Face Down in the Muck

You could close down Moe's or the Kwik-E-Mart...

2007-03-27T13:59:00.000-04:00

And nobody would care....

I found myself singing the Simpsons' "Save the Burlesque House" song in the shower this morning for some incredibly strange reason. Seriously... I have no idea...

Anyway, I thought this would provide a chance to publicly test my Simpsons in Syndication Theory, which states:

If you think about any Simpsons episode, it will invariably air within the next two-to-three weeks due to the myriad of syndication slots said show occupies.

Cases in point:

Last year, I had a similar shower experience, only this time it was, "Well Mr. Burns had done it. The Power Plant had won it, with Roger Clemens clucking all the while..." The very next day, the WB aired "Homer at the Bat."

While in Indiana, I was really jonesing for the "22 Short Films about Springfield" Episode, and sure enough, it aired within the month.

I have plenty of other examples, but I think you get the point. It's really incredible how often it seems to happen, especially with nearly 400 episodes floating around out there.

Anyway, I'd ask everyone to keep their eyes peeled for the Maison Derriere... er... "Back House." It should make an appearance some time around Easter.

Thanks.

All Feet on Dek

2007-03-27T10:29:00.000-04:00

Yeah, for some reason, they spell deck hockey without the "c."

Anyhoo… I had my first practice on Saturday for the upcoming Pittsburgh Sports League Spring Season, and I have to say I'm pretty pleased with the results.

First off, the teammates I met were all swell individuals. We had a guy wearing a "66" jersey, and wouldn't you know it, he was kinda good. I'm hoping that after two or three more practices, I'll have come along far enough to wear a "29" or a "4" jersey. I definitely made it publicly known that I want to be the Phil Bourque or Troy Loney of our squad…

We played a bunch of chuckleheads that were already warming up on the deck (I'm calling it that because it was concrete and not the patented "dek" created by Mylec). We were beating them 8-3 when I finally had to leave.

As for an honest assessment of my personal performance (having not played since I was in junior high)… pleasant surprise but plenty of room for improvement. I played mostly defense, but after pinching in to keep the ball in the zone, I switched to right wing to compensate for the guy who shifted back to the point. I took advantage of that lone offensive opportunity to roof a rebound and give us a 4-0 lead. Hopefully the coach was watching.

I never played much defense as a kid (who among us really did?), so I was a little shady on my assignments. Chief among my concerns were screening my goaltender, picking the correct passing lanes, and not getting hit in the nuts… I'd like to think I did pretty well on all three counts (and especially well on the third).

I finished the game with a +/- rating of +3, so all in all, not too shabby. I'd still rather play forward, though, allowing me to light up the scoreboard and have access to all that dek-hockey-groupie tail…

(Fitness note to those of you who care—you know who you are, you H&M bitches): I'm plenty sore, but that's to be expected. Another solid week or two of practices and some extra-curricular running *sigh* should see an end to that. Problem areas: left shoulder and groin, despite significant stretching before and after.

Sweetest western since Sneaky Fitch...

2007-03-09T09:52:00.000-05:00

I just received the link the Life is Short trailer which is based on my ten minute play.

When you click on the link, just scroll down a little bit.

Yep. That's pretty much it. Hope you like it.

On a funny side note, the owner of the pub in which this was filmed seemed kinda miffed that there was a "gay cowboy porn" being shot in his establishment.

Disclaimer: The Logistics of Heroism is not about gay cowboys, since, you know, that's been done to death in the past year or so.

Your princess is in another castle

2007-02-27T21:36:00.000-05:00

I know it's early, but as far as self-inflicted injuries go, I'm going to go ahead and give myself an early nomination for The 2007 Stupidest Self-Inflicted Injury Award.

The Pittsburgh Penguins and Florida Panthers deadlocked at 1-1 heading into overtime. You have to understand that scoring was very hard to come by. So when Colby Armstrong beat Eddie Belfour top shelf on the short side, I was extremely excited—So excited in fact that I started shouting, jumping around, flailing my fists, and shaking my head.

The result was a direct blow to my right ear, which rang for about 20 minutes and subsequently felt like it was packed with wax (moreso than usual).

I was relieved to find I could still hear out of the ear, but when I pinched my nose and blew out, the result was a pathetic little whistling noise (my wife later confided that she was up for an hour or two in bed laughing at me as my ear whistled in my sleep).

I knew I'd ruptured my eardrum, and I went to the doctor the next day hoping to get some antibiotics to fight off any impending infections. Doc Bentz explained that the only way this could have happened was if my fist made a perfect vacuum over my ear. It turns out pulling it away from the vacuum is what caused the perforation (Million-to-one shot, doc. Million-to-one...). He then proceeded to prescribe me one of the following three courses of treatment:

A. Amoxicillin
B. Penicillin
C. Shower Cap

Yep.

So, what's embarrassing about all of this…

A. I hit myself in the ear.
B. I was NOT drunk.
C. I was not on any other kind of mood/mind-altering substance (unless you consider orange juice to be a mood/mind-altering substance).
D. I was able to hit myself in an extremely and profoundly rare manner.
E. Now, when I shower, I look like this.

Next time the Penguins go to overtime, I'm going to make sure I have a goddamn beer in my hand.

Life is Short

2007-02-26T20:41:00.001-05:00

It's been awhile since the last blog activity, and there's no valid reason for it. As part of a new resolution, I'm going to try to keep things short and sweet. In the past, I've had a tendency to ramble.

As some may know, I used to harbor illusions of being a playwright and enjoying all of the perks that come along with such a distinction (destitution, obscurity, pomposity, etc.). Thankfully, I put that dream in my rearview, and I don't think I'm any worse off for doing so.

As it happens, my good friend Nathan turned me on to a 10-minute play festival/event/shin-dig/showcase (take your pick). I submitted a 10-minute play that features—I shit you not—a total of nine actors on stage at once (this is craziness, for people who are familiar with the genre).

Anway, wonder of wonders, it's going to be put on in New York City as part of the Kids With Guns inaugural season (Yes. Now I can say I've covered the Super Bowl and had a play produced in NYC—Suck it, Edgar Allen Poe).

Check out the showcase's myspace page at http://www.myspace.com/sevenshortplays

Incidentally, if it weren't for myspace and having the Life is Short site "befriending" said Nathan, I still wouldn't know about the play being chosen.

So in that spirit, I'll give myspace another blogging trial. You can, of course, continue to find updates here at www.facedowninthemuck.blogspot.com, if you prefer.

My last day as a bureaucrat

2007-01-17T13:56:00.000-05:00

As I type this, I officially have less than an hour to remain at my government job. It is a wonderful feeling. A sweet, sweet, sweet feeling.

I will miss the following things:

Knowing that I will have about 70 percent of my day free to do whatever the heck I want. I make Peter Gibbons look like Blake in Glengarry Glen Ross. Your tax dollars have been much-appreciated.

Paid Hour Lunches. You hear about them, but you never think they’ll actually happen to you.

Sixty percent of my co-workers. If you were my co-worker at one point and you’re reading this, then know the following… If you think we got along and everything was cool and that I liked you, chances are that you’re right. You are a swell, honest and worthwhile person, and I wish you all the best in all of your future endeavors.

If you aren’t sure where we stood with one another, you can probably take it to the bank that I wouldn’t have pissed on you if you were on fire. I mock your beliefs and deride your values.

I will NOT miss the following things:

The 40 percent of people who just sucked in so many varying and terrifying ways.

The complete lack of accountability. This is the first job I’ve ever worked in which people just sort of decided whether they wanted to do their job or not. It baffled me to no end.

The “it’s not my responsibility” phenomenon. People knew exactly what they were supposed to do, according to their job descriptions, and they would not do a single thing outside of those parameters. Gooooooooooo… Team!!!!!!!

The absolutely mind-numbing work. If you’ve never typed a form letter in your life… don’t. I suspect it will take my brain three-to-six months to fully recover from eight-month period in which it was not engaged in any way, shape or form.

The copiers. The… fucking… copiers… Somehow they became my responsibility (I suspect this was due to my possession of a penis). I have no mechanical aptitude. I was on the phone to the repair people on a twice-per-week basis because they kept malfunctioning. Thus, reinforcing one of my sweetest fantasies…

The general aura of mistrust and petty politics that are prevalent in any government job.

Smell ya later.

NOTE: My final act before logging off and leaving this job forever was to score 177,400 in Pac Man--a personal best.

An astute reader may point out that such behavior (writing blogs/playing video games) at work makes me a hypocrite. Let me assure you, smartass, that such activities were never engaged in unless my in-box was emp-tay... Damn whistle-blowers...

Thoughts on the DMV

2007-01-12T11:56:00.000-05:00

They say there are only two certainties in life: Death and taxes. I suppose they’re right. But as far as your average non-living-in-super-major-metropolitan-area-Americans are concerned, there’s a third certainty.

The Department of Motor Vehicles.

Chances are, if you’re a citizen of the United States and you’re over the age of 16, you probably have a driver’s license. If you fall in that vast majority of folks who operate a motor vehicle for occupation/recreation/procreation purposes, then you’re going to need to get that license renewed every three to five years or so.

Having just “celebrated” my 28th birthday, my number was up. Time to get an updated terrible picture of myself to show to bouncers at the ~~gay~~ bars I no longer frequent now that I’m married.

While I waited on line at the East Liberty (pronounced “‘S’liberty” in these parts) DMV, a couple thoughts occurred to me.

1. The clerk who takes care of taking your photo ID card, verifying information, and snapping your sweet new head shot should have a lot more authority than he/she apparently does.

For instance, about four years ago, when I was doing this renewing song and dance in Indiana, I wanted some information changed on my license. When I earned the privilege of operating a Class C motor vehicle from the State of Pennsylvania, I was 16-years old and 5 feet, 10 inches tall. This height was reflected on said license.

