Bush is a sociopathic personality. I think he's incapable of empathy. He has an inordinate sense of his own entitlement, and he's a very skilled manipulator. And in all the snickering about his alleged idiocy, this is what a lot of people miss."
Miller's judgment, that the president might suffer from a bona fide personality disorder, almost makes one long for the less menacing notion currently making the rounds: that the White House's current occupant is, in fact, simply an idiot.
If only. Miller's rendering of the president is bleaker than that. In studying Bush's various adventures in oration, he started to see a pattern emerging.
"He has no trouble speaking off the cuff when he's speaking punitively, when he's talking about violence, when he's talking about revenge.
"When he struts and thumps his chest, his syntax and grammar are fine," Miller said.
"It's only when he leaps into the wild blue yonder of compassion, or idealism, or altruism, that he makes these hilarious mistakes."
While Miller's book has been praised for its "eloquence" and "playful use of language," it has enraged Bush supporters.
Bush's ascent in the eyes of many Americans — his approval rating hovers at near 80 percent — was the direct result of tough talk following the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks. In those speeches, Bush stumbled not at all; his language of retribution was clear.
It was a sharp contrast to the pre-9/11 George W. Bush. Even before the Supreme Court in 2001 had to intervene and rule on recounts in Florida after a contentious presidential election, a corps of journalists were salivating at the prospect: a bafflingly inarticulate man in a position of power not seen since vice-president Dan Quayle rode shotgun on George H.W. Bush's one term in office.
But equating Bush's malapropisms with Quayle's inability to spell "potato" is a dangerous assumption, Miller says.
At a public address in Nashville, Tenn., in September, Bush provided one of his most memorable stumbles. Trying to give strength to his case that Saddam Hussein had already deceived the West concerning his store of weapons, Bush was scripted to offer an old saying: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. What came out was the following:
"Fool me once, shame ... shame on ... you." Long, uncomfortable pause. "Fool me — can't get fooled again!"
Played for laughs everywhere, Miller saw a darkness underlying the gaffe.
"There's an episode of Happy Days, where The Fonz has to say, `I'm sorry' and can't do it. Same thing," Miller said.
"What's revealing about this is that Bush could not say, `Shame on me' to save his life. That's a completely alien idea to him. This is a guy who is absolutely proud of his own inflexibility and rectitude."
If what Miller says is true — and it would take more than just observations to prove it — then Bush has achieved an astounding goal.
By stumbling blithely along, he has been able to push his image as "just folks" — a normal guy who screws up just like the rest of us.
This, in fact, is a central cog in his image-making machine, Miller says: Portraying the wealthy scion of one of America's most powerful families as a regular, imperfect Joe.
But the depiction, Miller says, is also remarkable for what it hides — imperfect, yes, but also detached, wealthy and unable to identify with the "folks" he's been designed to appeal to.
An example, Miller says, surfaced early in his presidential tenure.
"I know how hard it is to put food on your family," Bush was quoted as saying.
"That wasn't because he's so stupid that he doesn't know how to say, `Put food on your family's table' — it's because he doesn't care about people who can't put food on the table," Miller says.
So, when Bush is envisioning "a foreign-handed foreign policy," or observes on some point that "it's not the way that America is all about," Miller contends it's because he can't keep his focus on things that mean nothing to him.
"When he tries to talk about what this country stands for, or about democracy, he can't do it," he said.
This, then, is why he's so closely watched by his handlers, Miller says — not because he'll say something stupid, but because he'll overindulge in the language of violence and punishment at which he excels.
"He's a very angry guy, a hostile guy. He's much like Nixon. So they're very, very careful to choreograph every move he makes. They don't want him anywhere near protestors, because he would lose his temper."
Miller, without question, is a man with a mission — and laughter isn't it.
"I call him the feel bad president, because he's all about punishment and death," he said. "It would be a grave mistake to just play him for laughs."
Wednesday, December 11, 2002
Night of the Crips Part 3- Excuse me Lady, I Saw You Beatboxing for Lou Rawls... 12.11.02
So, I am on my way to the hospital at this point. Tired, having swum and changed only to have my knee lock up, I am on the way to the NYU ER.
I am in a wheelchair. It is dark, and cold, and I would rather be home, watching Smallville and drooling over Allison Mack-- I mean, the storytelling. Pico is in some pain, but it is not so bad when I do not actually try to stretch my leg.
Inside the ER, it doesn't look too busy. I talk to the triage nurse, take my spot. Chill out. I have no book and no music but I find a copy of the NY Post. Kids come in after me. A couple more NYU students-- basketball ankle injury, a girl who doesn't look to well, and her dandy ass Stern boyfriend.
A woman rolls in with her well-dressed, gray-suit husband. She is wearing pajamas and a fur coat. Dragging two large shopping bags. Hair dishevelled. Eyes crazy, red, teary. She's loud from the moment she walks in. She sits near me.
