So, Gatorade has the commercial about football, and football, and football. The voiceover guy describes how three different sports (US football, soccer and Aussie rules football) are all called Football.
Now, I'll be the first to admit that US football is misnamed, because players don't use their feet to kick the ball as their hands to hold it and throw it. But, as I'm an American, and to minimize confusion, US football is football, Euro football is soccer, and Oz football is rugby.
A young man dubbed Stu in Portland, Oregon, is originally from England. He finds America's most popular team sports, football and baseball, are too slow compared to his beloved soccer, what he dubs "proper football."
Oh, yeah, proper football - the sport where guys run around for 90 minutes, have the refs stop the play and issue penalties with little-to-no-explanation, no real accurate clock is kept because of mysterious "penalty time" and players get traded between countries and leagues so that only 10 teams in 14 countries have any real chance of winning? AC Milan, Man U, Arsenal, Real Madrid and... there's not many after that.
If an American football player fumbles the ball in the end zone, he gets benched. If a Columbian proper football player accidentally puts the ball in the wrong goal, he gets killed.
If there's a bad call in American football, the refs can look it over on instant replay. If there's a bad call in European proper football, there's a riot.
I spent two years in college watching Dutch, Italian and English Premiere League soccer because I was fairly convinced I'd be assigned to a European broadcast office. I concluded after two years of dedicated watching and various articles on the subject that soccer is in definite need of reinventing itself or it will self-destruct - much like the NHL did, and what US Baseball is in danger of as well.
Why? Here's a few reasons:
1) European Leagues are filling up with non-Europeans. I had a joke at an NHL game a couple of weeks ago, referring to the Washington Capitals and the Tampa Bay Lightning - "Our Russians are better than your Canadians!" All 68 people in attendance laughed, and I think I saw Alexander Ovechkin nod in approval.
All sports with an international following become more expensive and harder for the average fan to root for when they can't connect with the players on the court, culturally and ethnically. Canada and the NHL worked because the sport is part of the culture, and Canadian culture is part of the sport. Once Europeans, specifically Russians, became part of the mix in the `80s, NHL teams were forced to compete with each other for attracting top talent moreso than developing their own in the minors. As a result, there was a disconnect between the top players and the fans who supported them.
This is the same thing happening in soccer. The top African and Arab players are being bought by the rich European clubs. Occasionally a lesser European player or aging South American star will be signed by an American club, but it's really the Euro teams buying top foreign talent...often at the expense of European players. And, as is painfully evident in France the past couple of weeks, there's still a disconnect between ethnic Europeans and immigrant Europeans.
2)The rich get richer... When Beckham was traded this past year, it was from one wealthy club to another. The disparity in player payrolls from one club to another is amazing. In England, for instance, how can Birmingham possibly compete financially with Manchester? Arsenal? Liverpool? They can't. Sure, they might win a game from time to time, but, year in, year out, the teams that get promoted to Premiere League status face a hell of challenge staying there. Smaller clubs simply can't spend the cash of the big boys.
The NHL allowed teams from smaller Canadian towns to move to Sun Belt US Cities in an effort to gain more revenue, and attract new fans. All that did was alienate the base group of the league. Seat prices skyrocketed, historic teams suddenly became marketing ideas, and the league expanded, thinking more teams would equal more revenue.
Overexpansion diluted the level of play, and keep high-revenue teams like the Colorado Avalanche and Dallas Stars - two former Northern teams from Quebec and Minnesota - successful at the expense of the smaller Calgary Flames and Columbus Blue Jackets.
The NHL instituted a salary cap this year, and suddenly, the playing field is a lot more even and wildly unpredictable. Of course, the NHL had to lose a season and gawd-knows-how many fans in order to learn its lesson.
3) Lack of instant replay ignores the technological advances made in the world. American football has used technology well, from camera placement to protective gear to medical science. Instant replay became a logical solution to many of the problems of plays simply being too close to call with the naked eye. The NHL learned the same things - using high-tech materials to make more durable sticks, better helmets, and cameras to ensure proper call of goals.
Soccer...well...hasn't.
Sure, shin guards might be a bit better, but the game is judged exactly like US baseball - using the naked eye. And, as evidenced in the playoffs and World Series this year - humans make mistakes.
Knowing the emotional capital the average soccer fan puts into the sport, what if a World Cup match gets decided by a mistaken goal call?
That there's already pushback against the Adidas soccer ball with a microchip to prevent mistakes doesn't bode well for introducing technology in the sport.
4) American sports are designed to be enjoyed and savored. Baseball breaks between innings to allow for bathroom breaks, hot dogs, beers. Football is the same way. Soccer doesn't allow itself to take breaks. While that's cool in one respect, that doesn't allow for fans to take a break, or let drama build in silence. Think of every great play or movie...the heaviest drama occurs during lulls, when emotional weight is heightened.
Soccer fans start chanting before the game, and often are worn out by minute 90.
Instead of two 45 minute halves (which never last 45 minutes anyway), soccer should go to 3 30 minute periods. Allows for more commercial breaks for tv, more bathroom and food breaks for fans, and gives the riot police more time to get into position.
Rugby learned to make itself much more TV and fan-friendly over the years.
Why else should they break up the game? Well, honestly, soccer is the most over-advertised sport in the world. The players wear advertising on the field. I'm not talking a small Reebok symbol on the shoe or Nike on the jersey, but BIG FRICKIN' LETTERS "Vodaphone" or "Motorola" or "Carlsburg." How in the world can you root for an advertisement? I hate the damned New York Yankees, but their jerseys say "Yankees," not "Sirius Satellite Radio."
"Hey, way to go, Watney's Red Barrels!"
Puh-lease. When I put on a jersey, it's because a fan of a team or a player, not because I happen to particularly associate with a brand of cheese or cell phone. Americans like uniforms with team names on them, or, at least the name of the town. We don't need to advertise for some credit card on our jerseys.
The exception to this is NASCAR. Granted, car racing is more about the car than athletics, but those dudes dress up like walking billboards. Half of them could be tagged with graffiti and you wouldn't be able to notice.
And NASCAR fans LOVE their sponsors. Hell, for years, Ricky Rudd was sponsored by Tide. Millions of Southerners bought Tide t-shirts, Tide hats, Tide flags, and Tide blankets. They loved Ricky and they loved Tide. The fact that most of them looked like they never used Tide detergent one time in their dirty little lives is secondary.
Soccer players dress like NASCAR drivers with teeth.
5) "Anybody can play soccer" is a routine comment to support soccer's Everyman status. And while it's true that anybody with legs and a ball (arms optional) can play the game, doesn't that somewhat lessen the status of these players? Many American men played football growing up; few played it beyond high school. Why? Because the average NFL player is a physical specimen - fast, strong, massive. It is very hard to be 6'4", 275 pounds and able to run 40 yards in less than 5 seconds. In fact, it's hard to be 5'9", 195 pounds and run 40 yards in less than 5 seconds. NFL players do it routinely.
Baseball players have to be able to react to a 90 mile-per-hour pitch from less than 70 feet away. This means a hitter has to react to a baseball 1/10th the size of a soccer ball and whip a bat around at 100 miles-per-hour to even have a chance of hitting the ball. They then need to run 90 feet in less than 5 seconds to even have a chance of getting to first base. The two hardest things to do in sports is to hit a baseball well and the Tour De France. A close third would be to hold on to a football after getting pummelled by a 265 pound linebacker like Ray Lewis or LeVar Arrington.
Soccer...well, let's see...you have to be able to run and kick a ball.
I'm not minimizing the athletic ability of soccer players as much as I'm saying "it ain't that damned hard." The players are fast runners, and they have strong legs. They can kick a ball. Goalies have to have lightning fast reflexes. But running and kicking a ball is basic. Freddy Adu is hardly old enough to drive a car but is already a pro soccer player (then again, if you think Freddy Adu is 16 you need to have your sanity checked). He (allegedly) was 14 and a pro. A 14 year old baseball player is simply not going to get his bat around on a Roger Clemens' fastball, or a Billy Wagner slider. He's not going to be able to play 162 games in a summer. A 14 year old football player would be killed, if not made permanently retarded, if he got hit by Brian Urlacher or Sean Taylor.
He'd be destroyed in Australia on simple general principle. Those guys are the roughest people in the world. They make hockey players seem genteel. A rugby scrum is not the place for a new teenager. Hell, I'd imagine Superman would come out with some bruises against rugby players. At least a black eye and a cleat to the groin.
In America and Australia, size matters.
Soccer players writhe around on the ground after getting kicked in the leg. Football players take a play or two off after getting a concussion. Rugby players drink a beer with a dislocated shoulder.
NO CONTEST!!!
Soccer players need to get bigger, or tougher, or less whiny. Something. They just look ridiculous rolling on the ground. I don't want to get all Jim Rome-esque on this, but he's so damn right. "Stop rolling, Euro! You look like a pansy. You just got kicked in the leg, time to flop. At least Nancy Kerrigan got hit with a pipe, and she's a girl, yet she sacked up more than you, Euro soccer boy. Here's Bill in Pasadena, welcome to the Jungle, what is up?"
((that's really funny in my Jim Rome impersonation voice, too. Great job.))
6) Way too many frickin' tournaments. The World Cup I can deal with. The European Cup I can deal with. But there are so many qualifiers for the World Cup, the UEFA Cup, the Pan-American Cup, CONCACAF, The Saharan Cup, the Protective Cup, The Dixie Cup. They might as well join the Breeder's, Davis and America's Cups while they're at it.
Do they win the Stanley Cup next?
I'm sure these tourneys are all very important, but they disrupt the flow of the regular season. Injuries occur in these tournaments, and suddenly, valuable players are out of their professional jobs. If David Beckham breaks his foot playing for England in the UEFA, don't you figure Real Madrid would be PISSED?
This is exactly why I hate professional athletes in the Olympics. For years, the Americans put out amateur baseball, hockey and basketball players, and always did well. Maybe not always the Gold, but certainly Silvers and Bronze Medals. Watching the US Olympics in 1980, watching that hockey game STILL gives me the shivers 25 years later. Those kids WANTED that victory...it was the biggest moment of their lives. Such a big moment, it was immortalized in a movie, Miracle.
Pros play to not get hurt. And that's why the so-called Dream Teams were utterly boring. Wow, you mean Michael Jordan is a better player than some dude from Greece? SHOCKER!!
I'm all for getting the best players together, but do it on a level playing field. Suspend all league play for a half-year, and make the World Cup Qualifiers and Finals a six month event. Have the best US players play the best Mexican players, have the best English play the best Germans, and then culminate the end of the year with the World Cup itself. This way, the best players don't have to worry about their pro teams and leagues, and can concentrate on playing the best soccer for their respective countries.