Since that time, I’ve grown about six inches. I’m currently 6-feet-4 and have been since I was about 18 years old. So when the clerk in Indiana showed me the screen and asked if all the information was correct, I said, “No. I’m 6-feet-4. Please change that.” She asked for signed verification from a doctor. I asked if I could just go grab a tape measure or stand in the doorway of a convenience and have my picture taken instead. She said no. She asked if there was anything else she could do for me. I asked for fellatio, since she was apparently not going to follow through on any of these offers anyway. Luckily, she had no idea what fellatio was, so she took my picture and I was doomed to be 5-feet-10 for another four years (In that time, I filled out the proper paperwork and while I waited at ‘S’Liberty, I was ready to grow six inches in the span of three minutes).

In addition to being able to change obvious vital statistics without medical verification, these clerks should also be granted veto power over people who are there to renew. While I waited my turn, an older, portly gentleman operating a rascal had to get into position to get his picture taken.

During that time, he knocked over a garbage can, crashed into the clerk’s desk, then got stuck on a chair. To be fair, it was a bit of a tight space, but c’mon man. Three strikes and you’re out. This is the dipshit who’s going to gouge my fender while parallel parking and then just drive away.

In this case, the clerk should be able to politely refer the gentleman to the line where they issue bus passes.

And 2. What do famous people do when they need to renew their licenses? They drive cars/trucks/SUV’s/what-have-you. Therefore, they must have driver’s licenses. Therefore, they must renew their licenses. Therefore, they must come to the DMV, right?

I mean, famous people have a lot of crap done for them by other people, but this is something you have to do yourself, right? You can’t email a digital picture of yourself can you? If you did, how could you assure that it would be unflattering enough? And you still have to be there to put down your electronic signature and decide whether you want to be an organ donor and/or register to vote, no?

I take a certain sick satisfaction in knowing that people like Paris Hilton and Barry Bonds have to sit in the damn DMV line in order to have the right to drive their obscenely expensive automobiles. They have to do that, don’t they? There’s no way around it, is there? Other than death, the DMV provides the second-most-ultimate form of equality in our rigid class structure, right?

I sure hope so.

The Last Straw

2007-01-10T14:12:00.000-05:00

I've been at my current job since April of 2006. Take some time to reflect on all the wonderful things that have happened in the wide world of sports since that month...

Steelers coach Bill Cowher finished his 15th and final season as Pittsburgh's head coach -- a truly remarkable feat in this day and age.

Willie Parker rushed for OVER 200 YARDS twice this season. He was overshadowed only one of those times by a running back that rushed for under 50 yards and committed a costly turnover but scored his first-ever rushing touchdown. (Yet another reason I'm fed up with New Orleans).

Yay, New Orleans!!!! The Saints had the kind of season that the downtrodden white upper middle class football fans of New Orleans needed to boost their morale. They have earned the right to lose their first ever divisional playoff game at home in just a few days.

St. Louis won the World Series after barely finishing with a .500 record in the NL Central (Honestly, I had to think really hard to remember who won this year's World Series. I really, kinda forgot...)

Tiger Woods is back on top of the PGA.

Shaq seems to have gotten the final F-U to Kobe by winning a championship with the younger, sexier and more flexible D-Wade.

I'm sure other stuff has happened, too. A lot of stuff. The point is, through these past eight months, I've been able to keep up to date on all of these happenings on espn.com. On January 12, 2007, on the day Cowher officially resigned as the Steelers head coach, the Allegheny County IT nazis finally decided to block user access to ESPN.

Way to go. Coincidentally, I turned in my two-weeks notice on January 12, 2007.

You mess with the bull, Allegheny County, you get the horns.

Ate me some keys

2006-11-29T15:22:00.000-05:00

After eating some sweet tuna salad sandwiches and finishing off Chuck Palahniuk's Diary, I had about 10 minutes left on my sweet Allegheny County Government paid lunch break.

Rather than walking around the block and enjoying the unseasonably delightful weather, I decided to waste my time playing Pac Man.

The result: 166,220. Level 17.

My brothers and sisters, I have seen a land where 5,000-point keys are available for gobbling every 20 seconds or so.

I have seen a land where eating a power pellet has absolutely no effect on the ghosts who tenaciously seek your implosion.

It's true. Why would I lie?

It is an incredible land wherein you survive by your wits, nimble fingers and Bruce-Lee-like instincts. I was one with my Pac Man.

And it was 166,220 times rewarding than walking around in the November 60-degree heat wave. That warm spell represents a terrible lie. It's an illusion. It's a trap to make you lower your guard. You decide you don't need a coat, you walk around breathing deep the unseasonable warmth, and inevitably you're left with a debilitating cold.

Pac Man is my vitamin C.

Hey-la, Hey-la...

2006-11-06T17:50:00.000-05:00

It's been a little over a week since the animals tag teamed my wife and I to silence her clock radio and steal my sandwich.

To date, my wife has yet to replace her clock radio.

This astounds me, especially because I'm a man who really appreciates a good clock radio. And I have the track record to prove it. The brown and black General Electric AM/FM Alarm Clock/Radio that's currently sitting on my nightstand is the same one that's been sitting next to my bed for the last 17 years.

I remember it was the summer before fourth grade when my parents finally allowed me to have *gasp* some form of media in my room, and that's what I picked out (my options were pretty limited -- actual stereos were completely out of the question).

I remember plugging it in, and turning it on. The first station I found played oldies, and the first song that radio played was "My Boyfriend's Back" by The Angels. Why do I remember that? I'm... not... sure. But I do.

I remember listening to B-94 throughout elementary school. I remember sitting next to my radio with a tape recorder. I would listen to the "Top Eight at Eight" and preserve all of the late 80's and early 90's pop songs in analog form. In particular, I remember my sheer delight when I finally captured Bell Biv Devoe's "Poison" on tape. The old addage, "You can't trust a big butt and a smile," is as true today as it was back then.

I've always had sleep issues. When I was younger, I needed to hear music to fall asleep. In high school, music kept me up. So I switched to talk radio and sports. Monday was always great, because I could listen to the second half of Monday Night Football on a local AM station. I don't think you can do that anymore. Hockey and baseball season were always nice, especially when the Pens and Pirates made a west-coast swing. My absolute favorite, though, were the rare Olympic Games. In Indiana, PA, where I grew up, you could get the Johnstown, PA NBC station at the bottom of the FM dial. There's no better sport to fall asleep to than figure skating.

The NBC thing helped me out when I got to college as well. On those days I had to get up particularly early, I was always able to listen to the Tonight Show with Jay Leno. I can honestly say, nine times out of ten, I never made it all the way through his monologue. What a funny guy.

Anyway, my clock radio and I have been through a lot together. The buttons: Snooze, sleep, wake, hour, minute, (then a lever) on, off, radio, alarm, then a volume nob followed by the AM/FM toggle -- They're all burned into my kinesthetic awareness. I always joked that if I ever knew a woman as well as I knew that clock radio, she would be a lucky woman indeed.

I feel awful for Jen, who will soon have to start a relationship with a new clock radio. No wonder she's putting it off.

Collusion

2006-10-31T11:42:00.000-05:00

When we first brought home our faithful hound, Softie, I had little hope that she and the cat, Sophie, would ever be able to co-exist.

For the first three weeks we had them both in the same house, but hardly ever in the same room. The few times we did have them in the same room together, it was under rigidly controlled circumstances. There were leashes, treats, and tranquilizer guns involved. To her credit, the cat handled everything pretty well. She was mellow.

Softie, though, was not. Every encounter meant tugging on the leash and an incessant string of barking. Sometimes Softie says the meanest things. I suspect there’s some alcoholism in her past.

Then, one day, as if by magic, they were chill. Just chill. Softie stopped barking incessantly, and Sophie stopped running away (because we have a scratchy rug in the living room that she likes and refuses to abandon under any circumstances, not even a hyper-sniffing-licking 25-pound dog).

It’s pretty clear to me now that they’ve been planning what went down last Sunday night for a couple months now.

Now, I thought I’d seen the weirdest thing in my life when the Raiders beat the Steelers with less than 100 yards of total offense. But you can explain that (The Steelers suck this year. There. I said it.).

Anyway, I was making a couple turkey and cheese sandwiches for my lunch on Monday. Wheat bread, spicy whole grain mustard. Heck yeah. De-frickin’-licious. I had one of the two sandwiches secured in a plastic bag and was readying the second for insertion when I heard Jen screaming upstairs in the bedroom.

When I got upstairs, Jen was holding her clock radio in her hand. It was unplugged. I repeat – unplugged, but it was still somehow managing to play I Will Survive at an unreasonably high volume. The clock radio was unplugged because the cat jumped on Jen’s nightstand and knocked a glass of water on it. So Jen’s holding an unplugged, drenched electronic appliance that is playing I Will Survive at an unreasonably high volume.

I decide instantly that I don’t feel comfortable with a devil-clock radio and decide to take it out to the dumpster. I do so, and as I close the lid, Gloria Gaynor gets in the last words: “Go on now, go. Walk out the door. Just turn around now. You’re not welcome anymore.”

My thoughts exactly.

When I walk back in the door, I head upstairs to make sure Jen’s alright. She’s calmed down. Apparently everything happened very fast and it just startled her. No problems. She’ll use her phone for an alarm clock for a little while.

When I go back down to the kitchen. My second sandwich is gone. Just gone. Not a trace. There’s nothing to suggest that it ever existed. No crumbs. Nothing.

Nothing that is, until the next morning when Softie "delivers the goods." We only feed our dog one diet. So when she deviates from it, it's pretty obvious.

So the dog got my delicious turkey sandwich, and the cat got rid of the alarm clock that startles her every morning.

Well played, Sophie and Softie. Well played.

The dog is now on double-secret-dog probation and the cat, well… the cat is probably going to just go on being a cat.