She tells me some things-- such as "I'm the town drunk of Freehold, NJ." And "There's a court case against me there." And "this coat? I got it for free. But the people I got it from won't let me come into the office anymore; they say I use their phone too much and disrupt their blah blah blah, bastards." And, "I know Fabio. You know he's to WalMart what Joan Collins is to K-Mart." (I didn't know Joan Collins was ANYTHING to K-Mart.) And, "I think I am having an asthmatic attack. Also, I just turned diabetic. That's why I have this bag full of cookies and sweets (drool) do you want one?" And "do you want anything? My husband is going out to get blah blah blah."
[--I declined--]
She goes in before me. As do some more critical cases. That's fine. What is not fine is that I came in at a little before nine, and I was whisked in during a compelling Blind Date episode in the 12.00 hour. I hate it when things get in the way of Blind Date.
But I hope to get my leg working again. I realized I had an urge to lighten my liquid load. Now, I never realized how damned difficult this is when you can't use a leg. There was gripping, and stretching, and ambling and all that. I felt like such an invalid. It was so much work I did consider giving my pants a stain Tide couldn't remove. Only for a moment.
Back in my wheelchair, a doctor tries to move my leg. That was blindingly unpleasant. I cursed like the posessed. But not like the woman from Freehold. She had been shouting loud enough for us to hear outside of the ER. About the service and how important she is. And something something something. Security had been going in and out to calm her down; I came out of the bathroom and I swear to God she was on the floor, talking on the phone and coloring in a book.
Theyprep me to go up for an X-ray-- offering me Tylenol + Codeine and a Percoset for my pain. I jump at this. Kids in high school would love this stuff in their cereal!
But it doesn't do a thing for my pain. I am disappointed. Maybe if I took three of each I'd be flying something fierce. I go upstairs. The X-ray is taken from one position because I can't open my leg. That's a worry. It's better than the next doc who is really into trying to get these muscles moving. He determines that it is a muscle problem, nothing ripped. And my hamstrings are basically pulled taut (which I can feel). But that does not mean I can move them by force of will. Pain.
Downstairs, another doctor is like, you were going to discharge him? And moves me to a bed, where the nicest man-nurse from Britain and I strike up a conversation. While he pastes heart-monitoring squares on my chest, sticks an IV in my arm, watches me grimace in pain as I try to find a position that does not put pressure on my leg. Good times! the doctor returns, works on my leg a little. Decides to hit me with the morphine drip and some jacked-up muscle relaxer. So I will be sedated "but awake," he tells me.
Three hours later, my leg could move, mostly. They worked on stretching the hammy and loosening the muscles and I was ASLEEP the whole time. A little trippy.
I was ready to go. So I left a few hours later, after realizing that walking was not going to work; that I really had no comfort with crutches; that I was freaked out since I had never been injured before; that my leg actually hurt; but I had a prescription for muscle relaxers and some high-grade pain relief.
As an afterword, once I got the prescription filled, I said "this muscle relaxer doesn't makle me sleepy like the warning say-zzzxzxzxxxx" then it was three hours later. I fell asleep on couches, I fell asleep eating, I fell asleep trying to stretch. I pulled a Cory! I slept for like two days.
So, I am on my way to the hospital at this point. Tired, having swum and changed only to have my knee lock up, I am on the way to the NYU ER.
I am in a wheelchair. It is dark, and cold, and I would rather be home, watching Smallville and drooling over Allison Mack-- I mean, the storytelling. Pico is in some pain, but it is not so bad when I do not actually try to stretch my leg.
Inside the ER, it doesn't look too busy. I talk to the triage nurse, take my spot. Chill out. I have no book and no music but I find a copy of the NY Post. Kids come in after me. A couple more NYU students-- basketball ankle injury, a girl who doesn't look to well, and her dandy ass Stern boyfriend.
A woman rolls in with her well-dressed, gray-suit husband. She is wearing pajamas and a fur coat. Dragging two large shopping bags. Hair dishevelled. Eyes crazy, red, teary. She's loud from the moment she walks in. She sits near me.
She tells me some things-- such as "I'm the town drunk of Freehold, NJ." And "There's a court case against me there." And "this coat? I got it for free. But the people I got it from won't let me come into the office anymore; they say I use their phone too much and disrupt their blah blah blah, bastards." And, "I know Fabio. You know he's to WalMart what Joan Collins is to K-Mart." (I didn't know Joan Collins was ANYTHING to K-Mart.) And, "I think I am having an asthmatic attack. Also, I just turned diabetic. That's why I have this bag full of cookies and sweets (drool) do you want one?" And "do you want anything? My husband is going out to get blah blah blah."
[--I declined--]
She goes in before me. As do some more critical cases. That's fine. What is not fine is that I came in at a little before nine, and I was whisked in during a compelling Blind Date episode in the 12.00 hour. I hate it when things get in the way of Blind Date.