More drama. Better quality of play. Less chance of a key injury ruining a professional team's chances of winning because Christoph Metzelder got turf toe in the middle of his pro season at an exhibition game for the EUFA Cup.
(He plays for Germany, for the record. Don't ask me his pro team, but his jersey probably has a cell phone on it.)
Baseball is talking about a World Cup themselves. Not a horrible idea, but this should take place before Spring Training, after the Super Bowl. A month-long tournament before the season featuring each country's best players makes more sense than breaking up the season in the middle.
7) Eliminate ties as much as possible. Ties suck. There aren't ties in war. There aren't ties in poker. The NHL has taken every step possible to eliminate ties now, and, you know what - the games' a bit better now. It means more during the game itself, because no team wants to put its goalie in a must-win situation.
8) Leave the goal posts alone.
Some people say Americans need more scoring in the game to make it more interesting to us. I don't buy that. Lots of Americans love a well-pitched baseball game that ends 1-0. A good defensive football match can be 9-6. Sure we'd like a touchdown, but sometimes that's just not in the cards. Hey, I'm a Baltimore Ravens' fan - I know a well-played football game can end without touchdowns, because the purple-and-black don't score too many!
In soccer, a good offensive game can be 2-1. A blowout is 4 - nil. Those are viable baseball or hockey scores. Nothing wrong with that. But the bastardized version of soccer that is available in this country, indoor soccer, is ridiculous. It resembles real soccer the way Arena football resembles real football - it doesn't! I don't need to see a 15-12 indoor soccer game, where each goal is celebrated by cheerleaders shooting t-shirts into the stands.
In fact, I think the only reason why indoor soccer and arena football exist in America is for people to get an opportunity to grab a free t-shirt. People go apeshit over free t-shirts. Guys will elbow little kids and chicks will show boob just to win a t-shirt.
--------------
Those are just a few suggestions about how to improve soccer, or at least keep it Real.
To summarize:
1) Reconnect with your fans with identifiable players
2) Get a salary cap
3) Embrace some technology
4) Make it more TV and fan-friendly
5) Get a real team name, Frenchy
6) Stop being so damned wimpy
7) Rearrange your tournaments to make sense
8) Ties suck
9) Keep the game dimensions the same
And, #10...
Give out free t-shirts so chicks will show boob.
War random rants about Euro sports!
Telecomedian, out.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Monday, November 07, 2005
2, 4, 6, 8, when can we consummate? Go Panthers
From:
http://wizbangblog.com/archives/007522.php
Carolina Panther cheerleaders Angela Keathley and Renee Thomas were arrested early Sunday morning at a Tampa Bay area bar after a bathroom fight. According to the police report, witnesses say the two Top Cat cheerleaders were having sex in a stall at Banana Joe's, when other female bar patrons waiting to use the bathroom started shouting at them. After leaving the stall Thomas allegedly punched one of the other female customers in the face, and when arrested used a false identity. Keathley was said to be so drunk she was barely able to stand.
-------------------------------------------- ### -----------------------------------------
I'm not sure, but I think this is hilarious. Not because two women made out in a Tampa bar. That happens all the time. Nothing shocking there.
I think it's hilarious because two women were having sex with each other at a place called Banana Joe's. Banana Joe's sounds like the name of a bad tiki bar in Omaha. Big loud-mouthed deejays talking about "1/2 priced margaritas for all the ladies ALL NIGHT LONG at Banana Joe's!"
A quick Google scan of Banana Joe's in Tampa pulled up a link to Tampa Mojo http://www.tampamojo.com/ and tales of hotties in the back room of Banana Joe's. The pictures on this website show lots of women hugging and dancing with each other, which quickly makes me figure that:
1) there aren't any men in Tampa
2) there are lots of hot lesbians in Tampa
3) lots of cute girls in Tampa try to lure sucker men into their clutches with provocative dancing and suggestive hugging of other women. Guys think "Hot potential lesbian 3 ways and stuff! Buy them shots, quick!"
I'm going with #3.
As Bill Maher says "that's just chum in the water," and damn he's right. Why are guys so damned predictable about hot girl-girl action? It ain't gonna happen with average girls, like a bank teller from Topeka and a payroll administrator from Ames. In the bar, sure they'll playfully tug each others' hair and grab their butts, but at the end of the night, they like the cock.
For hot girl-girl action in public, you gotta find two hot NFL cheerleaders.
http://wizbangblog.com/archives/007522.php
Carolina Panther cheerleaders Angela Keathley and Renee Thomas were arrested early Sunday morning at a Tampa Bay area bar after a bathroom fight. According to the police report, witnesses say the two Top Cat cheerleaders were having sex in a stall at Banana Joe's, when other female bar patrons waiting to use the bathroom started shouting at them. After leaving the stall Thomas allegedly punched one of the other female customers in the face, and when arrested used a false identity. Keathley was said to be so drunk she was barely able to stand.
-------------------------------------------- ### -----------------------------------------
I'm not sure, but I think this is hilarious. Not because two women made out in a Tampa bar. That happens all the time. Nothing shocking there.
I think it's hilarious because two women were having sex with each other at a place called Banana Joe's. Banana Joe's sounds like the name of a bad tiki bar in Omaha. Big loud-mouthed deejays talking about "1/2 priced margaritas for all the ladies ALL NIGHT LONG at Banana Joe's!"
A quick Google scan of Banana Joe's in Tampa pulled up a link to Tampa Mojo http://www.tampamojo.com/ and tales of hotties in the back room of Banana Joe's. The pictures on this website show lots of women hugging and dancing with each other, which quickly makes me figure that:
1) there aren't any men in Tampa
2) there are lots of hot lesbians in Tampa
3) lots of cute girls in Tampa try to lure sucker men into their clutches with provocative dancing and suggestive hugging of other women. Guys think "Hot potential lesbian 3 ways and stuff! Buy them shots, quick!"
I'm going with #3.
As Bill Maher says "that's just chum in the water," and damn he's right. Why are guys so damned predictable about hot girl-girl action? It ain't gonna happen with average girls, like a bank teller from Topeka and a payroll administrator from Ames. In the bar, sure they'll playfully tug each others' hair and grab their butts, but at the end of the night, they like the cock.
For hot girl-girl action in public, you gotta find two hot NFL cheerleaders.
Adventures in Renting...
At 4:04pm, Friday, November 4, 2005, I received a phone call from my roommate that means something entirely different now than what she intended:
"The apartment is flooding."
I live in bumpy Arlington, Virginia, above sea level, and on the side of a steep hill that many well-conditioned cyclists can't climb without a dismount-and-stroll to the top. But, logic failing, I nonetheless imagined New Orleans-style flooding, with Jayme chopping through her bedroom ceiling with an axe (and probably scaring the piss out of the folks who live above us) to avoid the advancing tide.
However, it was merely a broken or a blocked pipe - the plumber couldn't tell - and it overflowed water out from a joint and through the drywall over our dining room's ceiling. Messy and wet - good things in sex; bad for a dining room.
Here's what kills me. Obviously, a pipe is broken/blocked somewhere. The ceiling is dripping, and you just don't see that everyday. However, the plumber isn't allowed to fix the pipe because our property management company "didn't give him permission to" chop out the bad pipe and the ruined drywall.
How in the HELL else do you propose fixing the pipe, slim? Tearing through the bedroom from above? Knocking out my next-door neighbors' walls and repairing it from the side. Oompa-Loompas?
Besides...the drywall is already dripping water. There's a hole in it already. Another hole ain't gonna ruin it anymore than it already is.
Asshats. Every single last one of them.
"The apartment is flooding."
I live in bumpy Arlington, Virginia, above sea level, and on the side of a steep hill that many well-conditioned cyclists can't climb without a dismount-and-stroll to the top. But, logic failing, I nonetheless imagined New Orleans-style flooding, with Jayme chopping through her bedroom ceiling with an axe (and probably scaring the piss out of the folks who live above us) to avoid the advancing tide.
However, it was merely a broken or a blocked pipe - the plumber couldn't tell - and it overflowed water out from a joint and through the drywall over our dining room's ceiling. Messy and wet - good things in sex; bad for a dining room.
Here's what kills me. Obviously, a pipe is broken/blocked somewhere. The ceiling is dripping, and you just don't see that everyday. However, the plumber isn't allowed to fix the pipe because our property management company "didn't give him permission to" chop out the bad pipe and the ruined drywall.
How in the HELL else do you propose fixing the pipe, slim? Tearing through the bedroom from above? Knocking out my next-door neighbors' walls and repairing it from the side. Oompa-Loompas?
Besides...the drywall is already dripping water. There's a hole in it already. Another hole ain't gonna ruin it anymore than it already is.
Asshats. Every single last one of them.
Monday, October 31, 2005
The Penile Chronicles, Chapter Two
October 30, 2005
I just woke up to find myself in a pair of woman's shorts.
Normally, I'd find that to be an exciting way to start a Sunday morning, wondering how I could find myself in such a situation. However, just as the air from that first crisp autumn morning hits you in the face and makes you realize the dreams of the summer have passed, I had a similar wave of reality when I recognized that just outside of the woman's shorts was a hard canvas couch.
I looked around and found myself in the familiar settings of Ray's friend Scott's apartment. Two blankets were placed over the rest of Ray's body, and, other than being incredibly confused, I suspected everything had gone according to plan. But how in the hell did I end up in women's clothing...especially at Scott's place, which has proven to be akin to the House of Usher to members of the Fairer Sex?
I looked around my living space to see if there was any indication that I'd been used the night before, and I saw nothing. Andy, the twins and I were clean as a whistle.
What could have happened last night to encase me in women's gym shorts?
I started talking to the Other Head, and see if he had any insight into the events of the previous evening. Now, normally, he and I don't often see eye-to-eye on things - it seems we often have two seperate agendas when it comes to women. But, seeing as how I was ensconced in a strange woman's garments miles away from a woman, I was definitely curious. I knew he knew the answer. The trick was getting him to tell the tale.
He was surprisingly gabby, at first. The Other Head told me about the Halloween party the night before in Columbia. Now, if there's one thing Other Head and I agree with is our mutual dislike of Columbia. He gets lost easily there - curved roads, subdivisions, poor signage, stupid street names - and the only girls' Ray's ever dated there were just not it. I remember this one girl who swore up and down that she was really cool, and she showed up on the date wearing - I'm not making this up - a prom dress. Poofy shoulders, ruffles. See, that'd be cool if we were in high school and it was actually a prom, but we were 30 and in Annapolis and eating crabcakes. Not exactly a prom setting. She wasn't wearing it ironically, either. She said she'd never been to Annapolis before and wanted to dress up...*yawn*
Anyway, where was I? Gawd, I'm so easily distracted sometimes. So, I was talking to the Other Head, and he mentioned the Halloween Party, and how we got dressed up. That's when I remembered the pain.