What can you do?

Shameless. Utterly Shameless...

2006-10-26T11:03:00.000-04:00

Fox had a nasty little surprise in store for baseball fans tuning in to see game four of the World Series .

Rain Delay=Let's show re-runs of The War at Home.

Their reasoning: We have a captive audience. The rain could let up at any time, so people have to stick around to make sure they don't miss a single pitch. We'll show them The War at Home and they'll have no choice but to watch, laugh, and fall in love with our comedic tour de force.

For shame, Fox.

For shame.

May your herpes grow boils.

Sad news. I accidentally taped over two un-critiqued episodes of The War at Home with episodes of The Office. Interestingly enough, when the intelligent and witty plots and dialogue of The Office met the stale, tired and cliched plots and dialogue of The War at Home, the casing melted and the tape itself was sucked into an extra-dimensional vortex.

This was not covered in my VCR's warranty, where the fine print specificallys says: Taping The War at Home automatically voids any warranty and can be used against you in a court of law.

Interestingly enough, segments of tape where The War at Home was taped over by My Name is Earl were unaffected.

Excellence in mediocrity

2006-10-02T10:18:00.000-04:00

What follows are some updates for my spite-filled crusade against the Chicago Cubs.

The big news out of Pittsburgh (in the wake of a Stillers bye-week) is that Freddy Sanchez won the National League Batting Title with a final average of .344. Many hearty congratulations to Mr. Sanchez, who becomes the first Bucco to win the batting crown since my all-time favorite Pirate player, Bill Madlock.

For me, though, I'm more proud of the fact that the Pirates officially aren't the crappiest team in the National League Central Division. Nope. That distinction belongs to the Cubbies, who unabashedly charge $70 for a bleacher seat that anyone can take if you get up to take a whiz because you needed to drink four beers just to cope with the awful brand of baseball they play.

I'm especially proud of this accomplishment because, heading into the weekend, the Cubs and Pirates had identical 65-94 records. The Bucs played host to a Cincinnati Reds team that was still mathematically in contention for the Division title. The Cubs welcomed the god-awful Colorado Rockies to Wrigley Field. Still, the Pirates managed to win two of three games from a division rival while the Cubs could only win one game against the hapless Rockies.

Enjoy last place, oh ye Cubs who aren't as good as Pittsburgh. Let that fact sink in, contemplate it fully, then kill yourselves.

In other news, only one wall of our place remains to be painted. Order is gradually being restored. It'll be a tough wall due to shelves, a big-ol couch to move and all the crap that goes with moving a computer desk, but I'm confident we can get it done in an afternoon. After that, it's ceiling time... Still, the end is in sight.

All right, then

2006-09-28T13:36:00.000-04:00

"All right, then."

This phrase can pop up in myriad situations:

Bar Patron: I'll have a Jack and Coke.
Bartender: We only have Pepsi products.
Bar Patron: All right, then. I'll just take that Jack neat.

Soccer Mom 1: Don't forget, the kids need picked up at six.
Soccer Mom 2: Fudge-cicles. My Toyato 4Runner is in the shop.
Soccer Mom 1: All right, then. I guess I can pick them up this time.

Clown: I'm hungry. Can we stop at the Kwik Pick for a Snickers bar, a six pack of C2 and some Oral-B Satin floss?
Bearded Lady: No. We'll miss the circumcision.
Clown: All right, then. I'll just have a turkey sandwich when we get there.

The situations All right, then can pop up in are indeed numerous. But they all pretty much boil down to one underlying philosophy: A person encounters a situation that is different than what he was expecting. Life has thrown him a curve ball. His previous course of action has been rendered ineffective, and he must figure out another way to accomplish his goals. Then, with the situation fully assessed, he says, "All right, then" and moves on with his life.

It's a real can-do phrase.

Enter "Kenny from the guard station." Kenny is the security guard for the building in which I work. He's an elderly fellow with a sweet snow-white handle-bar mustache. If the mustache isn't enough, he's also generally a swell fellow.

Part of my workday routine is to drink two bottles of water with lunch. Typically, at around 2:30, I wander out to the men's room to take care of said water.

Every once in awhile, when I'm either doing my thing or washing and drying my hands afterwards, "Kenny from the guard station" comes into the bathroom. His response when he sees me:

"All right, then."

Not "What's up," "How're you doing," or "Hey there." Not even the awkward silence that most men prefer when they meet in a public restroom.

"All right, then."

Kenny has come into a bathroom. He's seen a 6-foot-4-inch man standing in said bathroom. This clearly wasn't part of his plans, but he's assessed the situation and determined that he'll be able to move forward anyway.

I don't know what his original plans could possibly be, but his can-do attitude in the face of my daunting presence should be an inspiration to inspiring urinators/defecators/masturbators everywhere...

All right, then, Kenny. All right, then.

Some odds, ends and my own wars at home

2006-09-27T11:17:00.000-04:00

Boy. It sure has been awhile. No excuses.

Actually...

Here's some excuses (updates of what's been going on with Joey D.):

1. I've been sick as a frickin' dog: I'm currently working on day-10 of a cold, which is a load of B.S. since I usually kick these things in five-to-seven days. I'm fully functional. It's not like I'm bed-ridden or anything. It's just that the clogged sinuses are lingering longer than I'd like. Guh.

2. Our asshole white-trash neighbors: In July, a young couple moved next door to us to replace the previous young couple (Brad and Heather). Brad and Heather had two dogs, a cat, a turtle, a bird, and god knows what else. The new young couple has a three-year old kid. Guess which neighbors were quieter...

For recreation, the new couple (they kept to themselves so much that we never did learn their names) have taken to getting shit-faced and screaming at each other. This could happen any day, Sunday thru Saturday, and always occurs between 2:00 and 6:00 a.m. Jen has called the police on them twice, and inevitably, police visits are followed by a 250-percent increase in the volume of their screaming. The screaming usually involves death threats to friends, neighbors, family and each other, all while their child cries, completely forgotten, in the background.

Our apartment manager served them with an eviction notice last Wednesday. They're supposed to be gone by the end of the month. I hope their next residence is either a quiet house in the country or The Overlook Hotel. I don't think either one of them works. Maybe a job as the winter caretaker of a Colorado Hotel would be just what they need to cut down on the spousal and child abuse.

I'm not being completely flip about that last line. Yes. The proper agencies have been notified anonymously. Seriously though, I think that kid is already screwed for life, and it's entirely his parents' fault.

3. Our War at Home: As Jen completes her Landscape Architecture degree at Chatham, we've decided to dig in and live for the next three years in our current place. The complex really is idyllic. We're always against rush hour traffic. It's quiet (or will be once the neighbors leave). It's right off of a park with woods in which our dog can crap unfettered (I have never, nor will I ever, follow my dog around with a plastic poop bag).

The only problem is that the walls are painted a high-gloss manilla folder color. It's not so bad in the daylight, but come winter, when it's always dark and our lamps are on, it just feels dark and dirty and depressing.

Since we'll be here awhile longer, we've decided to just go white. Clean. Bright. The problem is, while we paint, the place is a wreck. Nothing's where it belongs, and there's still a lot of work to do. I can't wait until it's done. Because right now, I put in eight hours at a crappy job and come home to a place that's even more stressful. Each day is another step towards sanity, though. I just keep telling myself that.

4. The actual War at Home: Don't worry. I have the last two episodes on tape. I haven't forgotten about them. I intend to get up to date, and thanks to a Steelers bye-week, I'm certain I can getterdone, as the saying goes. Your patience is appreciated.

5. Let's get out of this on a high note: I just scored a 121,490 in Pac Man. Hells... yeah...

I watch "The War at Home" so you don't have to: Episode 201 - Back to School

2006-09-14T14:01:00.000-04:00

Boy, after a summer of re-runs, Dave Gold (Michael Rapaport) gets thrown right into the middle of some sticky situations. He has to fight The War at Home on all four fronts (three kids and the wife). Incredible!

It’s the first day of school, and Dave and wife (Vicki) are thrilled that they can grab a “nooner.” Needless to say, the afternoon delight is put on hold when they return to find daughter (Hillary) skipping school. What the--?

Hillary’s truancy will likely lead her to a teen-mother-stripper lifestyle (as indicated by a thoughtful and subtle Family-Guy rip-off cutaway scene). To compound the problems, oldest son Larry has decided to get a fresh start on his junior year by switching his name to Gideon. Also, youngest son Mike is considering breaking up with his girlfriend of two months, Heidi. This only concerns Dave because he enjoys hanging out with Heidi’s father. When Dave discusses this with Vicki, she reveals that she’s considered breaking up with him, but that she’s never gone through with it.

So many tough problems and just 22 minutes to resolve them? Buckle your safety belts.

Trouble with Hillary: Dave is heading out of his office to play golf when he’s confronted by his inscrutable oriental boss. The boss says, and I paraphrase, “Dave, you have potential, but you goof off too much. If only you would buckle down and work harder. We’re talking about your future, here.” Two things worth mentioning: 1.) They were in no way talking about Dave’s future. 2.) This is the boss’ (the only minority character in the episode) only appearance. His sole purpose is to offer this enlightening advice, which makes Dave realize Hillary is just like him. This scene was so incredibly contrived, as there was no previous screwing-off-at-work behavior to warrant such an insight from the Supervisor ex machina.

Mike’s girlfriend and her dad: No matter what Dave does, it’s the opposite of what Mike intends. Mike changes his mind about breaking up with Heidi, but Dave tells Heidi’s dad otherwise, which leads to Heidi breaking up with Mike (It's like watching The Importance of Being Earnest, but without the humor). Mike is furious, but bounces back when he gets offers from other eligible 15-year-olds. Dave makes things right by visiting Heidi in person to patch things up. This is a heart-warming scene in which the relentlessly twitchy Rapaport gets out-acted by, well, a 15-year-old girl. The pair hugs it out upon reaching a resolution, and Heidi's dad catches them in the embrace – a moment as awkward as it was predictable.