But I hope to get my leg working again. I realized I had an urge to lighten my liquid load. Now, I never realized how damned difficult this is when you can't use a leg. There was gripping, and stretching, and ambling and all that. I felt like such an invalid. It was so much work I did consider giving my pants a stain Tide couldn't remove. Only for a moment.
Back in my wheelchair, a doctor tries to move my leg. That was blindingly unpleasant. I cursed like the posessed. But not like the woman from Freehold. She had been shouting loud enough for us to hear outside of the ER. About the service and how important she is. And something something something. Security had been going in and out to calm her down; I came out of the bathroom and I swear to God she was on the floor, talking on the phone and coloring in a book.
Theyprep me to go up for an X-ray-- offering me Tylenol + Codeine and a Percoset for my pain. I jump at this. Kids in high school would love this stuff in their cereal!
But it doesn't do a thing for my pain. I am disappointed. Maybe if I took three of each I'd be flying something fierce. I go upstairs. The X-ray is taken from one position because I can't open my leg. That's a worry. It's better than the next doc who is really into trying to get these muscles moving. He determines that it is a muscle problem, nothing ripped. And my hamstrings are basically pulled taut (which I can feel). But that does not mean I can move them by force of will. Pain.
Downstairs, another doctor is like, you were going to discharge him? And moves me to a bed, where the nicest man-nurse from Britain and I strike up a conversation. While he pastes heart-monitoring squares on my chest, sticks an IV in my arm, watches me grimace in pain as I try to find a position that does not put pressure on my leg. Good times! the doctor returns, works on my leg a little. Decides to hit me with the morphine drip and some jacked-up muscle relaxer. So I will be sedated "but awake," he tells me.
Three hours later, my leg could move, mostly. They worked on stretching the hammy and loosening the muscles and I was ASLEEP the whole time. A little trippy.
I was ready to go. So I left a few hours later, after realizing that walking was not going to work; that I really had no comfort with crutches; that I was freaked out since I had never been injured before; that my leg actually hurt; but I had a prescription for muscle relaxers and some high-grade pain relief.
As an afterword, once I got the prescription filled, I said "this muscle relaxer doesn't makle me sleepy like the warning say-zzzxzxzxxxx" then it was three hours later. I fell asleep on couches, I fell asleep eating, I fell asleep trying to stretch. I pulled a Cory! I slept for like two days.
Tuesday, December 10, 2002
12.10.02 Things to Do While Your Subways Are Striking...
Floss.
Catalogue your CD's.
Wonder what's going on in the world around you.
Smoke reefer.
A transit strike? That's ridiculous. The funny thing is that it's ridiculous to have a transit strike, but before that, it's ridiculous to offer transit workers a chance to pay more towards their pensions... reducing their take-home pay? It's one thing to tell people there are no raises (though there is that "cost-of-living" thing) available-- it comes to be expected, after all, that you are asked to wait for a little for a raise (that never actually comes). But it's another thing to essentially ask for a give back. Why not just ask them to work gratis through the Christmas season? You know, for the kids? Then extend the Christmas season until about next Christmas? That's a good idea too!
We're adaptable here in New York. We'll be fine. Right, Arroz? Those inter-Brooklyn trips will be a real blast!! I mean, imagine-- sans a car, we can all get our exercise, something our president and our Surgeon General would certainly approve of. And then, if it's a little far, and we're not near the Long island Rail Road (like I am-- how's that feel, y'all suckers!! I'll be lucky to get intimate with people from Babylon instead of people from Forest Hills!), we can follow mayor Mike's suggestion and ride our bikes!
I, personally, was a little perturbed about this suggestion. I defend Mayor Mike sometimes to my brother who I think would like to see him "removed," but this-- who says that? It sounded like "let 'em eat cake" 200 years after the fact. But, then I thought about it-- and even though I did hurt my knee, and I am working up to regular physical activity, like walking distances, biking is not so bad. If I don't have my knee lock up, or my hamstrings get all funky on me, I can get some good exercise, arrive at school good and sweaty, and experience riding in NYC traffic! I've ridden in Chicago traffic, and St. Louis traffic, so I must be ready for this one!
And Mayor Mike must have thought about that suggestion a lot. He says he'll ride his bike too! Really! It'll be great. We'll ride together in our heavy black coats. People will hit ice slicks and slip in fits of asphalt comedy. People will stop and wheeze in turns of gotham drama. Have you ever run or rode your bike in sub-freezing weather? Or sub 20 degree weather? We'll be a cool tough-guy gang!
Do we get tax credits for lost wages?
Do we get reimbursed for those exorbitant LIRR fees? $5.75 during rush hour, Mayor Mike. Maybe if I had the money, I'd take the LIRR on the regular.