See, Ray and the Other Head got the brilliant idea of dressing up as Ben Stiller's character White Goodman in "Dodgeball." Funny movie - hell, I laughed at it, and am ALWAYS a fan of Mrs. Ben Stiller, Christine Taylor. So, I wasn't mad when Ray suggested the costume idea - wearing the body armour outfits they wore in the Dodgeball tournament itself. Ray carefully constructed the costume using purple Under Armour and used rollerblading pads to simulate the shoulder pads.
It was a good theory...until it came time for the pants.
Ray's about 5'9", and usually weighs 200 pounds. He's a solidly built dude. I spend most of my days looking at his thighs, and they appear to be a rather muscular set. My neighbor in the back, Andy, has two huge yards which seem to garner more attention than they deserve, IMHO. I mean, they're buttcheeks, people. Two huge wads of flesh and muscle that poop comes out the middle of. *I'm* the one who does all the real work, people! *I* should be the star, not some, some ASS...
Anyway, he bought a pair of XL football tights to complete the costume. We had some difficulty getting them over the thighs and rump, but, once on, I was cramped, but comfortable. Ray trotted out the ensemble at the party on Saturday night.
First off - it was a little colder than we expected, and the thin Under Armour simply wasn't enough to keep Ray's upper body warm. The football pants were doing their job for the most part, though the legs were complaining about a lack of warm blood going to the feet. I figure they were just being wimpy.
The party itself was fun. One dude dressed as a mad scientist, and gave Ray a couple of shots of Belvedere vodka. Lots of women seemed enamoured over Andy's turf in the black tights, but I'm sure I caught my share of glances, too. The football pants, while tight, did give me a certain profile, that's for sure.
However, towards the end of the night, I started feeling lousy. It could have been the alcohol, or perhaps it was an overdose of sweet foods at the party (we LOVED Leilani's apple pie), but I started feeling dizzy. The legs - the knees especially - which had been griping for hours, were being joined in the complaints by the stomach, the feet and, soon, even life-of-the-party Andy. What was going on...?
All I remember was wanting to sleep...
And then waking up.
I asked the Other Head if he was hung over - a charge he vigourously denied. I asked other parts of Ray's body what their status was. The knees told me they were shot, and the thighs were in poor shape. The stomach was ready to revolt, but not because of too much alcohol. Surely something was amiss.
It was when I glanced a look at Ray's costume that all things became clear. The Under Armour was an Adult Medium - a little tight, but not too bad. However, the label on the pants stuck out to me like a beacon in a storm. The size said "XL" alright... CHILDREN'S XL!!! Ray had bought and worn clothes that were literally made for somebody 100 pounds lighter!
Excited by the news, I stood up and looked at my friends. I wanted to shout out the news that Ray was bad at shopping, contrary to all that we had held to be true. Ray and the rest of his body had gone back to sleep, but the red dent in Ray's stomach proved to me that my guess was right.
Hopefully Ray won't get the brilliant idea of wearing Underroos next year. I gotta make it thought this life, you know?
The shorts were from our friend Leilani, who apparently took pity on our situation and donated the shorts so Ray wouldn't have to fall asleep in pain. How sweet! Nice pie AND a good heart. What more do you need? A good friend indeed.
In all, no harm done, other than Lefty has a seam mark where his...uh...what...I guess where his hair would be. I got over the lingering soreness, though I'm not sure why Ray'd put me in such a situation. I thought he and I were friends. I'll get over it, though.
Stomach still hates Ray, and Andy...well, that's just Andy being Andy.
Still...Children's XL...what a dick!
I just woke up to find myself in a pair of woman's shorts.
Normally, I'd find that to be an exciting way to start a Sunday morning, wondering how I could find myself in such a situation. However, just as the air from that first crisp autumn morning hits you in the face and makes you realize the dreams of the summer have passed, I had a similar wave of reality when I recognized that just outside of the woman's shorts was a hard canvas couch.
I looked around and found myself in the familiar settings of Ray's friend Scott's apartment. Two blankets were placed over the rest of Ray's body, and, other than being incredibly confused, I suspected everything had gone according to plan. But how in the hell did I end up in women's clothing...especially at Scott's place, which has proven to be akin to the House of Usher to members of the Fairer Sex?
I looked around my living space to see if there was any indication that I'd been used the night before, and I saw nothing. Andy, the twins and I were clean as a whistle.
What could have happened last night to encase me in women's gym shorts?
I started talking to the Other Head, and see if he had any insight into the events of the previous evening. Now, normally, he and I don't often see eye-to-eye on things - it seems we often have two seperate agendas when it comes to women. But, seeing as how I was ensconced in a strange woman's garments miles away from a woman, I was definitely curious. I knew he knew the answer. The trick was getting him to tell the tale.
He was surprisingly gabby, at first. The Other Head told me about the Halloween party the night before in Columbia. Now, if there's one thing Other Head and I agree with is our mutual dislike of Columbia. He gets lost easily there - curved roads, subdivisions, poor signage, stupid street names - and the only girls' Ray's ever dated there were just not it. I remember this one girl who swore up and down that she was really cool, and she showed up on the date wearing - I'm not making this up - a prom dress. Poofy shoulders, ruffles. See, that'd be cool if we were in high school and it was actually a prom, but we were 30 and in Annapolis and eating crabcakes. Not exactly a prom setting. She wasn't wearing it ironically, either. She said she'd never been to Annapolis before and wanted to dress up...*yawn*
Anyway, where was I? Gawd, I'm so easily distracted sometimes. So, I was talking to the Other Head, and he mentioned the Halloween Party, and how we got dressed up. That's when I remembered the pain.
See, Ray and the Other Head got the brilliant idea of dressing up as Ben Stiller's character White Goodman in "Dodgeball." Funny movie - hell, I laughed at it, and am ALWAYS a fan of Mrs. Ben Stiller, Christine Taylor. So, I wasn't mad when Ray suggested the costume idea - wearing the body armour outfits they wore in the Dodgeball tournament itself. Ray carefully constructed the costume using purple Under Armour and used rollerblading pads to simulate the shoulder pads.
It was a good theory...until it came time for the pants.
Ray's about 5'9", and usually weighs 200 pounds. He's a solidly built dude. I spend most of my days looking at his thighs, and they appear to be a rather muscular set. My neighbor in the back, Andy, has two huge yards which seem to garner more attention than they deserve, IMHO. I mean, they're buttcheeks, people. Two huge wads of flesh and muscle that poop comes out the middle of. *I'm* the one who does all the real work, people! *I* should be the star, not some, some ASS...
Anyway, he bought a pair of XL football tights to complete the costume. We had some difficulty getting them over the thighs and rump, but, once on, I was cramped, but comfortable. Ray trotted out the ensemble at the party on Saturday night.
First off - it was a little colder than we expected, and the thin Under Armour simply wasn't enough to keep Ray's upper body warm. The football pants were doing their job for the most part, though the legs were complaining about a lack of warm blood going to the feet. I figure they were just being wimpy.
The party itself was fun. One dude dressed as a mad scientist, and gave Ray a couple of shots of Belvedere vodka. Lots of women seemed enamoured over Andy's turf in the black tights, but I'm sure I caught my share of glances, too. The football pants, while tight, did give me a certain profile, that's for sure.
However, towards the end of the night, I started feeling lousy. It could have been the alcohol, or perhaps it was an overdose of sweet foods at the party (we LOVED Leilani's apple pie), but I started feeling dizzy. The legs - the knees especially - which had been griping for hours, were being joined in the complaints by the stomach, the feet and, soon, even life-of-the-party Andy. What was going on...?
All I remember was wanting to sleep...
And then waking up.
I asked the Other Head if he was hung over - a charge he vigourously denied. I asked other parts of Ray's body what their status was. The knees told me they were shot, and the thighs were in poor shape. The stomach was ready to revolt, but not because of too much alcohol. Surely something was amiss.
It was when I glanced a look at Ray's costume that all things became clear. The Under Armour was an Adult Medium - a little tight, but not too bad. However, the label on the pants stuck out to me like a beacon in a storm. The size said "XL" alright... CHILDREN'S XL!!! Ray had bought and worn clothes that were literally made for somebody 100 pounds lighter!
Excited by the news, I stood up and looked at my friends. I wanted to shout out the news that Ray was bad at shopping, contrary to all that we had held to be true. Ray and the rest of his body had gone back to sleep, but the red dent in Ray's stomach proved to me that my guess was right.
Hopefully Ray won't get the brilliant idea of wearing Underroos next year. I gotta make it thought this life, you know?
The shorts were from our friend Leilani, who apparently took pity on our situation and donated the shorts so Ray wouldn't have to fall asleep in pain. How sweet! Nice pie AND a good heart. What more do you need? A good friend indeed.
In all, no harm done, other than Lefty has a seam mark where his...uh...what...I guess where his hair would be. I got over the lingering soreness, though I'm not sure why Ray'd put me in such a situation. I thought he and I were friends. I'll get over it, though.
Stomach still hates Ray, and Andy...well, that's just Andy being Andy.
Still...Children's XL...what a dick!
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
The Penile Chronicles, Chapter One
January, 2003
FOR A TIME, the hardest parts of my existence were the nightmares. They came, like clockwork, every night at approximately 1:30 AM. At least, I think it was 1:30 AM; it was hard to see the dim glow of the clock radio from under the blankets and boxer shorts. But, on those rare occasions when I could tell the time, I think it was 1:30 AM.
I would be walking down the street - Anystreet, U.S.A. - with Ray smiling from above. I was free of the bounds of the oppressive underwear, and was hanging with my clean-shaven friends Righty and Lefty. We were the Three Stooges, or, like three little Elvis's, more accurately, with Ray serving as our Colonel Tom Parker. We were probably coming from some adventure, like a Beatles' movie, gently poking fun at the Establishment. All was right in our world.
But then, the scenery would change. Like a bad wipe in Star Wars, the scene would change from peaceful Endor to a harsh desert scene of Tatooine. Suddenly, we were sweating, and the heat coming from the sand below was definitely having an effect on my head. I strained to look at my surroundings - everything was barren. Dry. Dead.
The noise came from our side. It was a monster - some sort of lizard with brown hair and scaly skin. We started running away, and the monster followed. It reached out after us with these long arms and these, these...paws...that wanted to rip our warm flesh from ourselves. Righty, Lefty and I could only hope that Ray's legs were strong enough to keep us from harm's way.
Then we fell. I didn't see the fall happen - I was too busy looking at Lefty and Righty curl into their hiding spot, leaving me on my own. I did see what we all tripped on - a Playskool kitchen set, of all things - and the sand was replaced by a rough carpet, and the desert was actually a living room in Pikesville, Maryland. As the blood rushed to the knee and shins, I blacked out. Hard to do in a dream, I'll grant you that, but when I came to, I looked up to see the monster had 30-weight sandpaper and was about to use it on my delicate sides.