Vicki’s break-up inclinations: It turns out that people in relationships can become irritated with one another and consider ending said relationship. It also turns out that husbands and wives can work out problems and love each other despite such occasional problems. Thanks for the lesson, The War at Home.

Larry/Gideon: Okay. This storyline had as many legs as a watermelon. He changes his name to Gideon. He still isn’t cool. An Israeli exchange student with the same name beats him up. He’s Larry again. What really takes the cake is that we don't actually see the confrontation between Larry-Gideon and the Israeli exchange student ex machina. We learn about it second-hand from Larry-Gideon, who in no way looks like he's been in anything close to a fight. Here's a thought, if a storyline doesn't even warrant the 15-minutes it would take a make-up artist to give Larry a black eye, let's just skip it altogether. This storyline was straight balls.

Here are a few other lowlights that are worth mentioning. After all, if I watch The War at Home so you don’t have to, I want to do all I can to justify your refusal to watch such unapologetic ass-clownery.

To show just how “behind the times” and “backwards” dad is, he often slightly mispronounces common modern devices. For instance, he referred to a “Blackberry” as a “Blueberry,” and referred to a “Bluetooth” as a “Sidetooth.” Sadly, these mistakes don’t even fall under the malaprop category. Malaprops are actually funny.

A Family Guy-style cutaway to a lawyer was abysmal. The lawyer stated that “If you’ve ever been in a relationship with Dave Gold, you may be entitled to damages.” This was not clever. It was not funny. It was, though, a front-runner for “Just shaking my head moment of the week.” So, without further adieu, let’s break down the stats and key plays:

Times Dave was confused: 4
Pieces of sage advice offered by Dave: 4 (The best being, “Go ahead and be a goof-off. You’ll get by. I did.”)
Times Dave worried about daughter: 2 (And only one had to do with sex. Outstanding!!)
White screens/Family Guy cutaways: 10 (The main problem with these - they go on a second too long. This leaves some seriously poor actors in, well, white space. Believe me. They don't have the chops to pull off these extraneous seconds. They usually ham it up like they're in a junior high school play. Just awful).
Canned Laughter uses: 97 (ooh… so close to the century mark – that’s 4.4 laughs per minute if you're counting, or just over one laugh every 15 seconds. Astounding.)
Actual laughter from Joey D: big fat nothing (What's wrong with me? 97 chances to laugh and not one of them is actually funny? Am I so out of touch? No. It's the children who are wrong).
Moment closest to actual humor: Mike claims Heidi hasn’t let him get to “second base” yet. Dave responds, “Not even over the shirt?” The elements of humor are there – dad asking juvenile and inappropriate question to 15-year-old son. Unbelievably, Rapaport fails to pull it off. Go figure.
Just shaking my head moment(s): The entire Larry-becomes-Gideon-becomes-Larry storyline. Canned laughter was liberally used after the following exchanges: Hillary calls Larry Gidget (minimal synthetic laughter). Larry corrects: “Gideon. I’m Gideon!” (Gales of synthetic laughter). Someone refers to Larry as “Larry.” Dave corrects, “His name is Gideon.” (Gales of synthetic laughter). Is this funny? Seriously? Would real living, breathing people laugh that hard at something so petty and stupid? Aaaaaahhhhh!

Incidentally, the following companies gave Fox their advertising dollar during last Sunday’s episode. Please consider boycotts.

Subway Restaurant, Lipton, Toyota, Jackass Number Two, Oral B, The U.S. Army, Burger King, Gridiron Gang, Chevrolet, CBN News (700 Club), KFC and Pledge.

I watch "The War at Home" so you don't have to -- Cowher moment

2006-09-11T14:56:00.000-04:00

To those of you checking in to see exactly what you missed on The War at Home last night, I'm going to channel my inner head football coach.

If you watched the Pittsburgh Steelers' 28-17 victory over Miami on Thursday, chances are you noted how awful the Steelers' punt coverage and return teams were. You don't need a Ph.D. in football to be able to say, "Yeah, the Steelers sure did suck on special teams."

But in the post-game press conference, when asked about said special teams, Pittsburgh head coach Bill Cowher blew off the question saying this, essentially:

Until I look at the film, I can't speak confidently on what went wrong with special teams tonight. (He then added in typical sports-cliche understatement) We gave them a return to our own 15-yard line, and you just can't do that...

Right.

Well. Like Cowher, I watched a train wreck happen right in front of me on Sunday at 9:30 p.m. And like Cowher, I'm going to hold off on making comments until I review my tape of the season opener of The War at Home again tonight.

The things I do for my five readers...

Knock, knock, knockin on Heaven's Gate

2006-09-06T11:50:00.000-04:00

I have to admit, in the last month or so, I had my doubts. But the impossible has finally happened, and I’m as happy as a little girl.

The Pirates are out of the basement in the National League Central. You see that, guys? That’s sunlight. That’s what teams that absolutely suck don’t get to see too often. Isn’t it nice? Wouldn’t you like to stick around up here?

It’s important to note that in last night’s 6-5 victory, the Pirates got a tremendous boost from some skilled play, but the Cubs also proved to be as shitty as possible down the stretch.

Jason Bay homered twice, to help the Bucs keep it close at 5-5, and Jose Bautista made an incredible play at third to keep the score tied in the bottom of the eighth. Those plays helped prove the Pirates are a little better than their record indicates. That the Pirates scored the go-ahead and eventual game-winning run on a wild pitch from Ryan Dempster in the top of the ninth helped prove that the Cubs truly deserved to be the crappiest team in the NL, at least for awhile.

You know what? Screw “for awhile.” I predict the Cubs will finish the season in last place. Why? Inside information. The Cubs will have to field a team of recent minor-league call-ups after last night’s game. You see, I flew to Chicago, snuck into the Cubs clubhouse and took this picture…

Sleep tight, seventy-dollar-charging-for-a-bleacher-seat bitches.

The beta-male sleeps alone tonight

2006-08-29T09:51:00.000-04:00

I generally share the same taste in music as my good friends Nathan and Seth. Generally. They both express a certain admiration for the “J.T.’s” – That’s James Taylor, for those of us born before 1990 and Justin Timberlake for all those other Johnny-come-latelies. I’m not on board with Brittany’s ex, for the record.

Before my wedding, my friends burned me a copy of The Postal Service’s Give Up. The first two tunes, “The District Sleeps Tonight” and “Such Great Heights,” are pretty nice. Catchy. Atmospheric (apparently “Such Great Heights” has been featured on a couple shows I don’t watch like Grey’s Anatomy and One Tree Hill and is, dare I say it, kind of popular). Then the album proceeds to get well… Sorry guys… Terrible. Bloody, freaking terrible.

I’ve tried to listen to it. Honestly. It’s in my car. I’ve probably been through the album 10 times now hoping that the British Music Phenomenon occurs. Whenever I listen to anything from Great Britain (Radiohead, Oasis, Travis, Coldplay, The Smiths) I acknowledge that the first two play-throughs will not impress me. But if I stick with it, I’ll be rewarded. With very few exceptions this is always the case.

Not so with The Postal Service. This band has all the relentless whininess and wussyness of Dashboard Confessional, but none of the raw testosterone and machismo of Dashboard Confessional front man Chris Carrabba. Dreamy.

I’ve unabashedly proclaimed my love of such wuss-rockers as R.E.M., Rufus Wainwright, Ben Folds , and the original J.T. But there’s something that those artists bring to the table that The Postal Service does not. Irony. A tongue-in-cheek suggestion that, if they wanted to, they can bring the funk. They can, to borrow an expression from Mr. Folds, rock this bitch. They just do this beta-male thing to get chicks (or dudes in Rufus’ case or … Jesus, I don’t know, in Michael Stipe’s case). The Postal Service is so unbelievably sincere it makes me want to vomit. They kind of remind me of this poor fella.

Beta-male music holds a special place in my heart. It was the music I listened to when I couldn’t get the girl in high school. It was the music that comforted me when I couldn’t get the girl in college. It’s the perfect music to listen to when you’re not getting the girl. You can relate to it. It speaks to you. It tells you you’re all right, and your good intentions are just being misunderstood.

Let me be frank. If I continued to listen exclusively to artists like R.E.M., Radiohead, Jeff Buckley and The Postal Service, I probably still wouldn’t be getting the girl. I’d still be lamenting my kind, passive-yet-passionate-yet-misunderstood romantic nature.

Thankfully, after college, I moved in with some guys who listened to DMX, Wyclef, Ice Cube, Ice-T, (pretty much anything with Ice in it) and… The Rat Pack. No beta males in that group. As I learned to embrace this music (secretly at first), I found my attitudes changing dramatically. What’s the major difference between this music and wuss-rock? Confidence. Wuss rock gives you absolutely no confidence. Frank Sinatra, on the other hand… fuhgetaboutit.

By-and-large, my wife enjoys my wuss-rock collection. We’re wuss-rock kind of people. But I think it’s safe to say she didn’t fall in love with Losing-My-Religion-Joe. I truly believe Losing-My-Religion-Beta-Male-Joe would have found a way to screw up everything. It was What-These-Bitches-Want-Fly-Me-To-The-Moon-Joe that found a way to close the deal.

So, fellas, before you head out for that big date, for the love of all things good, take Give Up out of your CD player or your iPod playlist. Throw in a mix of Frankie Blue Eyes, Dean-O and Wyclef, okay?

Now, go out there and crush some ass, bitches.

Cease Fire

2006-08-21T14:25:00.000-04:00

Unfortunately, there was no episode of The War at Home last night. It was pre-empted by the Teen Choice Awards.