Now, if we pick up a Mets Motel (I'm sorry, they changed their name-- the Metro Motel) prostitute to fulfill our 4-person in the car quota, will the rules on solicitation be eased? I mean, say, I pick up a consenting adult (or a consenting near-adult-- it happens sometimes! I swear, officer, I couldn't tell through the pigtails) and I take her to Manhattan, and we just happen to [--HAY-HAY-HAY!--] in the backseat of a car, like adults sometimes do. But I also pay her for going out of her way and assisting me in fulfilling car pool requirements. That's not illegal, is it?
Floss.
Catalogue your CD's.
Wonder what's going on in the world around you.
Smoke reefer.
A transit strike? That's ridiculous. The funny thing is that it's ridiculous to have a transit strike, but before that, it's ridiculous to offer transit workers a chance to pay more towards their pensions... reducing their take-home pay? It's one thing to tell people there are no raises (though there is that "cost-of-living" thing) available-- it comes to be expected, after all, that you are asked to wait for a little for a raise (that never actually comes). But it's another thing to essentially ask for a give back. Why not just ask them to work gratis through the Christmas season? You know, for the kids? Then extend the Christmas season until about next Christmas? That's a good idea too!
We're adaptable here in New York. We'll be fine. Right, Arroz? Those inter-Brooklyn trips will be a real blast!! I mean, imagine-- sans a car, we can all get our exercise, something our president and our Surgeon General would certainly approve of. And then, if it's a little far, and we're not near the Long island Rail Road (like I am-- how's that feel, y'all suckers!! I'll be lucky to get intimate with people from Babylon instead of people from Forest Hills!), we can follow mayor Mike's suggestion and ride our bikes!
I, personally, was a little perturbed about this suggestion. I defend Mayor Mike sometimes to my brother who I think would like to see him "removed," but this-- who says that? It sounded like "let 'em eat cake" 200 years after the fact. But, then I thought about it-- and even though I did hurt my knee, and I am working up to regular physical activity, like walking distances, biking is not so bad. If I don't have my knee lock up, or my hamstrings get all funky on me, I can get some good exercise, arrive at school good and sweaty, and experience riding in NYC traffic! I've ridden in Chicago traffic, and St. Louis traffic, so I must be ready for this one!
And Mayor Mike must have thought about that suggestion a lot. He says he'll ride his bike too! Really! It'll be great. We'll ride together in our heavy black coats. People will hit ice slicks and slip in fits of asphalt comedy. People will stop and wheeze in turns of gotham drama. Have you ever run or rode your bike in sub-freezing weather? Or sub 20 degree weather? We'll be a cool tough-guy gang!
Do we get tax credits for lost wages?
Do we get reimbursed for those exorbitant LIRR fees? $5.75 during rush hour, Mayor Mike. Maybe if I had the money, I'd take the LIRR on the regular.
Now, if we pick up a Mets Motel (I'm sorry, they changed their name-- the Metro Motel) prostitute to fulfill our 4-person in the car quota, will the rules on solicitation be eased? I mean, say, I pick up a consenting adult (or a consenting near-adult-- it happens sometimes! I swear, officer, I couldn't tell through the pigtails) and I take her to Manhattan, and we just happen to [--HAY-HAY-HAY!--] in the backseat of a car, like adults sometimes do. But I also pay her for going out of her way and assisting me in fulfilling car pool requirements. That's not illegal, is it?
Friday, December 06, 2002
After the Leg Is Gone 12.6.02
My manegement project has fallen by the wayside. I mean, like, it's done. Decent. We could have been better. But at least I didn't drop my pants as an ice breaker.
Let's go back to the night of the crips. Last time, we had this:
I was working with my management group. I stood to put something in the trash. Most of me was cool with that but a twinge on the left side of my knee was a dissenter.
I had been sitting in one position for a while; i should have been moving my legs. I had been swimming for a few weeks, getting back into shape. Swimming hard. Feeling the benefits.
Then the library closed where I was typing.
for a soundtrack use these interim tunes:
Danny Elfman's Evil Theme from Nightmare Before Christmas
The Isley Brothers' Hurry Up And Wait
50 Cent's Wangsta
Earth, Wind, And Fire's After the Love is Gone
Riyuichi Sakamoto's Grief (Amon Tobin rmx)
Nine Inch Nails' Down In It
Neil Young's Theme from Dead Man
N.O.R.E's Nothin'
Back to the crips. I'm up in the Tisch building with my non-man-titties and all, and we end our meeting. I start to walk upstairs but my left knee is still balking at me like "Na-na-na-naaaah!," since I let my knee listen to that f---ing genius N.O.R.E. But my knee wasn't pissy drunk like that. "If you can't understand it, write that shit down... and FIGURE IT OUT WHEN YOU GET HOME!!" -Redman
I reach the pool with a gangsta lean and it's all gravy, I stretch that twinge till it backs up off of me, take my shower, and I'm in the pool, swimming hard. I did a lot more laps than usual, and I went pretty hard. I felt very good, like all the training was helping, like the four days I took off of swimming helped too. I stretched once or twice in the pool (legs up to the bar underneath the starting blocks, reach-- yeah, I'm flexible. Yeah, I learned it at the club, wise-ass.) in between sets. Came out.