I'd snap myself awake, begging for comfort, but unable to find any. The nightmare was so real, so tangible, it couldn't be imagination only, could it? Surely something was causing my mental anguish. I tired to start a conversation with Righty - he's the sensitive one of the twins - but he was sleeping solidly. What I wouldn't give for rest like that...
These nightmares became more real with the passing nights. I dreaded sleep. I'd pester Ray to stay awake. "Just one more website, Ray!" or "Come on, let's play XBox! I'll let you win, dammit!" or "What's on cable, ole' pal?" but when Ray would hit the mattress, I knew I had no more begging for the night.
The restlessness took a toll on relations with my neighbors. Lefty and Righty stopped talking to me, and Andy, the ass who lives behind us, started talking too much. Loud mouth, and the worst breath. Still, not being able to talk to Righty hurt. I always counted on him. He was my rock, and, he was ignoring me.
I started talking to a doctor. She told me I wasn't getting enough exercise, and I could see her point. However, she pointed out that I couldn't work out in her gym, and that nobody works out in her gym. Hmph. She didn't need to be so snobby about it. I don't need to hang out at the most popular club in town, but not sure if I want to go to a club with nobody dancing.
I met a friendly waitress in Annapolis, and while she wasn't able to exorcise the demons, it was nice hearing kind words. She suggested, rather sweetly, that I needed help. With nowhere else to turn, and still being shunned by Righty, I went into therapy.
Through group therapy, I was told I'd never function if I couldn't get these dreams out of my mind. One solution was proposed to me as initially ridiculous, but it seemed like it might be effective. I was told to remember as much I could about a harrowing experience. The idea was that these dreams were being triggered by some sort of trauma, or, even a near-death experience.
After a deep-tissue massage, I went into a quiet, reflective mood, and my mind recalled the events of the evening these nightmares started.
We all had been out dancing with our friend John Enoch, a young, recently-divorced writer from Baltimore. We'd been out at Rascal's, a nightclub in Towson, Maryland. I remember being attracted to a cute blonde, but she was more interested in the emotionally-fragile Enoch. I tucked my pride into my foreskin vest and played the part of the wingman, as once again I was the Goose to Enoch's Maverick. The blonde's friend wasn't awful on first glance, though an awful highlighting job on a lousy haircut firmly rooted the young lady into a swamp of mediocrity. The hair would have worked on an Adam Ant impersonator - I may be a dick, but I have standards. I wasn't interested, but, duty calls, and I knew John needed me if he would have a successful mission. Ray danced with the friend. Ray was polite, Ray was sociable. I wasn't interested, though. I can't emphasize this enough. I didn't show one throb of interest. She didn't even know I had a pulse.
So, back to Pikesville we went, the whole lot of us, to the townhome of the woman with the lousy hair. We watched a movie in the living room, and as I was plopped down into a comfy chair, a TinkerToy poked Andy pretty hard. He's an ass, but the TinkerToy didn't need to be so rude. I quickly summized that this woman had kids, though I could hear none of the tell-tale whining indicative of children.
John and the cute young blonde went downstairs - to do what, I could only imagine. At that point, the friend looked at Ray and Ray's Pants, so I could safely assume she was looking for a piece of me, too. I was SO not into this right now - I really just wanted to go home. I didn't want to work out for anybody, especially one with a hair cut and highlights that resembled wing tip shoes.
She sauntered over to the comfy chair (I could see this through a strategic opening in the boxer shorts and the light allowed through the pant zipper's teeth) and started rubbing Ray's shoulders. According to the internal memo I got from the shoulders, she had the grip of a Teamster. She kissed the back of his neck, and, according to the me-mail I got, her lips were dry. Based on the information I was being provided, my services would not be needed, and I couldn't have been happier.
Ray got out of the chair and mumbled something about getting some water. He went into the kitchen, the whole time using our combined brain to figure a way out of this. His friend was in the basement, hooking up with some much-needed post-divorce lovin', and he was trying to avoid what could easily become a desperate, awkward situation.
He came back with two glasses, and saw that the woman had taken her (admittedly) cute sweater off and was now wearing a camisole. Again, from my vantage point, I saw this and really wished she'd have left the sweater on. Ray saw a spare room, and asked what was in there, trying to avoid from having to go anywhere near the 50% topless woman.
"That's the boys' playroom," she replied.
"Oh," Ray responded. "How many boys do you have?" He saw the PlaySkool kitchen set in the corner.
She sauntered over "Well, my the younger is 6, and the oldest is 12."
"12?" Ray questioned.
"Yeah, I had him when I was young and dumb. I was barely 15 at the time I had him."
Ray gulped. Hopefully the PlaySkool set was for the younger child.
She put his arm around his shoulders. Once again, his shoulders sent me the message that this was definitely not something to be pleased about.
"Where are your boys?" asked Ray.
"With their father, my ex-husband," she said. Wispering, she added "We can be as loud as we want."
Another body shudder confirmed my fear that Ray was stuck in a situation where I must fight my general nature, along with Righty and Lefty, to avoid doing ANYTHING to get into a situation where I could see the light of day, or, in this case, the dark of the boy's play room.
That's when the pain began.
I felt it, and I was a good foot or so away. She touched Ray's hand with her palm, and ran it down the length of his arm. The pain sent a shock through his arm and straight into the spinal cord. It was searing, like being burned unexpectedly on a stove, or getting a shock from a lousy electric outlet. Ray looked down at his arm; it had turned red.
"You're revved up, aren't you?" the woman asked toyingly, thinking that I was somehow getting aroused by pain (which, trust me, I simply ain't into. After growing up getting smacked around by baseballs, bicycle seats, toddlers and bad follow-through on a tennis serve, I don't need more pain). I looked down to see Righty and Lefty retreat to their hiding spot. Andy recoiled in fear.
"Um, uh..." Ray stammered out. His arm was red - his arm was sending me messages like 12 year old girls with cell phones - and I could tell his arm was ready to chew itself off. Like so many times before and since, I had to do the thinking for him, but this time, to AVOID sex, but yet, not blow things for John downstairs.
She grabbed Andy. Good for my neighbor that Ray was wearing thick pants, but those pants were touched with the acid hands. They'd be ritually burned later.
Being as close to the Freudian concept of the id as possible, I looked for Ray's basic needs at the time. He was fed, he had clothes, he had water. He had shelter. What he didn't have was a good job. However, he had been talking to a phone company in Michigan about a job, and dammit, it's all I had to work with!
"I'm not sure if this is a good idea," said Ray, suprising himself.
"Huh?" she asked, grabbing Andy again, and slowly reaching towards me and the twins.
More forcefully, Ray repeated his previous statement, and added "I'm going to Michigan for a job interview on Monday. I'm leaving tomorrow morning, and, if I get the job, I'll be moving there in a couple of weeks. I sure don't want to start something that would have to end so soon."
The woman stopped approaching me with her burning hands, but instead looked up at Ray. "Why Michigan?"
I let Ray's brain catch up on this. "See, I work in a specialized field. Not many places around here need somebody like me, so I've got to go where the jobs are. Right now, they're almost 1000 miles away."
She turned away, and started crying softly on the couch. "Right when I meet a guy who I think I have a future with, he's leaving! What the hell?"
I was stunned by that comment. I mean, I'm a dick, but I've NEVER thought about having a long-term relationship with somebody I just met. Psycho! I felt the need to see if her decomposing mother was dressed up in a rocking chair.
After a few minutes, she said "You really are special, Ray. You could have done me all night and just left without a qualm in the world, but, you didn't. You're a good guy for not leading me on." She kissed Ray's cheek with her dry lips.
John came up a few moments later, with a big grin on his face. He and the blonde had been downstairs for over an hour (note to self, must get a cockring with a clock in it), and had gotten it on twice. Bully for him. The girl came up a second later, and saw her friend on the couch with red eyes, and put her arm around her. She told the blonde "He's a good guy right there, he really is. I can't believe he's moving to Michigan, though."
Ray shot John a quick eye flare to make sure John didn't even question this news, but, when John saw the awful highlights in a better lighting situation than the bar, he figured it out. *I* had done the thinking for both of us, and had done well.
I was a happy dick for coming through in the pinch like that.
As we said our goodbyes, John and Ray decided to go stop at a diner. John asked if the girls wanted to go along, but they remained. The blonde gave John a big hug, and the woman got off the couch and gave John a hug, and squeezed his arm. The blonde gave Ray a hug, too, and the woman gave him a hug and a lingering look.
On the way to the car, John asked Ray "You didn't get a handjob from her, did you? Her hands were rough!" Ray said "I noticed, and no, I didn't. I didn't want her to touch me" and he showed John the red marks on his arm.
As we got to the car, the woman came out of her house and ran toward us. John had left his phone downstairs, and she gave it back to us. As she walked away, I could see her green skirt through my denim and zipper prison. Once I got a good look at it, she had a nice ass...
FOR A TIME, the hardest parts of my existence were the nightmares. They came, like clockwork, every night at approximately 1:30 AM. At least, I think it was 1:30 AM; it was hard to see the dim glow of the clock radio from under the blankets and boxer shorts. But, on those rare occasions when I could tell the time, I think it was 1:30 AM.
I would be walking down the street - Anystreet, U.S.A. - with Ray smiling from above. I was free of the bounds of the oppressive underwear, and was hanging with my clean-shaven friends Righty and Lefty. We were the Three Stooges, or, like three little Elvis's, more accurately, with Ray serving as our Colonel Tom Parker. We were probably coming from some adventure, like a Beatles' movie, gently poking fun at the Establishment. All was right in our world.
But then, the scenery would change. Like a bad wipe in Star Wars, the scene would change from peaceful Endor to a harsh desert scene of Tatooine. Suddenly, we were sweating, and the heat coming from the sand below was definitely having an effect on my head. I strained to look at my surroundings - everything was barren. Dry. Dead.
The noise came from our side. It was a monster - some sort of lizard with brown hair and scaly skin. We started running away, and the monster followed. It reached out after us with these long arms and these, these...paws...that wanted to rip our warm flesh from ourselves. Righty, Lefty and I could only hope that Ray's legs were strong enough to keep us from harm's way.
Then we fell. I didn't see the fall happen - I was too busy looking at Lefty and Righty curl into their hiding spot, leaving me on my own. I did see what we all tripped on - a Playskool kitchen set, of all things - and the sand was replaced by a rough carpet, and the desert was actually a living room in Pikesville, Maryland. As the blood rushed to the knee and shins, I blacked out. Hard to do in a dream, I'll grant you that, but when I came to, I looked up to see the monster had 30-weight sandpaper and was about to use it on my delicate sides.