In retrospect, the TCA's would likely have provided a lot more entertaining blog than The War at Home, but I just didn't have it in me to watch Kevin Federline's first-ever live performance. I'm just going to assume it was... I don't know... transcendent?

I ended up watching the first half of the Seattle at Indianapolis exhibition game on NBC. I figured it would be a little more interesting than Mr. Spears considering the Steelers beat both teams in the playoffs last year and both are among the favorite teams to win the Super Bowl this season. Here were a couple funny things I noted:

Somebody at NBC has a pretty wry sense of humor. Shortly after Andrea Kremer (Mrs. Soprano) interviewed Seattle MVP Shaun Alexander, the networked segued to commercial using the intro to Alice in Chains' "No Excuses." Classic, considering Seattle has become The Excuse Capitol of the World (and ironic, considering Alice in Chains hails from said Capitol).

Six months after the fact, John Madden took an opportunity to once again claim that he didn't see the infraction on the Sean Locklear's fourth-quarter holding penalty in Super Bowl XL that may have cost Seattle a touchdown and certainly did lead to an Ike Taylor interception (effectively ending the Seahawks chances for victory).

Frankly, I was a little surprised Madden didn't take the opportunity to once again state that a certain pass 34 years ago actually bounced off of John "Frenchy" Fuqua before Franco Harris grabbed it.

The sad thing about all of this is just how much influence a dumb-ass announcer (who has publically admitted he'll never get over the Immaculate Reception) can have on nationwide perception (Please see my previous entry for some not-so-subtle views on television sports announcers).

Case in point: I was just sitting down to eat some sweet stuffed chicken and mashed potatoes at Heinz Field before the recent Steelers-Vikings exhibition game. Fate led me to a table where a guy was sitting by himself and also enjoying a pre-game meal. I said hi, and he introduced himself as Greg Bishop from The Seattle Times. We discussed football in general, how he enjoyed Pittsburgh, the fate of Seahawks-turned-Vikings Steve Hutchinson and Koren Robinson, and inevitably, what he thought of Super Bowl XL.

Interestingly enough, he had the same opinion I did. Since we were both there, actually watching the game live and without the benefit of John Madden's "expert" analysis, neither one of us gave the officiating much thought. It wasn't until later that we discovered how outraged we were supposed to be over the injustice (as perceived by John Madden and corroborated by Steve Young at halftime). I remember driving home on the Ohio Turnpike at 6:00 AM and hearing Mike and Mike in the Morning discussing how terrible the officiating was (To be fair, the smaller Mike was pointing out how many mistakes Seattle made in between each ripping of the refs).

Whether Mr. Bishop was just agreeing with me to be polite (as he's a very polite gentleman), I'll never know.

Kind of like how we'll never know if a certain pass hit Fuqua or Tatum.

Frickin' Madden.

We've come so far in the wrong direction

2006-08-16T10:23:00.001-04:00

I grew up a sports fan.

What's more, I grew up a Pittsburgh sports fan. And scattered among the memories of some of my favorite athletes (Phil Borque, Bill Madlock, Sid Breem, Dwight Stone, Mike Tomczak, Troy Loney, Jimmy Paek and Tim Lester) are the chill-inducing calls of local announcers such as Myron Cope, Mike Lange, and Lanny Frattare.

Sadly, Cope is retired and Lange is no longer attached to television broadcasts. Even sadder, Frattare continues along his merry way (He's crap as a broadcaster, but he covers my baseball team. What's a boy to do?).

Local announcers know the team they broadcast with inside and out. They have well-established contacts within the team, or they played for the team. They don't know what they know because they sat down with the head coach for an hour three days before the game, which is the case with your typical National football announcers. Local guys know what's going on. They care about what's going on. And with the exception of Frattare, they actually pass that information along to the fans (All right. I'm being a little hard on Lanny, I know. It's just that when you're in a group with Lange and Cope, you can't help that what little criticism there is has to come your way).

By and large, the national media sucks out loud. And it's a sucking sound that rolls over our nation from sea to shining sea. Do I need to give you some names? Madden. Theisman. Collingsworth. Cross. Buck. What upsets me the most is the Steelers play only two nationally televised games at home. So I'll only get two chances to tell national broadcasters how much I hate them when I run into them at the buffet table (and by that I mean I'll smile and shake hands with them and say, "It's really nice to meet you." -- I will not, under any circumstances, tell them I admire them or compliment their work. Take that, Joe Theisman!).

So, when it comes to watching a broadcast at home, give me local radio announcers or give me nothing. Nothing? That's right. Nothing. There's no way we're ready for it, but I think our sports viewing experience would benefit from removing announcers altogether.

Let's be honest. Why are you watching the game at home? Because you're not there in person. So, in order to give people a sports-watching experience at home, we saddle them with windbags that they would never hear if they were at the stadium. And sadly, the trend has been to add announcers and (groan) sideline reporters. Thank you CBS for stopping that madness. Where there used to be a play-by-play announcer and a color man, now we have a third blithering idiot to add another voice that you really shouldn't be hearing in the first place (See: Dennis Miller, Paul MacGuire, Tony Kornheiser).

Speaking of Kornheiser -- whom I have a man-crush on thanks to his work with Michael Wilbon in Pardon the Interruption -- his addition to ESPN's Monday Night Football lineup was given such significance that his first Monday Night Football call of Oakland at Minnesota has drawn more examination and criticism than the actual play of the Raiders and Vikings. Kornheiser's Washington Post colleague, Paul Farhi, blasted him in their own paper (that's what Kornheiser get's for stealing Farhi's red Swingline Stapler).

Mark my words. If this trend continues, in five years, they'll add a fourth guy to the broadcast booth. So you'll have:

1. A play-by-play announcer (to tell you exactly what you're seeing with your own eyes).
2. A color man (to save your brain the trouble of processing what you've just seen with your own eyes along with telling the world what he would have done in that situation since, after all, he was a marginal player on a marginal team once upon a time).
3. A commedian / additional analyst (since watching a game of football is really, when you get down to it, an excercise in absurdity).
4. A man who speaks entirely in palindromes (this will further draw you out of the sporting experience by forcing you to analyze his speech to determine that yes, what he said was, in fact, a palindrome).

Here's a thought. Ban television announcers from the stadium. Take their salaries and use it on microphones for the crowd and for on the field, and for the actual stadium announcer (He's that guy who announces down and distance, who ran the ball, who made the tackle, and that there's a Honda Civic in lot 22A with its lights on). Let's see if we can't actually get a little closer to the actual experience of watching a live football game. Let's see what it's like watching a game without having someone tell you what you should think about said game.

It would be a fine thing. Trust me.

The gun pointed at the head of the Fox

2006-08-14T15:22:00.000-04:00

I’m pulling double-duty today, so if you’re here to see the latest Pac Man entry, you’ll find it below this one.

I finally did it. I made it through a complete airing of The War at Home. Honestly, I don’t know how to feel. In a way, there’s a sense of accomplishment. But in another more profound way, there’s a sense of astonishment. How could this show possibly have been picked up for another season?

The only possible answer is that Michael Rappaport has abducted Rupert Murdoch’s kitten and is holding it hostage.

I didn’t keep any stats for this particular episode. Remember. Baby steps. I will hypothesize that there was canned laughter after three out of every four lines. (There was also laughter when the mother (Vicki) squirted some Windex at Larry when his back was turned. Hi-larious). This is just a rough estimate (for now), but it would seem that at least 75 percent of the time someone on The War at Home opens his or her mouth, it’s funny. Damn funny.

Here’s the breakdown: Dave (Rappaport) is concerned because Vicki is emasculating him and his sons by being a “ball-breaker.” (In the well-worn territory department (WWTD), this is along the lines of when Wilma and Betty got jobs on The Flinstones, and when Marge became a cop on The Simpsons, thwarting a counterfeit jeans ring operating out of Homer’s car-hole). Dave’s concern was inspirationally captured in a white-screen confessional in which he let the air out of two flesh-toned balloons held near his nether-region. Now we’re thinking outside the box.

Allow me my own white-screen moment about these freaking white-screen moments. Let’s be absolutely clear about what they are. These are placed in the show to allow the actor to directly address the audience and tell us what he or she is thinking. This is incredibly subtle. This is essentially a vehicle by which The War at Home’s writers prove that they have absolutely no confidence in their actors' ability to, oh I don’t know, convey how the character is feeling by use of, oh I don’t know… acting. It’s a pretty ham-fisted technique. And frankly, when you have actors with the talent of a Michael Rappaport or a Kyle Sullivan, I think you have to turn them loose and watch the magic happen…

Incidentally, Vicki’s “ball-breaking” led Larry (Sullivan) to run away. (WWTD – There was an episode of Alf wherein said, Alf, rode the rails to get away from the oppressive non-cat-eating Tanner household.

Anyway, watching this entire episode yielded three discoveries:

1. Whoever lighted that particular episode was going for the Gladiator effect on Rappaport’s eyes (this was in no-way flattering. It made him look like a corpse). Hmm… Corpse Dad… I think I smell a hit if you’re listening, Fox…

2. I am no longer allowed to watch The War at Home in bed when my wife is present. This was told to me in no uncertain terms. Essentially, she grabbed me by my head, looked me in the eyes and expressly forbade me to watch the show again in her presence. This technique is similar to what I do with the dog I'm trying to keep it from chasing the cat or jumping on the furniture. Having seen it first-hand, I can positively verify its effectiveness.

3. The complete lack of anything that even borders on humor within the actual program serves only to make the commercials that air during the three blessed breaks seem about as funny as the unrated version of Old School.

If you’re the Burger King, how are you supposed to feel? On one hand, you’ve got to be happy your chicken-fries commercials are making the viewer laugh. But you’ve also got to be a little pissed that they’re making the viewer laugh at least 20-times harder than the funniest portion of the comedy you’ve chosen to give your advertising dollars to.