Went to shower. I decided then that I would have to include this bit in a blog (having no idea what the rest of the night had in store for me). I was reminded of my blog on the 15th where I made mention of the best term for the male genetalia-- junk. I was in a junkyard. Five men had come out of the sauna and it is customary for those men to shower. Nekkid. I won't say whether I felt shamed or elated or anything like that-- but it's a little worrisome showering in a corner while five other men shower too. Very "don't drop the soa-oh-oh." A lot of hair on these fellas too. Yeah, I said it. Just to demistify things.
Worst of all, they were taking cold showers. So I could feel it when the guy who came next to me turned his on. It was cold just being nearby. So I took a hotter shower.
In situations where a man is surrounded, in a junkyard, a man prefers not to hear socializing and talking. That just makes it seem like it's less wierd. But they're all chatting like it's totally chill. For me, it has nothing to do with a fear of man-spears. I just don't find myself in such situations all the time. I need to be more open-minded, right? As long as I'm not open-assed it's all good.
I shudder to think about the junkyard. Back at my locker, securing my very own junk in my pants, then moving on to the shirt, some baby oil to keep my skin moist, and moving on to the shoes--
Something happened on the way to the shoes. Mind you, I was supposed to meet Arroz for some chillin and drinking, and then down to see friend Ruby spin her things. Her things being CD's. Fucking perverts. But I wasn't thinking about that anymore because my eyes were blazed up with pain. My leg went into a locked position like it was trying to find its way back into a womb i never had.
It
would
not
move.
I tried. But the pain was unbelievable when I tried to move it. I used my hands to massage and groove it. I took my eyes and looked down at my shoes 'em. Couldn't figure out the pain it was more than a bruise 'em.
There was a fellow who had put himself in crash position to my right. He had an ice pack over a face obviously in pain. He had crossed my path once in the locker room, staring at his face in the mirror as if to figure out who he was. He turned to me, hesitantly. Do you need me to get some... help?
Uhm... I think you'd better. Thank-- acch-- you.
Minutes later a member of the Coles sports center staff was down there, gauging the extent of my injury. My leg wasn't moving. He thought I might have torn something. I thought I might have lost it right there and screamed but I was working to stay awake against the pain of trying to move the leg at all, put on my shoes, figure out what the fuck was happening to me.
I was told my options and chose to go to the NYU emergeny room, because, you know, my leg didn't work. And I needed it for stuff like walking and chasing rainbows. While I was waiting I spoke to the guy with ice over his face. He had broken his nose playing basketball, of course. He was trying to determine if his nose had changed orientation. It had. I told I hoped they didn't have to re-break his nose as he feared a doctor would.
But there I was, being helped into a wheelchair, and I still had my cellie so I called Arroz (I ain't coming. Situations is all fucked up, yo. Nah, you don't got to come guns blazin' into the drop, dear friend, don't get it twisted) and my brother, Brother-man (Tell moms I won't be home tonight. Nah, I ain't get nobody pregnant nor did I gaffle no punks and get hauled off to cell block A). And I waited. And waited. I admit, I was watching some of the pick up games and admiring the women coming from the aerobics class. I might have been in pain but I wasn't in THAT much pain.
Finally, a member of the transportation staff came with a van and we worked my ass into that van. The driver was a Jamaican man and he talked about his longtime practicing of martial arts; and how he has had knees locked up.
"You think I tore something?"
"Don't even say that. I had my knee lock up on me once. It was just a muscle strain."
"How long -ow- does it take to straighten out?"
"Depends."
"Depends? How long?"
"Depends."
"Like a rough estimate."
"Took me three days once."
I was like, nah, they had best be giving me some muscle relaxers, high grade painkillers, and a bag of Humboldt County's finest all rolled up for use, cause I ain't with that pain, kid.
We approached the hospital in minutes and soon... I would experience the Emergency Room as if it were for the very first time. Okay, I AM an ER virgin. Tune in-- later, or tomorrow, depending on this blasted homework.
My manegement project has fallen by the wayside. I mean, like, it's done. Decent. We could have been better. But at least I didn't drop my pants as an ice breaker.
Let's go back to the night of the crips. Last time, we had this:
I was working with my management group. I stood to put something in the trash. Most of me was cool with that but a twinge on the left side of my knee was a dissenter.
I had been sitting in one position for a while; i should have been moving my legs. I had been swimming for a few weeks, getting back into shape. Swimming hard. Feeling the benefits.