I'd snap myself awake, begging for comfort, but unable to find any. The nightmare was so real, so tangible, it couldn't be imagination only, could it? Surely something was causing my mental anguish. I tired to start a conversation with Righty - he's the sensitive one of the twins - but he was sleeping solidly. What I wouldn't give for rest like that...
These nightmares became more real with the passing nights. I dreaded sleep. I'd pester Ray to stay awake. "Just one more website, Ray!" or "Come on, let's play XBox! I'll let you win, dammit!" or "What's on cable, ole' pal?" but when Ray would hit the mattress, I knew I had no more begging for the night.
The restlessness took a toll on relations with my neighbors. Lefty and Righty stopped talking to me, and Andy, the ass who lives behind us, started talking too much. Loud mouth, and the worst breath. Still, not being able to talk to Righty hurt. I always counted on him. He was my rock, and, he was ignoring me.
I started talking to a doctor. She told me I wasn't getting enough exercise, and I could see her point. However, she pointed out that I couldn't work out in her gym, and that nobody works out in her gym. Hmph. She didn't need to be so snobby about it. I don't need to hang out at the most popular club in town, but not sure if I want to go to a club with nobody dancing.
I met a friendly waitress in Annapolis, and while she wasn't able to exorcise the demons, it was nice hearing kind words. She suggested, rather sweetly, that I needed help. With nowhere else to turn, and still being shunned by Righty, I went into therapy.
Through group therapy, I was told I'd never function if I couldn't get these dreams out of my mind. One solution was proposed to me as initially ridiculous, but it seemed like it might be effective. I was told to remember as much I could about a harrowing experience. The idea was that these dreams were being triggered by some sort of trauma, or, even a near-death experience.
After a deep-tissue massage, I went into a quiet, reflective mood, and my mind recalled the events of the evening these nightmares started.
We all had been out dancing with our friend John Enoch, a young, recently-divorced writer from Baltimore. We'd been out at Rascal's, a nightclub in Towson, Maryland. I remember being attracted to a cute blonde, but she was more interested in the emotionally-fragile Enoch. I tucked my pride into my foreskin vest and played the part of the wingman, as once again I was the Goose to Enoch's Maverick. The blonde's friend wasn't awful on first glance, though an awful highlighting job on a lousy haircut firmly rooted the young lady into a swamp of mediocrity. The hair would have worked on an Adam Ant impersonator - I may be a dick, but I have standards. I wasn't interested, but, duty calls, and I knew John needed me if he would have a successful mission. Ray danced with the friend. Ray was polite, Ray was sociable. I wasn't interested, though. I can't emphasize this enough. I didn't show one throb of interest. She didn't even know I had a pulse.
So, back to Pikesville we went, the whole lot of us, to the townhome of the woman with the lousy hair. We watched a movie in the living room, and as I was plopped down into a comfy chair, a TinkerToy poked Andy pretty hard. He's an ass, but the TinkerToy didn't need to be so rude. I quickly summized that this woman had kids, though I could hear none of the tell-tale whining indicative of children.
John and the cute young blonde went downstairs - to do what, I could only imagine. At that point, the friend looked at Ray and Ray's Pants, so I could safely assume she was looking for a piece of me, too. I was SO not into this right now - I really just wanted to go home. I didn't want to work out for anybody, especially one with a hair cut and highlights that resembled wing tip shoes.
She sauntered over to the comfy chair (I could see this through a strategic opening in the boxer shorts and the light allowed through the pant zipper's teeth) and started rubbing Ray's shoulders. According to the internal memo I got from the shoulders, she had the grip of a Teamster. She kissed the back of his neck, and, according to the me-mail I got, her lips were dry. Based on the information I was being provided, my services would not be needed, and I couldn't have been happier.
Ray got out of the chair and mumbled something about getting some water. He went into the kitchen, the whole time using our combined brain to figure a way out of this. His friend was in the basement, hooking up with some much-needed post-divorce lovin', and he was trying to avoid what could easily become a desperate, awkward situation.
He came back with two glasses, and saw that the woman had taken her (admittedly) cute sweater off and was now wearing a camisole. Again, from my vantage point, I saw this and really wished she'd have left the sweater on. Ray saw a spare room, and asked what was in there, trying to avoid from having to go anywhere near the 50% topless woman.
"That's the boys' playroom," she replied.
"Oh," Ray responded. "How many boys do you have?" He saw the PlaySkool kitchen set in the corner.
She sauntered over "Well, my the younger is 6, and the oldest is 12."
"12?" Ray questioned.
"Yeah, I had him when I was young and dumb. I was barely 15 at the time I had him."
Ray gulped. Hopefully the PlaySkool set was for the younger child.
She put his arm around his shoulders. Once again, his shoulders sent me the message that this was definitely not something to be pleased about.
"Where are your boys?" asked Ray.
"With their father, my ex-husband," she said. Wispering, she added "We can be as loud as we want."
Another body shudder confirmed my fear that Ray was stuck in a situation where I must fight my general nature, along with Righty and Lefty, to avoid doing ANYTHING to get into a situation where I could see the light of day, or, in this case, the dark of the boy's play room.
That's when the pain began.
I felt it, and I was a good foot or so away. She touched Ray's hand with her palm, and ran it down the length of his arm. The pain sent a shock through his arm and straight into the spinal cord. It was searing, like being burned unexpectedly on a stove, or getting a shock from a lousy electric outlet. Ray looked down at his arm; it had turned red.
"You're revved up, aren't you?" the woman asked toyingly, thinking that I was somehow getting aroused by pain (which, trust me, I simply ain't into. After growing up getting smacked around by baseballs, bicycle seats, toddlers and bad follow-through on a tennis serve, I don't need more pain). I looked down to see Righty and Lefty retreat to their hiding spot. Andy recoiled in fear.
"Um, uh..." Ray stammered out. His arm was red - his arm was sending me messages like 12 year old girls with cell phones - and I could tell his arm was ready to chew itself off. Like so many times before and since, I had to do the thinking for him, but this time, to AVOID sex, but yet, not blow things for John downstairs.
She grabbed Andy. Good for my neighbor that Ray was wearing thick pants, but those pants were touched with the acid hands. They'd be ritually burned later.
Being as close to the Freudian concept of the id as possible, I looked for Ray's basic needs at the time. He was fed, he had clothes, he had water. He had shelter. What he didn't have was a good job. However, he had been talking to a phone company in Michigan about a job, and dammit, it's all I had to work with!
"I'm not sure if this is a good idea," said Ray, suprising himself.
"Huh?" she asked, grabbing Andy again, and slowly reaching towards me and the twins.
More forcefully, Ray repeated his previous statement, and added "I'm going to Michigan for a job interview on Monday. I'm leaving tomorrow morning, and, if I get the job, I'll be moving there in a couple of weeks. I sure don't want to start something that would have to end so soon."
The woman stopped approaching me with her burning hands, but instead looked up at Ray. "Why Michigan?"
I let Ray's brain catch up on this. "See, I work in a specialized field. Not many places around here need somebody like me, so I've got to go where the jobs are. Right now, they're almost 1000 miles away."
She turned away, and started crying softly on the couch. "Right when I meet a guy who I think I have a future with, he's leaving! What the hell?"
I was stunned by that comment. I mean, I'm a dick, but I've NEVER thought about having a long-term relationship with somebody I just met. Psycho! I felt the need to see if her decomposing mother was dressed up in a rocking chair.
After a few minutes, she said "You really are special, Ray. You could have done me all night and just left without a qualm in the world, but, you didn't. You're a good guy for not leading me on." She kissed Ray's cheek with her dry lips.
John came up a few moments later, with a big grin on his face. He and the blonde had been downstairs for over an hour (note to self, must get a cockring with a clock in it), and had gotten it on twice. Bully for him. The girl came up a second later, and saw her friend on the couch with red eyes, and put her arm around her. She told the blonde "He's a good guy right there, he really is. I can't believe he's moving to Michigan, though."
Ray shot John a quick eye flare to make sure John didn't even question this news, but, when John saw the awful highlights in a better lighting situation than the bar, he figured it out. *I* had done the thinking for both of us, and had done well.
I was a happy dick for coming through in the pinch like that.
As we said our goodbyes, John and Ray decided to go stop at a diner. John asked if the girls wanted to go along, but they remained. The blonde gave John a big hug, and the woman got off the couch and gave John a hug, and squeezed his arm. The blonde gave Ray a hug, too, and the woman gave him a hug and a lingering look.
On the way to the car, John asked Ray "You didn't get a handjob from her, did you? Her hands were rough!" Ray said "I noticed, and no, I didn't. I didn't want her to touch me" and he showed John the red marks on his arm.
As we got to the car, the woman came out of her house and ran toward us. John had left his phone downstairs, and she gave it back to us. As she walked away, I could see her green skirt through my denim and zipper prison. Once I got a good look at it, she had a nice ass...
The Penile Chronicles, Introduction
Inspired by Edward in Los Angeles, who just had his book "The Male Thing Explained" published, I have decided to write a series of stories about My Male Thing - my penis.
Now, for those of you who have heard, my penis has lived a life of ups and downs; he has been in the hottest clubs, and down and out with only a couple of nutty friends and an asshole neighbor. He has had some interesting tales in his 32 years on this planet. Indeed, a hard knock life - used as a glorified door stop for the first 17 years, only to be shown brief episodes of daylight, only to be bound and gagged with a form of a garbage bag tied around his head, shoved into smelly, dark caves, and forced to do push-ups until throwing up, my penis has a very gripping tale to tell.
So, dear Reader, please view these stories for what they are - A Dick's Tale. One Cock's Story. A Percy Who Walks Amongst Us. For some, they will be entertaining; for others, a warning. In the end, it will simply be a way for my penis to get some things off his chest, as it were, and hopefully bring a smile to the readers' collective soul.
Here ends this introduction, and now, on to the tale.
Now, for those of you who have heard, my penis has lived a life of ups and downs; he has been in the hottest clubs, and down and out with only a couple of nutty friends and an asshole neighbor. He has had some interesting tales in his 32 years on this planet. Indeed, a hard knock life - used as a glorified door stop for the first 17 years, only to be shown brief episodes of daylight, only to be bound and gagged with a form of a garbage bag tied around his head, shoved into smelly, dark caves, and forced to do push-ups until throwing up, my penis has a very gripping tale to tell.
So, dear Reader, please view these stories for what they are - A Dick's Tale. One Cock's Story. A Percy Who Walks Amongst Us. For some, they will be entertaining; for others, a warning. In the end, it will simply be a way for my penis to get some things off his chest, as it were, and hopefully bring a smile to the readers' collective soul.