Then again, if you’re the Burger King, you’re probably too busy warming up for the upcoming NFL season to worry about how God-awful The War at Home is….

Don’t make your Pac-mamma cry

2006-08-14T14:35:00.000-04:00

If you’ve been playing Pac Man with any consistency, chances are pretty good that you’ve been tagged by Blinky, Pinky, Inkey or Clyde. If they tag you, you shrivel up and die, thus causing your Pac-mamma to cry. This is not desirable.

In my previous entry, I offered the three basic rules of Pac Man.

1. Ghosts are scary, and should be avoided.
2. You should eat fruit.
3. You should bide your time and visit terrible bloody vengeance upon those who seek to do you harm.

If you are successful in following those rules, your Pac-mamma will undoubtedly be proud of you. She will post your high scores on her refrigerator. She will brag about you to her friends. She will make you a fruit salad, consisting of all of your favorites – cherries, strawberries, oranges, apples, grapes, bananas, and… keys? Yes. Keys.

So, by following the above simple rules, you will please your Pac-mamma and generally make life easier on yourself. Of course, those rules are very broad. Certainly, they are the foundation of your Pac Man experience, and when you find yourself in a rut, you should focus on those basic guidelines.

But to improve, we need to narrow our focus to some more specific rules:

Clear the trouble spots on the board as soon as possible.

I can’t stress this enough. At the beginning of each level, try to get that bottom row of pellets out of the way. When I rediscovered the game, I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve been trapped between two ghosts at the bottom of the screen. The less time you spend on that bottom row the better.

Also, don’t forget to clear out the little alleys just above the ghosts’ pen whenever you get the chance. If you’re aggressive with power-pellets, they will be returning and barreling down those alleys as soon as they … um… re-ghostify. So be aware.

Make your move early.

Typically, I don’t like to clear the first board without at least 10,000 points. That first board is when the ghosts are most susceptible to the power pellets. You should strive to eat all four of them (good for 3,000) points with each power pellet. So ideally, you should finish the first board around 12,500 points. Any less than 8,000 means you’re being a little too timid. There will be plenty of time for that later, when eating a pellet only causes the ghosts to change direction, rather than even turning blue and blinking.

Some fruit tastes better than others.

This is along the lines of making your move early. Don’t bust your Pac-nuts trying to get to those cherries. They’re only worth 100 points. In the grand scheme of things, that’s not going to do much for you, and the area directly below the ghost pen is an area ripe for being trapped. Strawberries are worth 300 points and oranges give you 500. Both aren’t worth it, in my opinion, although, if you’re certain you have a clear path to either one, by all means take it.

As soon as you get to the apple, though, make it a point to try chomp down on it. At 700 points, that’s worth just over eating two ghosts. Getting the grapes (1,000 points), bananas (2,000) and especially the keys (5,000) are more than worth the trouble, and can make a huge difference in your final overall score. You want a high score, right? Maybe you don’t. And that’s okay. That brings me to the final rule.

Choose your own adventure.

One of the great things about “modern” video games, is that many will allow you to choose different paths in a branching storyline or even customize and upgrade your character as you advance. The same is true of Pac Man as well. As I see it, you have one of three choices: Try to clear levels – survive and advance, try to score points – wreck bloody vengeance on those who seek to do you harm, or a middle ground. It’s entirely up to you. Many Pac Man players will swear by each of these philosophies. Each has its merits, naturally. But to favor one over another is to miss the point of the game. Whatever you do, don’t rigidly adhere to a single one of those paths. It’s when you truly “let go” and allow the game to come to you that you will experience the most success.

Next time, we’ll take a look at how Pac Man applies to our daily lives.

Everything I ever needed to know...

2006-08-10T14:21:00.000-04:00

… I learned by playing Pac Man.

Pac Man imparts three very basic principles by which absolutely every man, woman and child should live their life:

1. Ghosts are scary and should be avoided.
2. You should eat fruit.
3. You should bide your time and visit terrible bloody vengeance upon those who seek to do you harm.

Yep. So long as you understand those three simple rules, you are ready to begin your training as a “Pac Man.”

Let me begin by saying that I am in absolutely no way an authority on this game. That honor falls to Billy Mitchell. The fact that he made it through all 255 levels without losing a single life, while at the same time grabbing every piece of fruit/special item, makes my recently hard-earned score of 99,030 on level 13 seem infinitely insignificant.

But this little series is not about how to become the next Billy Mitchell. This is more about the journey than the destination. Frankly, knowing that the game maxes out at 3,333,360 points is a little disappointing. I take solace only in knowing that I’ll never get close to that.

This series will ask three questions:
1. Why should I play Pac Man?
2. How can I get the most out of my Pac Man experience?
3. What do the characters and objects in Pac Man represent?

So, why should I play Pac Man?

On the most basic level, it’s fun.

When a ghost makes a wrong turn and you find yourself dashing to freedom on the opposite side of the board and chomping pellets like Homer Simpson at The Frying Dutchman’s all-you-can eat buffet, it’s nothing short of exhilarating – like when a kick returner in football finds a lane and dashes 80 yards for a touchdown.

It’s satisfying.

Those ghosts want to touch you and make you implode so bad. They hound you. They try to trap you. They genuinely wish harm upon you. But on every level, you get four chances to turn the tables – a phenomenon that delighted Charles Montgomery Burns to no end.

It teaches valuable lessons to children and adults alike.

Beyond the simple idea that fruit is something to be desired and good for you (so long as those cherries aren’t sitting on top of a hot fudge sundae), it also teaches you that life sometimes isn’t fair.

You can be playing a level perfectly, but the tiniest slip can allow a pair of ghosts to trap you between them. If this happens, your current Pac Man is a goner, and I pray you have another. Sometimes this seems to happen by pure dumb luck. You didn’t deserve to be trapped by these ghosts, but somehow they’ve surrounded and screwed you over.

This is an outstanding lesson for children. Sometimes you think you’ve tried your absolute best and circumstances beyond your control have brought about your demise. Even if that were the case, it’s a sad fact of life that such things can happen. But as you mature as a Pac Man player and a human being in general, you will learn where these “ghost traps” are most likely to happen and, through wisdom and understanding, you can avoid them by being a better player.

So once again, I invite you to take a few minutes and give it a go. Enjoy your time in the haunted maze. Tomorrow, we’ll take a look at ways to make it a little less scary.

But I really have to go...

2006-08-08T14:05:00.000-04:00

I like video games. I unabashedly like video games, despite the perception that they have little redeeming value.

I’m the proud owner of an Xbox 360 that currently features the most advanced games of any console, and the games promise to only become more and more “life-like.”

Ultra-realism in video games is certainly something to strive for. But having super-high-def graphics and physics and a branching storyline that could rival great works of literature are not necessarily what determines the success of the game. In fact, one of the main challenges many game developers are likely to face is deciding which bits of realism to illuminate and which ones they should omit.

Because, let’s face it, if our real lives were so exciting, there’d be no need to play a game.

Case in point: Bethesda Softworks’ The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion. This is, quite honestly, an incredible game, with incredible depth, graphics and storylines. And as far as running, jumping, axe-swinging and reactions to said axe-swinging goes, the game is pretty realistic. Bethesda Softworks created a living, breathing world fully peopled with folks who wake up, go to their job, stop at the market, go home and go to sleep. They all have their routines.

But there’s one part of their daily routines that is conspicuous in its absence. You can go into every home, and explore every room. But if your character drank a little too much ale, at local tavern, touch luck, cause there isn’t a single bathroom in the game. No privies. No jakes. No johns. No crappers. No outhouses. No luck…

Here’s a little bit of reality that the developers left out, and the game doesn’t suffer for it (except for the woefully backed-up people who inhabit the game’s world).

The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion is a triumph in gaming. But for all its realism and depth, I contest that it still can’t hold a fully-rendered candle running on a light engine that casts realistic shadows to Pac Man.

Take some time with Pac Man. Please. Re-acquaint yourself with the pizza-sans-a-slice and re-acquaint yourself with Blinky, Pinky, Inkey and Clyde.

Tomorrow, I intend to offer the first entry in a three-part series designed to illuminate and deconstruct this “Pac Man.”

It would be nice if we’re all on the same page.

Sleeping through the war

2006-08-07T14:06:00.000-04:00

Last week, I vowed that I would make it through at least two segments of The War at Home, so that I wouldn’t run out of gas when I had to watch the same episode 2-3 times when the second season starts.

Long story short – I failed.

I actually fell asleep watching Philadelphia and Oakland in the NFL “Hall of Fame Game.” Jen woke me up at about 9:40 and said, essentially, “I love how you can just fall asleep when a bunch of stuff needs to be done.”

So after I pried my butt out of bed and walked the dog (we desperately need to work on her after-dark-peeing efficiency. Any ideas?), I returned to watch the last segment of last night’s episode. The breakdown is as follows…

Mom and Dad got drunk, and thought that may be a bad example for the daughter, who I guess must have been caught drinking earlier in the episode. The daughter’s friend is visiting, and apparently she made out with the son during said drunken binge. She spurns the son's advances, causing the son to try to get back together with the ugly girl he used to date, who spurns his advances. This was no doubt a harsh lesson for what’s-his-name, whom we never hear from again.

Mom and Dad interact with the daughter’s friend’s parents, who realize that they’re drunk. Mom and Dad are un-repentant and the angry couple leaves with their alcoholic-whore daughter. Absolutely nothing is resolved. Nice.

It occurs to me that these entries will be a lot easier once I know the characters’ names.

I don’t have much in-depth analysis to offer on this one. Frankly, without seeing the entire show, I don’t think that would be too fair on my part.