Then the library closed where I was typing.
for a soundtrack use these interim tunes:
Danny Elfman's Evil Theme from Nightmare Before Christmas
The Isley Brothers' Hurry Up And Wait
50 Cent's Wangsta
Earth, Wind, And Fire's After the Love is Gone
Riyuichi Sakamoto's Grief (Amon Tobin rmx)
Nine Inch Nails' Down In It
Neil Young's Theme from Dead Man
N.O.R.E's Nothin'
Back to the crips. I'm up in the Tisch building with my non-man-titties and all, and we end our meeting. I start to walk upstairs but my left knee is still balking at me like "Na-na-na-naaaah!," since I let my knee listen to that f---ing genius N.O.R.E. But my knee wasn't pissy drunk like that. "If you can't understand it, write that shit down... and FIGURE IT OUT WHEN YOU GET HOME!!" -Redman
I reach the pool with a gangsta lean and it's all gravy, I stretch that twinge till it backs up off of me, take my shower, and I'm in the pool, swimming hard. I did a lot more laps than usual, and I went pretty hard. I felt very good, like all the training was helping, like the four days I took off of swimming helped too. I stretched once or twice in the pool (legs up to the bar underneath the starting blocks, reach-- yeah, I'm flexible. Yeah, I learned it at the club, wise-ass.) in between sets. Came out.
Went to shower. I decided then that I would have to include this bit in a blog (having no idea what the rest of the night had in store for me). I was reminded of my blog on the 15th where I made mention of the best term for the male genetalia-- junk. I was in a junkyard. Five men had come out of the sauna and it is customary for those men to shower. Nekkid. I won't say whether I felt shamed or elated or anything like that-- but it's a little worrisome showering in a corner while five other men shower too. Very "don't drop the soa-oh-oh." A lot of hair on these fellas too. Yeah, I said it. Just to demistify things.
Worst of all, they were taking cold showers. So I could feel it when the guy who came next to me turned his on. It was cold just being nearby. So I took a hotter shower.
In situations where a man is surrounded, in a junkyard, a man prefers not to hear socializing and talking. That just makes it seem like it's less wierd. But they're all chatting like it's totally chill. For me, it has nothing to do with a fear of man-spears. I just don't find myself in such situations all the time. I need to be more open-minded, right? As long as I'm not open-assed it's all good.
I shudder to think about the junkyard. Back at my locker, securing my very own junk in my pants, then moving on to the shirt, some baby oil to keep my skin moist, and moving on to the shoes--
Something happened on the way to the shoes. Mind you, I was supposed to meet Arroz for some chillin and drinking, and then down to see friend Ruby spin her things. Her things being CD's. Fucking perverts. But I wasn't thinking about that anymore because my eyes were blazed up with pain. My leg went into a locked position like it was trying to find its way back into a womb i never had.
It
would
not
move.
I tried. But the pain was unbelievable when I tried to move it. I used my hands to massage and groove it. I took my eyes and looked down at my shoes 'em. Couldn't figure out the pain it was more than a bruise 'em.
There was a fellow who had put himself in crash position to my right. He had an ice pack over a face obviously in pain. He had crossed my path once in the locker room, staring at his face in the mirror as if to figure out who he was. He turned to me, hesitantly. Do you need me to get some... help?
Uhm... I think you'd better. Thank-- acch-- you.
Minutes later a member of the Coles sports center staff was down there, gauging the extent of my injury. My leg wasn't moving. He thought I might have torn something. I thought I might have lost it right there and screamed but I was working to stay awake against the pain of trying to move the leg at all, put on my shoes, figure out what the fuck was happening to me.
I was told my options and chose to go to the NYU emergeny room, because, you know, my leg didn't work. And I needed it for stuff like walking and chasing rainbows. While I was waiting I spoke to the guy with ice over his face. He had broken his nose playing basketball, of course. He was trying to determine if his nose had changed orientation. It had. I told I hoped they didn't have to re-break his nose as he feared a doctor would.
But there I was, being helped into a wheelchair, and I still had my cellie so I called Arroz (I ain't coming. Situations is all fucked up, yo. Nah, you don't got to come guns blazin' into the drop, dear friend, don't get it twisted) and my brother, Brother-man (Tell moms I won't be home tonight. Nah, I ain't get nobody pregnant nor did I gaffle no punks and get hauled off to cell block A). And I waited. And waited. I admit, I was watching some of the pick up games and admiring the women coming from the aerobics class. I might have been in pain but I wasn't in THAT much pain.
Finally, a member of the transportation staff came with a van and we worked my ass into that van. The driver was a Jamaican man and he talked about his longtime practicing of martial arts; and how he has had knees locked up.
"You think I tore something?"
"Don't even say that. I had my knee lock up on me once. It was just a muscle strain."
"How long -ow- does it take to straighten out?"
"Depends."
"Depends? How long?"
"Depends."
"Like a rough estimate."
"Took me three days once."
I was like, nah, they had best be giving me some muscle relaxers, high grade painkillers, and a bag of Humboldt County's finest all rolled up for use, cause I ain't with that pain, kid.