Here ends this introduction, and now, on to the tale.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Adieu, mon chat - Squeaky 2001 - 2005
Six weeks ago, my little white cat Squeaky bolted out of my apartment in Virginia and off into the woods nearby. He's been a mostly- outdoor cat, and he was hard to contain in both Baltimore and Edgewater. He'd been doing pretty well in Virginia, but, like his old man, that old scent of wanderlust kicks in, and once you catch a whiff, it's time to go.
So, Squeaky went.
Usually, he'd stay away for a day or two at a time; sometimes he'd be gone for a week. But this is now week number six, and nobody in my neighborhood has seen my little buddy. He's a vocal thing, too, so, I'm sure somebody would have heard him by now.
To make matters worse, there's a small white stray cat in my neighborhood who looks like Squeaky. It's not him, but it looks like him. Everytime I see Fake Squeaky, I get excited, run up to him, and then see his face. It's not Squeaky. I've seen Fake Squeaky four times, and each time, I think it's my cat. Each time, I look away dissapointed.
Damn Fake Squeaky.
I'm not sad for Squeaky, though. I mean, I'd hate for him to be suffering, or to be caught by mean kids, or trapped someplace he can't escape. That would bother me. But he lived his life with spirit and attitude. He did more in his four years with me than most humans, let alone pets.
I met the cat in the spring of 2001. My mother had picked him up from a litter of kittens that were being given away in front of a local shopping center. This cat was to be a gift for my uncle Larry, who had always wanted a white cat with blue eyes. I had been cat-stting Larry's cat Dawg at my rowhome in Baltimore. Dawg, also an outdoor cat, jumped to the top of my backyard fence, nearly seven feet up, and then jumped down the other side. My fence was seven feet on my side, about 20 on the other. Don't think he expected that. Once Dawg landed, he flipped out, freaked out and darted away. I put up fliers for the missing cat, checked the pound, SPCA, but nobody ever found Dawg. Shame, too. Dawg was a good cat.
I guess the pull of the outdoors must be strong for a cat like that. I can't imagine leaving a warm house with food and water to go bolting off into a strange city. Then again, I can't imagine chasing mice and crapping into sand.
Larry did not want the kitten, and, being as how I had the room, and "lost" Dawg, I took in the fuzzball. What a cute little thing, too! Big blue eyes, and walked out of its cardboard box of a cage to check me out. This kitten knew no fear. Five minutes in, and he was giving me the once over, like a drill instructor over a group of fresh-faced recruits.
I remember trying to figure out what to name my new pet. Snowball seemed so common, and I didn't want to give the cat a dumb name. Big blue eyes - maybe Frank is a good name. I work with telecom and networking stuff, and ethernet cable is called Cat Five. So, Five would be a cool name. Then I heard the worst meow in my life. Sounded like a mouse trying to hump a dog's chew toy. Or a child's toy in desperate need of WD-40. The sound came from the little kitten's mouth.
Thus, the feline was dubbed "Squeaky."
Squeaky's first few months were uneventful. Cat Hospital of Towson gave him a checkup, and said "She's a good, healthy little girl." So, I was glad Squeaky was a gender non-specific name. I hadn't stared at my cat's genitals, but trusted that if the vet says it's a girl cat, it's a girl cat. The rest of the time was teaching the kitten to interact with Kramer, the Big Dumb Dog. Squeaky didn't take any gruff from the ever-playful canine, and would bat on his head with a rapid-fire paw combo. That was the only sign of violence from the feline, other than a hatred for the ceiling fans' pullchains.
At night, Squeaky would sleep with her little head on my hand.
One night, in September, a sewer rat was hanging out on S. Port Street in Baltimore, where my happy pet mini-menagerie resided. Kramer was barking his tail off at the vermin intruder across the street, and I figured he'd scare the rat away. So, I opened the door to let Kramer out. Instead, out dashed Squeaky, making a beeline for the rat. I screamed for Squeaky to come back, but it was too late. The kitten was about to be killed by the street-hardened Baltimore sewer rat. I expected the rat to pull a knife on the cat, or pull out a Glock and bust a cap in her ass. I've seen Baltimore city sewer rats rob people. They carry pagers. Not wanting to get between a rat and a cat, I waited for the fight to end with Kramer at my side, inside. I heard the most awful sounds, the sounds of an animal in pain, and then, of an animal dying. I thought of where I'd bury the cat. My neighbors poked their head out their doors to hear the sounds of death.
The cat came back to the door about 30 agonizing seconds later, blood and fur everywhere. Squeaky had had enough. I picked the kitten up with my baseball glove and put the little thing into the tub to clean and disinfect. I was sure I'd be running to the emergency vet clinic in North Baltimore.
Washing away the blood was easy enough, and I checked out the white fur for any open wounds. Nothing. The rat's claws escaped the cat. I looked for puncture wounds, to see if the rat took a bite. Nope. All the blood and guts belonged to the rat. The cat was spic-and-span.
Squeaky lunged at the rat Wolverine-style - claws drawn out, going right for the face. Squeaky's paws and claws were ripping apart the flesh of the rat before he even had a chance to fight back. That awful noise was the sound of a rat dying, and, one kitten's rage.
Once Squeaky the Girl Kitten proved her mettle against the sewer rat, she was something of a celebrity on S. Port Street. "Is that the kitten who killed that mouse?" asked one new member of the neighborhood. "No, killed the rat" another would correct. Mike, the old-time Balmer, Merlin, resident next door, delighted in telling and retelling the tale of Squeaky and the Sewer Rat at the neighborhood bars. Each time, Squeaky got smaller and the rat got bigger.
By now, that cat probably killed that rat in utero.
Squeaky's next big adventure occured in October. Once proving herself to be a rat killer of renown, she decided that the outdoors was the place to be. There were millions of rats to be killed in Baltimore outside, not so many inside. So, Squeaky, Defender of Port Street, Eliminator of Vermin, would bolt outside whenever possible. Usually I'd snag her within a few seconds (I'm not a teenager anymore, but I am fleet), or sometimes a minute. I secured the back yard and allowed her to walk out there, under supervision, of course. I didn't want to have a bunch of Baltimore city sewer rats pull a gangland beating on Squeaky because she took out a made rat.
The backyard was fine...until she too got to the fence. The same fence Dawg jumped over. I froze for a second as the cat sat perched, looking at me with those big blue eyes. I didn't want to move quickly for fear of startling the kitten, and having Squeaky end up in the same world as Dawg...where ever that was.
Squeaky didn't jump backwards, but forwards, towards me. Her little paw was caught between the cinder blocks of the wall, stuck near the mortar. Her momentum carried her forward, and with the paw jammed, she twisted and torqued wildly to the concrete below. She landed on her hip, and ran into the house. I figured the cat just hurt it's tailbone, a la Deputy Dawg and Muskie.
Except the cat limped all night, and simply rest on the other side of the hip. I stayed with Squeaky all night, giving the little thing aspirin and softly petting her ears. I knew she was in a lot of pain. Her leg just flopped around. Obviously, it was broken, and pretty badly. The emergency vet was 20 miles away, and booked solid. I doubted the cat would tolerate a long car ride, and the clinic around the corner would be open in a few hours. Hopefully the aspirin would hold.
That morning was Squeaky's great rebirth, if you will. I've heard stories of folks who have gone through massive surgeries, from transplants to open heart procedures to sex-change operations, and they call the it a time for a new start, a new beginning. This is what happened at Eastern Vetinary Clinic.
VET TECH - So, what happened to Squeaky here?
ME - Well, she fell pretty awkwardly on her hip last night, and has been limping since.
VET TECH - He's definitely favoring that leg, that's for sure. He seems ok with the pain, though.
ME (noticing shift in gender) - Yeah, I gave HER plenty of aspirin last night, well, at least, what I thought would be appropriate for an eight-pound kitten. Two pills over the eight hours.
VET TECH - That's about right, I'd reckon. (TO CAT) How you feeling lil' fella?
ME - I'd imagine she's feeling pretty crappy. And, why do you keep calling Squeaky with male terms?
VET TECH - I was going to ask why you were doing the same with female terms.
ME - Huh? Squeaky's a girl cat. (RAY NOTE - I think girl cat is the technical term)
VET TECH - Nope. Squeaky's definitely male.
ME - Wha...?
The vet tech pointed out two impossibly small little testicles. They looked like fuzzy white tic-tacs. I had no idea.
VET TECH - See? Boy cat parts, plain as day.
ME - Uh, not very big, are they?
VET TECH - No, not on him. But they're there. You never noticed before?
ME - Well, I never stared much at my cat's privates, to be honest.
So, poor Squeaky the Cat became Squeaky the Cat - thank God I chose a gender non-specific name.
Squeaky's leg was actually a broken hip joint. The bone between a cat's pelvis and it's hind leg actually breaks fairly often. With most cats, a quick surgery clears out the broken bone, and the cat grows a fiberous mass, like a strong ligament/tendon combination in it's place. Femoral Head Obstectomy. I had no idea cats could do such things.
Oh, and Squeaky also got neutered that day. Poor little critter. He spent about 5 hours of his life really being a boy cat. Amazed the lil' bastard never put on a dress around me in spite.
His recovery was pretty easy, and the vet's prediction that he'd be back to his/her old tricks in a matter of weeks proved spot-on. While he always walked with a slight favor on that affected foot, he never seemed in pain and ran as fast, if not faster, than before. Bionic Kitten. The Six Million Dollar Kitten. RoboKitten was my favorite.
RoboKitten became RoboCat in 2002, and I went from overpaid telecom start-up sales engineer to unemployed. I cashed out my 401k, and headed west. A good roadtrip is what I needed to clear my mind. But, I didn't want to kennel Squeaky for 3 weeks or so. Mom wasn't a huge fan of boarding a cat. Squeaky didn't interact well with other cats, so, I couldn't have one of my friends with cats house him.
So, Squeaky went with me.
His first exceedingly long trip in a car went well. He was never bad in a car anyway, and I had trained him with small rides to stores and shops so that he'd be used to longer trips. He'd get a treat - a new toy, pit beef, catnip - and he began to really enjoy rides. He even knew "bye-byes" - the term I used on the dogs to symbolize a ride. Now, Squeaky knew to get excited on a ride.
We left on March 15, 2002, at 6:15pm. We headed west, with all sorts of clothing, food, catnip, litter pan, special destinky litter and camera equipment. We got caught up in road construction in Western MD, and his little ears popped with the change in atmospheric pressure. He slept about 85% of the way, more intent to crap in his litter box or stare at me than the scenery around him. A day later, he got to see my old haunts in Des Moines, Iowa. The day after that, he saw his first blizzard in Nebraska. Later that day, his (and my) first buffalo. That afternoon, his first Rocky Mountain sunset outside of Cheyanne, Wyoming. That night, Denver, and the Eisenhower Tunnel. The next day - the outer rim of the Grand Canyon, and the lights of Las Vegas. We spent three days in Vegas for Doug Stanhope's wedding - an old friend from my stand-up daze - and the debauchery included within. A day after that, and Squeaky was in Los Angeles with me and my lifelong buddy Gabe.