I have come to a realization though. As a sportswriter, when I find it hard to get rolling on a story from an event, sometimes a look at the statistics will lead me to a decent starting point. With that in mind, I plan on keeping track of the following statistics for each episode:

Number of times Michael Rappaport is confused by something:

Pieces of sage advice offered to children by Michael Rappaport:

Number of times Michael Rappaport is worried about daughter’s sexual activity as it relates to experience/appearance:

White-screen confessionals:

Number of times canned laughter is used:

Number of times I actually laughed:

Moment that came closest to actual humor:

Just closing my eyes and shaking my head moment(s):

Well-worn territory (at least three episodes of earlier sitcoms that this episode ripped off):

Just for the record, I don’t want to be too hard on The War at Home for this. All sitcoms rip off other sitcoms. (For instance, each sitcom in the history of television features a “bowling” episode. I don’t know why this is true, but it’s a fact that we must all simply accept. Whenever the head writer takes a week off, the interns get together and write an episode where the family goes bowling.)

What bothers me is that this show has nothing really new to offer. There’s absolutely nothing that makes it unique. So when it takes a tried and true idea, it does nothing to improve upon what’s come before it.

If you’re unsure what I mean, take a listen to Alien Ant Farm’s cover of Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal. This was an insanely popular cover, but only because Smooth Criminal was, dare I say it, a freakin’ rad tune. Ask anyone who has perfect pitch, or even a decent ear, and they’ll tell you that the instruments in Alien Ant Farm’s cover were out of tune. It’s just a drunken homage to an incredible song that was so incredible, people subconsciously enjoyed it because it was just close enough to the original in terms of tempo and energy (but nowhere near MJ’s level of artistry).

Compare that to the Jimi Hendrix cover of Bob Dylan’s All Along the Watchtower (In my opinion, the greatest cover of all time). Hendrix shows the utmost respect for the source material (which I’d only rate as “good” in the context of Dylan’s myriad offerings) while at the same time completely making that song his own. It took on such epic proportions that there are a few people who believe it’s Hendrix’ song. And, in an odd sort of retribution, you’ll find Watchtower on just about every Dylan greatest-hits compilation, and I believe that’s due almost entirely to Hendrix’ treatment of it.

Back to the context of television, Malcolm in the Middle’s “bowling episode,” in which two alternate realities are shown (What would happen if Lois or Hal took the boys to the alley) is the Watchtower of Bowling episodes. The episode actually won Emmys for best writing and directing that year (2001).

The War at Home hasn’t made a bowling offering as of yet. But I promise it’s on the way. And when it arrives: You’ll be hit by… You’ll be struck by… a poor episode.

As Impressive as it is Useless

2006-08-04T11:44:00.000-04:00

Okay. Sorry, but I’m going to brag a little bit.

I’m good at just about everything that I do. If I try something new, and I’m not good at it, I eventually get good at it (if I think it's something worth being good at). Can’t help it. That’s just the way it is.

Problem is, none of the things I do well are things that people in our society tend to… umm… value.

Maybe that’s not true. Some of the things I do really well, such as: Cooking, Parallel Parking, Ping Pong, Arithmetic and Scrabble are skills valued by society. Unfortunately, I am only “good” at said activities. I’m not on some sick savant level that necessitates a Discovery Channel Special, a YouTube clip or, at the very least, a photo or feature in some backwoods, jerkwater newspaper that desperately needs to fill 12 inches for its “About Town” or “Family Leisure” or “Community” page on Sunday.

No. The only skill I possess on such a level is telling time.

Allow me to be extremely frank about this. I have time-telling skillz, as it were. If my homies need to know what time it is, they ask yours truly. If I ever need to know what time it is, I don’t ask anyone. I ask myself. Because, yeah that’s right -- I know what time it is.

I know what you’re thinking. “Wow. You can read a clock. I mock you and deride your supposed time-telling prowess, as I also have said skill.”

Technically, you’d be correct. Yes. I can read a clock. But when a clock is unavailable, when the sun is not in the sky, when clouds obscure the northern constellations swirling around Polaris, I still know what time it is, usually to within three minutes, bitch. Guaranteed. Take it to the bank. If you’re not sure you can take it to the bank, just ask, and I’ll let you know if you’ll be able to get there before 5:00.

Here it is. I feel the passage of time. I hone this skill by looking at clocks whenever I can, and then I feel the passage of time from my last clock viewing to when someone says, “I wonder what time it is.” I can’t explain how I do it. I just do it. Like perfect pitch.

And let me tell you something, if I were living in the age of Camelot, you damn well better believe that King Arthur would have me hanging out in the throne room with a flagon of mead in one hand and a comely lass of virtue-true sitting on my lap. And if King Artie (as I’d call him) wanted me to inform him as to when his two o’clock chiropractic appointment was, I’d be on it. In fact, I’d tell him to go early, because Chiropractors quintuple-book appointments, and then it’s first come, first served, even if you’re the frickin’ lord of the realm. Chiropractors don’t care.

But in this day and age, this skill is just a novelty. Everyone has a watch or a cell phone. So now, whenever someone asks me the time, I tell them. Then they check their cell phone and say, “Wow, you’re right on the money.”

On the money, but not in the money.

What a damn waste…

My "Sports Guy" Column

2006-08-03T08:29:00.000-04:00

There are few columnists I hate more than Bill Simmons. There's nothing quite like a nationally-syndicated sports columnist talking about his favorite movies, reality shows, and hometown teams (these are the times he actually discusses sports).

I understand the irony. I do the same thing. For free. On a blog. Bill Simmons is basically a glorified blogger who is paid handsomely to write about the time his buddy called him up during a game and asked, "Can you believe we're watching this?" and Bill responds with "I haven't seen anything this exciting since the end of Gleaming the Cube."

What's more, since people seem to completely eat this crap with a spoon, other writers are now infusing their work with personal observations about their daily routines and other boring slices of their lives. Peter King is a prime example, and he's been called out for it.

Anyway, it's not hard to write like Bill Simmons. The most infuriating thing about his success is that anybody with a sports almanac, a collection of movies from the 80's, and a few jag-off friends can do it.

The Chicago Sports Review recognized this and created this wonderful mad-lib for creating your own Bill Simmons column.

Here's the fruits of ten minutes of my life. (Also, if you're unfamiliar with his work, here's an example of an actual Bill Simmons column, so you can see how eerily similar they can be).

The Sports Guy Goes to an Auction

So I'm sitting there the other day watching ESPN2 and I see that A-Rod had a great game. There is nobody, with the possible exception of Grady Little, that I dislike more than A-Rod. In the pantheon of people that 'Make the Sports Guy Yak' these two are neck and neck.
The phone rings. It's my friend Bish, irate! Bish is always willing to discuss our mutual distaste for A-Rod. Don't get me wrong--we respect his abilities. But he's the Kelso of sports. Totally annoying, yet on TV all the time. Bish mentions that it would be nice if A-Rod caught a case of Scurvy at the beginning of September, paving the way for the Red Sox to the playoffs like Dan Kreider on The Clear.

Bish points out that the chances that A-Rod will come down with Scurvy in September are minimal, but that if we expanded the possibilities, there would be a greater chance for debilitating success. As usual, Bish is a crazy genius.

Here is what we came up with:

4. A-Rod receives a vicious Ghettoblaster from David Ortiz in front of 40,000 fans jammed into The Fleet Center.

(On a side note, has there ever been a greater moment in sports than when Hulk Hogan body-slammed Andre the Giant in Wrestlemania III? I don't even care if it was fake, that was wicked awesome. That rivals when when the Indians take the field for their divisional playoff with the Yankees in Major League for 'Most Inspirational Non-Real Sports Moment'.)

3. A-Rod is informed by his wife that their child was not fathered by him but rather by either Jose Mesa or David Littlefield.

2. A-Rod hangs scrapbook-style clippings of Brandon Walsh and Bobby in his locker and is immediately put on the DL.

1. A-Rod meets Young Miss Hogan from Hogan Knows Best, falls in love, and leaves team to begin filming 'My Fair Yankee.'

After we finish with the conversation about A-Rod we turn ourselves to the real topic of conversation, the upcoming draft of the Suzy Kolber is Sexy Memorial Baseball Association, a new fantasy league that Bish and I will be joining this year.

Ordinarily, I'm never an advocate of partnering up to own a fantasy baseball team. That's like getting picked up by Amy Mickleson and going back to her place, only to find out that Santonio Holmes is already there. If the best you get is to share, sometimes it's not worth it at all, right?
However, this league only had one slot open, so Bish and I agreed to partner up, in the hope that one of us could switch over and manage the next vacancy. After much debate, and eliminating the excellent possibilities of 'Naked Risk with Tea Cozies' and 'Craig Stadler's Shiny Slots as potential team names, we settle on 'Cobra Kai.'

The thing that’s exciting about this league is that it's an auction format league, which is totally different than a draft league. I mean, it seems as though it would be the same as a draft league, but it's not. It's like the difference between NHL 93 and NHL 94-you take out fighting and add one-timers, you've got a whole different game, even if they are both hockey. Any good sports fan knows that Barry Bonds is a gentleman, but not everyone knows how to do an auction.

Pre-Auction preparation is important. First, it is important to choose a date when the auction will take place. This is easy. Choose the date when the whipped guy does not have to wash the dishes and vacuum the stairs, and that's your date. Finding the whipped-guy-can-make-it date is crucial for auction success. (speaking of which, what is with all these girlfriends who think that 'fantasy draft' is code for 'I'm going to have my buddies over to watch Uh-Huh perform songs by Peter Gammons while I snack on a banana? Though that would be cool.)

Next, and more difficult, is the auction location selection. Many times people will choose to have their auction at a dog track. This is a bad idea. Nothing good can come of this; at the end of the day every person in the room is going to be filthy and have an extremely sore elbow after four hours.