We approached the hospital in minutes and soon... I would experience the Emergency Room as if it were for the very first time. Okay, I AM an ER virgin. Tune in-- later, or tomorrow, depending on this blasted homework.
Thursday, December 05, 2002
Night of the Crips 12.5.02
Okay, back to the cripple night. Quicker than you'd like, I know, this has never happened to me before. When people say that, are they also including their experiences with the magazines and videos they buy in the brown paper bags? I wonder. Cause it's never happened to me before.
Neither had the night of the crips. But baby, but I'll do the best I can in describing it to you.
There is the most not-quite-cute couple in front of me. They are very bony-chinned and sharp-nosed and thin-lipped, I can evaluate that much. Sorry, I had to point that out, because for God's sake, I think they're technically necking. Their necks are twisting together. This is straight wierd.
But I'll rewind this trick capsule about two weeks or so to my Tuesday. November 19th. I was working with my management group, we were haggling about this or that. I stood to put something in the trash. Most of me was cool with that but a twinge on the left side of my knee was a dissenter. It was all like, youse a bitch, n***a. Now, I dont' tolerate that kind of backtalk from my joints and muscles so i was like, don't make me come back there and whup up on ya.
I had been sitting in one position for a while and I thought, oh, I should have been moving my legs or something. Whatever. I had been swimming for a few weeks, getting back into shape. swimming hard. Feeling the benefits. For anyone who has seen me topless (yeah. At the club, wise ass.) I was getting "muscle" and "increased definition." The cool thing about swimming is that it doesn't give you man-titties.
What the rass? The liberry closing? Summabitch. I'll take you back to the crips in a couple of hours. Wish me and my legs luck in the slipping snow.
Okay, back to the cripple night. Quicker than you'd like, I know, this has never happened to me before. When people say that, are they also including their experiences with the magazines and videos they buy in the brown paper bags? I wonder. Cause it's never happened to me before.
Neither had the night of the crips. But baby, but I'll do the best I can in describing it to you.
There is the most not-quite-cute couple in front of me. They are very bony-chinned and sharp-nosed and thin-lipped, I can evaluate that much. Sorry, I had to point that out, because for God's sake, I think they're technically necking. Their necks are twisting together. This is straight wierd.
But I'll rewind this trick capsule about two weeks or so to my Tuesday. November 19th. I was working with my management group, we were haggling about this or that. I stood to put something in the trash. Most of me was cool with that but a twinge on the left side of my knee was a dissenter. It was all like, youse a bitch, n***a. Now, I dont' tolerate that kind of backtalk from my joints and muscles so i was like, don't make me come back there and whup up on ya.
I had been sitting in one position for a while and I thought, oh, I should have been moving my legs or something. Whatever. I had been swimming for a few weeks, getting back into shape. swimming hard. Feeling the benefits. For anyone who has seen me topless (yeah. At the club, wise ass.) I was getting "muscle" and "increased definition." The cool thing about swimming is that it doesn't give you man-titties.
What the rass? The liberry closing? Summabitch. I'll take you back to the crips in a couple of hours. Wish me and my legs luck in the slipping snow.
What University is About... 12.5.02
This is the way it should be. Walking to class in a falling down snowstorm. Slipping in the snow, looking at kids just waiting for enough snow for an impromptu snowfight before class. NYU kids, y'all must have had it lovely in January of '94 and Jan of '96. I am sure there are other snowfalls (there was an April one I'd heard about) but those are the two I experience.
In 1994, in high school. After about ten days of ice storms and n'or'easters, with the trees dangling icicles, shimmering in the light; with students and teachers alternately staying home, meaning a month of not-quite-class; after telling my mother that I have the agility of a panther, and that I never never slip,
there I go falling on my ass and sliding most of the way down the driveway and almost into the street. I made a good toboggan.
In 1996, the classic Skalars/ Bigger Thomas/ In-Steps/ Scofflaws show at the Wetlands also featured a foot of snow-- but the brave came out. And the brave, including my high school friends, leaped and jumped over snowdrifts and tossed snowballs at each other, since it took an hour to walk a few blocks.
The night of the crips is soon to return.
This is the way it should be. Walking to class in a falling down snowstorm. Slipping in the snow, looking at kids just waiting for enough snow for an impromptu snowfight before class. NYU kids, y'all must have had it lovely in January of '94 and Jan of '96. I am sure there are other snowfalls (there was an April one I'd heard about) but those are the two I experience.
In 1994, in high school. After about ten days of ice storms and n'or'easters, with the trees dangling icicles, shimmering in the light; with students and teachers alternately staying home, meaning a month of not-quite-class; after telling my mother that I have the agility of a panther, and that I never never slip,
there I go falling on my ass and sliding most of the way down the driveway and almost into the street. I made a good toboggan.