It wasn't until the ride home a few weeks later did Squeaky get it - life on the road and on the run is fun. Somewhere in between Arizona and New Mexico, Squeaky looked out the passenger side window, and stood up on his hind legs. He stuck his head up against the glass, looking out the window. A massive mountain stood between us and the Mexican border, and he just watched it drive by. He looked at the desert around, and I'd like to think that he knew we were driving past something amazing. While I believe dogs are intuitively more responsive to human reaction than cats, I know Squeaky saw something that day - maybe some idea of what living in such an area would be like - all the snakes, desert rats, scorpions - he could tangle with. Maybe he saw the peaceful nature of the emptiness around. Maybe he viewed it as a giant litter box. Who knows? He watched that scene for 10 minutes or so before curling up for another nap, but I think he figured it out - he should have been looking around more often.
Squeaky was always an outdoor cat. He tended to view his inside time as opportunities to eat, dry off, lick his butt, take a crap in a litter pan, and to plot his next outdoor adventure. One time in 2004, his outdoor adventures got him caught in a blizzard. He decided to go outside about 6 hours before Maryland got hit with an icy storm. Not his smartest manuever. He was outside in the snow for a day before I heard a faint meow while out looking for him. I heard the sound coming from a manhole cover. I went to the garage, and got out a big metal pole to remove the manhole cover. After wrestling with that, I climbed into the icy storm drain. With my flashlight, a bit of cat food and the realization that another storm was coming, I aimed the light down a semi-crushed metal pipe. There, I saw a small little cat looking back at me. There was Squeaky, with bits of ice and snow around him. I tried to flush him out with food, and then remembered "I have a 10 foot pipe. I'll force him out. "
The cat moved 11 feet into the pipe. There went that idea.
I threw some food down there for him, and planned on retrieving him the next day. He was obviously too scared to come out now.
That night, another six inches of snow fell, and I woke up to find a snowplow had covered up the storm drain. Squeaky would have been buried! So, I dug out the snow, removed the cover with my big black pole (heheheh) and looked for Squeaky. No sign of him, though.
I figured four days later, after freezing weather and no sign of his paws in the snow that he was gone for good. I knew he was a tough cat, but no house cat survive sub-20 degree weather, right?
I was wrong. Three days after resigning myself to his demise, I saw cat prints coming out of the storm drain. I chased them around the house until I got to the ledge by the basement steps. There was Squeaky. Cold, dirty, but otherwise stable. He went inside, got some water, and killed a field mouse in the basement.
Good kitty!
He liked living the inside/outside life. He was friendly when he needed to be, insistent on getting fed, and delighted to be scratched behind the ears on occasion. Otherwise, he wanted out. Mice, birds, moles, small lizards, frogs, toads - Squeaky killed them all.
I guess coming to Virginia was a bad idea. A few months ago, he'd been in a hell of a fight with another cat in my old neighborhood in Maryland. Mom had been keeping him since she needed a good mouser, and, secretly, the company of the cat. But, this new cat in the neighborhood was stronger and faster than Squeaky. He'd come back inside with scratches on his head, paws, back. When I saw the scratches on his neck, I realized this other cat was trying to kill Squeaky. So, I made the brilliant move of bringing him to Virginia for a couple of weeks. Let him calm down, get healed, get cleaned up, and maybe not want to get into scraps with this other cat.
And he was good for a while. He seemed to enjoy my roommate's cats, which stunned me, and curling up with me in bed, like he did was he was a kitten. All was right in our little world.
Until he meowed loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. He wanted out NOW!
That was six weeks ago. Nobody's sen hide nor hair of him since. Other than sightings of the Fake Squeaky, the SPCA and Animal Shelters haven't seen him, and the two calls from folks in my neighborhood were identifying the Fake Squeaky.
So, goodbye, my little friend. You were the best cat I ever owned. That you were only the second cat I ever owned is secondary. You were a good little buddy, and I miss you terribly. I hope you've found a new place to live and you're treated well.
And that you'll remember the mountains.
----###----
So, Squeaky went.
Usually, he'd stay away for a day or two at a time; sometimes he'd be gone for a week. But this is now week number six, and nobody in my neighborhood has seen my little buddy. He's a vocal thing, too, so, I'm sure somebody would have heard him by now.
To make matters worse, there's a small white stray cat in my neighborhood who looks like Squeaky. It's not him, but it looks like him. Everytime I see Fake Squeaky, I get excited, run up to him, and then see his face. It's not Squeaky. I've seen Fake Squeaky four times, and each time, I think it's my cat. Each time, I look away dissapointed.
Damn Fake Squeaky.
I'm not sad for Squeaky, though. I mean, I'd hate for him to be suffering, or to be caught by mean kids, or trapped someplace he can't escape. That would bother me. But he lived his life with spirit and attitude. He did more in his four years with me than most humans, let alone pets.
I met the cat in the spring of 2001. My mother had picked him up from a litter of kittens that were being given away in front of a local shopping center. This cat was to be a gift for my uncle Larry, who had always wanted a white cat with blue eyes. I had been cat-stting Larry's cat Dawg at my rowhome in Baltimore. Dawg, also an outdoor cat, jumped to the top of my backyard fence, nearly seven feet up, and then jumped down the other side. My fence was seven feet on my side, about 20 on the other. Don't think he expected that. Once Dawg landed, he flipped out, freaked out and darted away. I put up fliers for the missing cat, checked the pound, SPCA, but nobody ever found Dawg. Shame, too. Dawg was a good cat.
I guess the pull of the outdoors must be strong for a cat like that. I can't imagine leaving a warm house with food and water to go bolting off into a strange city. Then again, I can't imagine chasing mice and crapping into sand.
Larry did not want the kitten, and, being as how I had the room, and "lost" Dawg, I took in the fuzzball. What a cute little thing, too! Big blue eyes, and walked out of its cardboard box of a cage to check me out. This kitten knew no fear. Five minutes in, and he was giving me the once over, like a drill instructor over a group of fresh-faced recruits.
I remember trying to figure out what to name my new pet. Snowball seemed so common, and I didn't want to give the cat a dumb name. Big blue eyes - maybe Frank is a good name. I work with telecom and networking stuff, and ethernet cable is called Cat Five. So, Five would be a cool name. Then I heard the worst meow in my life. Sounded like a mouse trying to hump a dog's chew toy. Or a child's toy in desperate need of WD-40. The sound came from the little kitten's mouth.
Thus, the feline was dubbed "Squeaky."
Squeaky's first few months were uneventful. Cat Hospital of Towson gave him a checkup, and said "She's a good, healthy little girl." So, I was glad Squeaky was a gender non-specific name. I hadn't stared at my cat's genitals, but trusted that if the vet says it's a girl cat, it's a girl cat. The rest of the time was teaching the kitten to interact with Kramer, the Big Dumb Dog. Squeaky didn't take any gruff from the ever-playful canine, and would bat on his head with a rapid-fire paw combo. That was the only sign of violence from the feline, other than a hatred for the ceiling fans' pullchains.
At night, Squeaky would sleep with her little head on my hand.
One night, in September, a sewer rat was hanging out on S. Port Street in Baltimore, where my happy pet mini-menagerie resided. Kramer was barking his tail off at the vermin intruder across the street, and I figured he'd scare the rat away. So, I opened the door to let Kramer out. Instead, out dashed Squeaky, making a beeline for the rat. I screamed for Squeaky to come back, but it was too late. The kitten was about to be killed by the street-hardened Baltimore sewer rat. I expected the rat to pull a knife on the cat, or pull out a Glock and bust a cap in her ass. I've seen Baltimore city sewer rats rob people. They carry pagers. Not wanting to get between a rat and a cat, I waited for the fight to end with Kramer at my side, inside. I heard the most awful sounds, the sounds of an animal in pain, and then, of an animal dying. I thought of where I'd bury the cat. My neighbors poked their head out their doors to hear the sounds of death.
The cat came back to the door about 30 agonizing seconds later, blood and fur everywhere. Squeaky had had enough. I picked the kitten up with my baseball glove and put the little thing into the tub to clean and disinfect. I was sure I'd be running to the emergency vet clinic in North Baltimore.
Washing away the blood was easy enough, and I checked out the white fur for any open wounds. Nothing. The rat's claws escaped the cat. I looked for puncture wounds, to see if the rat took a bite. Nope. All the blood and guts belonged to the rat. The cat was spic-and-span.
Squeaky lunged at the rat Wolverine-style - claws drawn out, going right for the face. Squeaky's paws and claws were ripping apart the flesh of the rat before he even had a chance to fight back. That awful noise was the sound of a rat dying, and, one kitten's rage.
Once Squeaky the Girl Kitten proved her mettle against the sewer rat, she was something of a celebrity on S. Port Street. "Is that the kitten who killed that mouse?" asked one new member of the neighborhood. "No, killed the rat" another would correct. Mike, the old-time Balmer, Merlin, resident next door, delighted in telling and retelling the tale of Squeaky and the Sewer Rat at the neighborhood bars. Each time, Squeaky got smaller and the rat got bigger.
By now, that cat probably killed that rat in utero.
Squeaky's next big adventure occured in October. Once proving herself to be a rat killer of renown, she decided that the outdoors was the place to be. There were millions of rats to be killed in Baltimore outside, not so many inside. So, Squeaky, Defender of Port Street, Eliminator of Vermin, would bolt outside whenever possible. Usually I'd snag her within a few seconds (I'm not a teenager anymore, but I am fleet), or sometimes a minute. I secured the back yard and allowed her to walk out there, under supervision, of course. I didn't want to have a bunch of Baltimore city sewer rats pull a gangland beating on Squeaky because she took out a made rat.
The backyard was fine...until she too got to the fence. The same fence Dawg jumped over. I froze for a second as the cat sat perched, looking at me with those big blue eyes. I didn't want to move quickly for fear of startling the kitten, and having Squeaky end up in the same world as Dawg...where ever that was.
Squeaky didn't jump backwards, but forwards, towards me. Her little paw was caught between the cinder blocks of the wall, stuck near the mortar. Her momentum carried her forward, and with the paw jammed, she twisted and torqued wildly to the concrete below. She landed on her hip, and ran into the house. I figured the cat just hurt it's tailbone, a la Deputy Dawg and Muskie.
Except the cat limped all night, and simply rest on the other side of the hip. I stayed with Squeaky all night, giving the little thing aspirin and softly petting her ears. I knew she was in a lot of pain. Her leg just flopped around. Obviously, it was broken, and pretty badly. The emergency vet was 20 miles away, and booked solid. I doubted the cat would tolerate a long car ride, and the clinic around the corner would be open in a few hours. Hopefully the aspirin would hold.