No, the auction must be held in someone’s house-biggest furnished basement wins. The coolness of the wife/significant other can be a deciding factor if two people have similar options-say, if owner A has a Rumble Roses arcade game, but owner B has a case of Schlitz. Nothing will kill a fun evening faster than the host's wife emasculating him with an 'Is that so? .' We have selected next Tuesday night, at 8 pm, at a guy's house where his wife will be upstairs knitting booties, and therefore unable to disrupt the festivities.

I will not be sharing with you my player ratings for this coming season-after all, Scott Fischman doesn't play poker with the hand face up-but I will give you some insight into my auction strategy. The thing is, an auction has so much more of an influence on your season than a draft does. In an auction, every player in the league is at your disposal. Everyone starts out equal. It's the Communism of fantasy sports.

It's also like reading one of my columns. It requires endurance, it requires stamina, it requires concentration and planning. Without further ado, here is my 'Sports Guy Auction Strategy Guide':

Round One-stick and move

Once the auction starts, timing and strategy are much more important than they are in a traditional draft. The first hour or so of the auction has to be spent feeling out your opponents. Are they particularly loyal to the Pirates? Do they have a tendency toward laughing at their own jokes? You are looking for weaknesses that you can exploit later on. Store these like ticket stubs from movies.

Here is a good place to test people by chucking out a few names of guys you’d never want on your team-aging, oft-injured players, like Kerry Wood, or over-hyped rookies that will never pan out like Ryan Vogelsong.

Everyone is going to get some good players at this point, so make sure you don-t overpay and find yourself begging for money like Turtle asking for Vinny Chase's AMEX Black.

Round Two-Have a Sense of economics

In round two, there will be one moment that defines your draft. Things will be going along smoothly, and all of a sudden you'll get involved in a bidding war on a player. It's not unlike a big pot in a no-limit hold-em tournament-you'll have your Wes Mantooth-Ron Burgundy in Anchor Man moment, and you need to decide what to do.

Oftentimes, this will come down to a single dollar, here or there-if you bid 250 dollars for Rafael Palmiero, you know you'll get him, but you're facing a bid with the clock ticking. Are you going to be a hero, carried off the field like Bill Mazeroski? Or are you Mike Holmgren, skulking off the field into the jeering history of your team's fans, with only your family still willing to speak with you. Now is your moment. Set the tone.

Round Three-Moving Day

Hour three of the draft is moving day, like the third day of The Kemper Open. You need to shoot a 65. This is where you'll fill out a lot of the players that, while less luscious, make up the core of your team. Do not discount the importance of moving day. If you wait until the next phase to build the core of your team, you'll find yourself as lonely as Lindsay Lohan in a Baptist service.
Moving day is the time to make things happen for your team. This is where you are going to define the season that you have. If you end up moving day by taking an accurate mix of future stars, injury-risk players, and Mark Loretta, you'll be okay.

Round Four-The Game of Trivial Pursuit

By the end of the fantasy auction, the endeavor has become interminable. The only thing it can be compared to is a game of Trivial Pursuit, played among friends. Something that, at the beginning of the endeavor, seemed like such fun, but by the end of it, is just a group of people banging their heads against the wall, adamantly trying to finish what they started, the joy of competing against your friends replaced with a desire to prove that you are the Duke of All Trivia and that is that.

In this phase of the auction, you must be careful. This is the 'Now I'm just a schnook' moment of the draft. People will be exploding like a microwaved jawbreaker, screaming incomprehensible things like Fenster from The Usual Suspects and threatening to tears his shirt if they do not get their way.

Just bite your lip, set your jaw, and try and endure. It's a long season.

'If you want a toe, I can get you a toe, dude. '

You are Lisa Simpson

2006-08-02T10:48:00.000-04:00

Here's the deal.

If a cartoon voiced by Dustin Hoffman handed me a neatly folded piece of paper with the words "You are Lisa Simpson" on it, I would feel the following emotions:

Dorky sense of joy.
Dorky sense of irony.
Dorky sense of satisfaction.

It turns out, I am Lisa Simpson, but I didn't get the news from Mr. Bergstrom. I got it here.

I took three minutes out of my busy work schedule to take a quiz to see which Simpsons character I am. Much like "CAN'T Test" in the season-three episode Separate Vocations, the answers to this quiz were obviously meant to pigeonhole the taker into certain characters. I recall one of the "CAN'T" questions being...

I strongly prefer the smell of...
A. French fries
B. Gasoline
C. Bank customers

So when I came to the following question: What would be your ideal gift?
A. Pony
B. A cool, refreshing Duff
C. World domination
D. The ideal man

I picked "World domination" and thought to myself, at least I won't be Lisa...

What a bummer.

I thought for sure that I would be one of these guys.

Going to training camp

2006-07-31T09:49:00.000-04:00

The Pittsburgh Steelers completed their first weekend of training camp as they prepare to defend their Super Bowl XL championship.

Ben Roethlisberger showed up without a protective plastic bubble and participated in regular drills (although he performed the Steelers’ infamous “run test” with a pair of lineman rather than the other backs). Naturally, he was a little rusty, but that’s not really a concern. You’d expect a little rust even if he didn’t take on a two-ton automobile with his face at the intersection of 10th Street and Second Avenue just under two months ago.

It looks like he’ll be ready to go.

The big question, though… Will Joey D be ready to go when the season starts? And I’m not talking about the Steelers season. I can take care of that. That’s cake. The season in question is season two of Fox’s “smash hit,” The War at Home.

In the grand tradition of Bob Braughler’s "I read Leviticus so you don’t have to," I have decided to offer my own series: "I watch The War at Home so you don’t have to."

When Family Guy ended last night (a strong offering with an outstanding montage of Adam West spanking Chris to Alice Cooper's No More Mr. Nice Guy – I'm going to teach you the lesson that it's not okay to be a freshman), The War at Home came galumphing on immediately after like some great dane puppy – an awkward an unseemly beast with no manners and no idea how lucky it is to be in its current home (namely Fox’s sweet Sunday Night Lineup).

Like the dog, it didn’t take long for it to knock over some chairs and knick-knacks, chew the furniture and take a steaming dump on the rug. I could only get through about six minutes before I had to switch over to one of Chappelle’s Show’s Lost Episodes.

Those six agonizing minutes made me realize I have to go to my own version of training camp. If I’m to offer a thorough and insightful breakdown of each episode, not only will I have to watch the show at least once, I’ll probably need to go back over it at least one more time. That’s at least 44 minutes of The War at Home (sans commercials). Last night was like a no-contact drill with just helmets and shoulder pads followed by some light running. And you know what? I was woefully out of shape…

Next week, I vow to make it at least to the second commercial break. Also, to help build my tolerance for truly awful programming, I will watch at least two full syndicated episodes of That 70’s Show as some added conditioning.

Don’t worry, when Fox proudly rolls out the season-opener of The War at Home on September 10th, I’ll be waiting… in a three-point stance… to light that bitch up.

We will...

2006-07-27T15:48:00.000-04:00

I just realized something that almost completely blew my mind. It also gave me a reason to care about the rest of the Pittsburgh Pirates’ season, which, around the City of Pittsburgh, unofficially ends tomorrow (the start of Steelers training camp).

I heard last night that, despite some incredible pitching performances by Carlos Zambrano, the Chicago Cubs had only 39 wins so far this season. I couldn’t believe it. I said to Jen, who couldn’t care less, “I think that’s pretty darn close to the Pirates.”

Could Chicago really suck that bad? Has the White Sox World Series victory completely sucked all of the baseball karma in that city directly to the south side? I verified it on espn.com today, and it turns out that, yes, the Cubs (39-61) do suck almost as badly as the Pirates this year. The Pirates (37-66) trail the Cubs by only three and a half games for the coveted fifth-place slot in National League Central Division race.

With Jason "Jay" Bay and Freddie “Hit Man” Sanchez playing as well as they are and Ian Snell pitching as well as he is (I remember watching him in frickin’ Double-A just two years ago in Altoona), I think the Pirates have a legitimate shot of catching the Cubs and making that team look really, really pathetic.

It they did, I would find that extremely satisfying on a personal level.

One of the main reasons Jen and I decided to go to Chicago on our honeymoon was Wrigley Field. I wanted to see a game at historic Wrigley Field before they tore it down. The problem was that when we called for tickets to a Friday afternoon game, they were nearly sold out (don’t people work in Chicago?). Not to worry, though. They still had some bleacher seats available for $70 each. Each! If you don’t know how bleacher seats work at Wrigley Field, let’s just say that if you have a nice spot and you’re lucky enough to have an unobstructed view of the field, DO NOT GET UP, because those seats would then be game for anyone else with a bleacher ticket. It’s high-school-sports rules at good ol’ Wrigley.

When I heard the $70 news, I was kind of upset. Why the hell would I pay $70 to watch the Mets pound a team that was probably going to finish in fifth place in the NL Central? How could they justify that? I can go watch a barely crappier team get killed in a beautiful new stadium in a reserved bleacher seat for $14. And now it turns out that Pirates may not even be a crappier team than the Cubs? Shame on you, Cubs box office. Shame...

We Will… not finish in the basement.

So, purely for spite... Go Bucs!!!

Like MySpace, only it's really "my space"

2006-07-27T15:33:00.000-04:00

For anyone just finding stumbling upon this weblog, welcome.

For anyone whose come here from my unnamed "MySpace blog," welcome.

I have nothing against MySpace. It's great, really. It's allowed me to catch up with some old friends. But when it comes to blogging, I find its tools to be a little counterintuitive. Also, there's something I find slightly embarrassing about telling people, "Hey. You should check out my blog on MySpace." I think it's also kind of scared some people away. I'm not sure I know why, and I'm not sure I want to know.

Anyway, I intend to keep posting on that site as well as this one, although the posts will be pretty much exactly the same. After awhile, though, I intend for this to be the signature stop for my essentially worthless views on pop culture, sports, family life, etc.

Thanks for stopping by.