In 1996, the classic Skalars/ Bigger Thomas/ In-Steps/ Scofflaws show at the Wetlands also featured a foot of snow-- but the brave came out. And the brave, including my high school friends, leaped and jumped over snowdrifts and tossed snowballs at each other, since it took an hour to walk a few blocks.
The night of the crips is soon to return.
Wednesday, December 04, 2002
Night of the Crips 12.4.02
This covers the events of Tuesday, November 19th, 2002.
An important date, wherein our hero Pico struts his stuff at night, experiences high-grade pain, meets crazies in the ER, and emerges into the morning light.
I have been suggested not to force it. But I have to force it. This tale needs an enema. Or a banana and coffee and some McDonald's. Squeeze it, squeeze it...
Tomorrow-- night of the crips redux.
This covers the events of Tuesday, November 19th, 2002.
An important date, wherein our hero Pico struts his stuff at night, experiences high-grade pain, meets crazies in the ER, and emerges into the morning light.
I have been suggested not to force it. But I have to force it. This tale needs an enema. Or a banana and coffee and some McDonald's. Squeeze it, squeeze it...
Tomorrow-- night of the crips redux.
Pride and Pomp 12.4.02
While listening to Elvis' "In the Ghetto," courtesy of M. Silver, I noted that, since there are a couple of new readers, this is the best archive so far.
While listening to Elvis' "In the Ghetto," courtesy of M. Silver, I noted that, since there are a couple of new readers, this is the best archive so far.
Tuesday, December 03, 2002
Jade 12.3.02
My lord, the most adorable curly-haired woman is sitting behind me in this computer lab. I mention that because this place is empty, the streets are lonely, the event line a/k/a the home phone ain’t ringing in repeat and echo.
We are in the hibernation period—the wintry time when you, and I, and our friends start thinking that it’s a great time to stay in and watch the latest J-Lo movie wherein she plays an Italian woman with a father from the old country. Or Scary Movie for the fourth time, because you just got digital cable (the wonders of living at home—thanks, papa!). Or questionably “cool” drug movies with Jared Leto and Selma Blair and John C McGinley with shoulderblade-length braids talking about weed in Sacramento. And I just found out they were going cross-country to attend a vigil for Kurt Cobain... hmm...
It is that cold outside. The conversion from cold weather night to heated bar, with the requisite dump-of-coat in a corner, with sweater atop, with hat and gloves and scarf adorning that mass, seems less appealing with every degree the windchill drops.
Meanwhile, I am worrying about a management project. One where I feel like I am not doing enough. In part, it’s because there isn’t anything to do. In part because, honestly, management innovation doesn’t stir my coffee cup on the regular. As a side bar, this does.
I stay up and worry about these things, about pulling my weight.
When I forget the important things—to think about the effects of Jim Thome on the NL East baseball hierarchy; to admire beautiful women in public, preferably with my tongue out cause chicks love that shit; to do some editing on my novel; to live more like a dirtball; to relax, because eventually, you’ve done everything you can do and you can’t press more and get a return out of it.
Maybe I don’t worry enough, hmm?
I promise sports talk and political talk, soon.
I'll leave you with a classic Robbie Williams quote, what a scamp that fellow is!! "the reason i'm doing you is 'cause your friend said no," from Forever Texas.
My lord, the most adorable curly-haired woman is sitting behind me in this computer lab. I mention that because this place is empty, the streets are lonely, the event line a/k/a the home phone ain’t ringing in repeat and echo.
We are in the hibernation period—the wintry time when you, and I, and our friends start thinking that it’s a great time to stay in and watch the latest J-Lo movie wherein she plays an Italian woman with a father from the old country. Or Scary Movie for the fourth time, because you just got digital cable (the wonders of living at home—thanks, papa!). Or questionably “cool” drug movies with Jared Leto and Selma Blair and John C McGinley with shoulderblade-length braids talking about weed in Sacramento. And I just found out they were going cross-country to attend a vigil for Kurt Cobain... hmm...
It is that cold outside. The conversion from cold weather night to heated bar, with the requisite dump-of-coat in a corner, with sweater atop, with hat and gloves and scarf adorning that mass, seems less appealing with every degree the windchill drops.
Meanwhile, I am worrying about a management project. One where I feel like I am not doing enough. In part, it’s because there isn’t anything to do. In part because, honestly, management innovation doesn’t stir my coffee cup on the regular. As a side bar, this does.
I stay up and worry about these things, about pulling my weight.
When I forget the important things—to think about the effects of Jim Thome on the NL East baseball hierarchy; to admire beautiful women in public, preferably with my tongue out cause chicks love that shit; to do some editing on my novel; to live more like a dirtball; to relax, because eventually, you’ve done everything you can do and you can’t press more and get a return out of it.
Maybe I don’t worry enough, hmm?
I promise sports talk and political talk, soon.
I'll leave you with a classic Robbie Williams quote, what a scamp that fellow is!! "the reason i'm doing you is 'cause your friend said no," from Forever Texas.
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