That morning was Squeaky's great rebirth, if you will. I've heard stories of folks who have gone through massive surgeries, from transplants to open heart procedures to sex-change operations, and they call the it a time for a new start, a new beginning. This is what happened at Eastern Vetinary Clinic.
VET TECH - So, what happened to Squeaky here?
ME - Well, she fell pretty awkwardly on her hip last night, and has been limping since.
VET TECH - He's definitely favoring that leg, that's for sure. He seems ok with the pain, though.
ME (noticing shift in gender) - Yeah, I gave HER plenty of aspirin last night, well, at least, what I thought would be appropriate for an eight-pound kitten. Two pills over the eight hours.
VET TECH - That's about right, I'd reckon. (TO CAT) How you feeling lil' fella?
ME - I'd imagine she's feeling pretty crappy. And, why do you keep calling Squeaky with male terms?
VET TECH - I was going to ask why you were doing the same with female terms.
ME - Huh? Squeaky's a girl cat. (RAY NOTE - I think girl cat is the technical term)
VET TECH - Nope. Squeaky's definitely male.
ME - Wha...?
The vet tech pointed out two impossibly small little testicles. They looked like fuzzy white tic-tacs. I had no idea.
VET TECH - See? Boy cat parts, plain as day.
ME - Uh, not very big, are they?
VET TECH - No, not on him. But they're there. You never noticed before?
ME - Well, I never stared much at my cat's privates, to be honest.
So, poor Squeaky the Cat became Squeaky the Cat - thank God I chose a gender non-specific name.
Squeaky's leg was actually a broken hip joint. The bone between a cat's pelvis and it's hind leg actually breaks fairly often. With most cats, a quick surgery clears out the broken bone, and the cat grows a fiberous mass, like a strong ligament/tendon combination in it's place. Femoral Head Obstectomy. I had no idea cats could do such things.
Oh, and Squeaky also got neutered that day. Poor little critter. He spent about 5 hours of his life really being a boy cat. Amazed the lil' bastard never put on a dress around me in spite.
His recovery was pretty easy, and the vet's prediction that he'd be back to his/her old tricks in a matter of weeks proved spot-on. While he always walked with a slight favor on that affected foot, he never seemed in pain and ran as fast, if not faster, than before. Bionic Kitten. The Six Million Dollar Kitten. RoboKitten was my favorite.
RoboKitten became RoboCat in 2002, and I went from overpaid telecom start-up sales engineer to unemployed. I cashed out my 401k, and headed west. A good roadtrip is what I needed to clear my mind. But, I didn't want to kennel Squeaky for 3 weeks or so. Mom wasn't a huge fan of boarding a cat. Squeaky didn't interact well with other cats, so, I couldn't have one of my friends with cats house him.
So, Squeaky went with me.
His first exceedingly long trip in a car went well. He was never bad in a car anyway, and I had trained him with small rides to stores and shops so that he'd be used to longer trips. He'd get a treat - a new toy, pit beef, catnip - and he began to really enjoy rides. He even knew "bye-byes" - the term I used on the dogs to symbolize a ride. Now, Squeaky knew to get excited on a ride.
We left on March 15, 2002, at 6:15pm. We headed west, with all sorts of clothing, food, catnip, litter pan, special destinky litter and camera equipment. We got caught up in road construction in Western MD, and his little ears popped with the change in atmospheric pressure. He slept about 85% of the way, more intent to crap in his litter box or stare at me than the scenery around him. A day later, he got to see my old haunts in Des Moines, Iowa. The day after that, he saw his first blizzard in Nebraska. Later that day, his (and my) first buffalo. That afternoon, his first Rocky Mountain sunset outside of Cheyanne, Wyoming. That night, Denver, and the Eisenhower Tunnel. The next day - the outer rim of the Grand Canyon, and the lights of Las Vegas. We spent three days in Vegas for Doug Stanhope's wedding - an old friend from my stand-up daze - and the debauchery included within. A day after that, and Squeaky was in Los Angeles with me and my lifelong buddy Gabe.
It wasn't until the ride home a few weeks later did Squeaky get it - life on the road and on the run is fun. Somewhere in between Arizona and New Mexico, Squeaky looked out the passenger side window, and stood up on his hind legs. He stuck his head up against the glass, looking out the window. A massive mountain stood between us and the Mexican border, and he just watched it drive by. He looked at the desert around, and I'd like to think that he knew we were driving past something amazing. While I believe dogs are intuitively more responsive to human reaction than cats, I know Squeaky saw something that day - maybe some idea of what living in such an area would be like - all the snakes, desert rats, scorpions - he could tangle with. Maybe he saw the peaceful nature of the emptiness around. Maybe he viewed it as a giant litter box. Who knows? He watched that scene for 10 minutes or so before curling up for another nap, but I think he figured it out - he should have been looking around more often.
Squeaky was always an outdoor cat. He tended to view his inside time as opportunities to eat, dry off, lick his butt, take a crap in a litter pan, and to plot his next outdoor adventure. One time in 2004, his outdoor adventures got him caught in a blizzard. He decided to go outside about 6 hours before Maryland got hit with an icy storm. Not his smartest manuever. He was outside in the snow for a day before I heard a faint meow while out looking for him. I heard the sound coming from a manhole cover. I went to the garage, and got out a big metal pole to remove the manhole cover. After wrestling with that, I climbed into the icy storm drain. With my flashlight, a bit of cat food and the realization that another storm was coming, I aimed the light down a semi-crushed metal pipe. There, I saw a small little cat looking back at me. There was Squeaky, with bits of ice and snow around him. I tried to flush him out with food, and then remembered "I have a 10 foot pipe. I'll force him out. "
The cat moved 11 feet into the pipe. There went that idea.
I threw some food down there for him, and planned on retrieving him the next day. He was obviously too scared to come out now.
That night, another six inches of snow fell, and I woke up to find a snowplow had covered up the storm drain. Squeaky would have been buried! So, I dug out the snow, removed the cover with my big black pole (heheheh) and looked for Squeaky. No sign of him, though.
I figured four days later, after freezing weather and no sign of his paws in the snow that he was gone for good. I knew he was a tough cat, but no house cat survive sub-20 degree weather, right?
I was wrong. Three days after resigning myself to his demise, I saw cat prints coming out of the storm drain. I chased them around the house until I got to the ledge by the basement steps. There was Squeaky. Cold, dirty, but otherwise stable. He went inside, got some water, and killed a field mouse in the basement.
Good kitty!
He liked living the inside/outside life. He was friendly when he needed to be, insistent on getting fed, and delighted to be scratched behind the ears on occasion. Otherwise, he wanted out. Mice, birds, moles, small lizards, frogs, toads - Squeaky killed them all.
I guess coming to Virginia was a bad idea. A few months ago, he'd been in a hell of a fight with another cat in my old neighborhood in Maryland. Mom had been keeping him since she needed a good mouser, and, secretly, the company of the cat. But, this new cat in the neighborhood was stronger and faster than Squeaky. He'd come back inside with scratches on his head, paws, back. When I saw the scratches on his neck, I realized this other cat was trying to kill Squeaky. So, I made the brilliant move of bringing him to Virginia for a couple of weeks. Let him calm down, get healed, get cleaned up, and maybe not want to get into scraps with this other cat.
And he was good for a while. He seemed to enjoy my roommate's cats, which stunned me, and curling up with me in bed, like he did was he was a kitten. All was right in our little world.
Until he meowed loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. He wanted out NOW!
That was six weeks ago. Nobody's sen hide nor hair of him since. Other than sightings of the Fake Squeaky, the SPCA and Animal Shelters haven't seen him, and the two calls from folks in my neighborhood were identifying the Fake Squeaky.
So, goodbye, my little friend. You were the best cat I ever owned. That you were only the second cat I ever owned is secondary. You were a good little buddy, and I miss you terribly. I hope you've found a new place to live and you're treated well.
And that you'll remember the mountains.
----###----
Friday, October 14, 2005
Why I haven't posted in a while...
1) Cat
2) Girlfriend (or sudden lack thereof)
3) Lost
I am ADDICTED to that goddanged show!!! Oh my Lord, I know I'm late to the party, but, I'll drink enough to catch up!
2) Girlfriend (or sudden lack thereof)
3) Lost
I am ADDICTED to that goddanged show!!! Oh my Lord, I know I'm late to the party, but, I'll drink enough to catch up!
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
The Battle for the New Pornography
from the DCPost: (free registration required...)
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/09/19/AR2005091901570.html
Recruits Sought for Porn Squad
By Barton Gellman
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, September 20, 2005; Page A21
The FBI is joining the Bush administration's War on Porn. And it's looking for a few good agents.
Early last month, the bureau's Washington Field Office began recruiting for a new anti-obscenity squad. Attached to the job posting was a July 29 Electronic Communication from FBI headquarters to all 56 field offices, describing the initiative as "one of the top priorities" of Attorney General Alberto R. Gonzales and, by extension, of "the Director." That would be FBI Director Robert S. Mueller III.
((SNIPPED))
"I guess this means we've won the war on terror," said one exasperated FBI agent, speaking on the condition of anonymity because poking fun at headquarters is not regarded as career-enhancing. "We must not need any more resources for espionage."
Among friends and trusted colleagues, an experienced national security analyst said, "it's a running joke for us."
A few of the printable samples:
"Things I Don't Want On My Resume, Volume Four."
"I already gave at home."
"Honestly, most of the guys would have to recuse themselves."
-------------------
This makes me wonder - I've always thought of porn as an easy target. Not since the late comic Bill Hicks has their been an eloquent voice in support of pornography - or, at least another comic stealing his bit. Every few years, some ambitious young member of Congress gets all uppity about porn, promises a big crackdown and make it harder for the merchants of smut to peddle their filth, blah blah blah. Some punk junior A.G. who wants to be a Cabinet member one day will launch a crusade that will end porn and throw Hugh Hefner in jail and make the world safe for the children. Remember, in America, if you want to pander...er, I mean, get votes, always do it for the CHILDREN! Because children always need protection from (insert evil thing here).
Truth is, they'll rattle a couple of cages, see if they can find any RICO, forged birth certificates on the performers, make any prostitution connections, bring in a couple of scuzzy dudes who deal in some illegal crap, and make a big deal of it. Then, something else will come up and this will go under the rug. The porn industry is just one of those politically-safe targets a politico can go after when needing a boost in the polls. No politician comes out and says they can't wait to cut school budgets, raise taxes, let the roads go to crap, pour toxic waste into Lake Woebegone and slap a copy of "Juggs" in every backpack.
But, cleaning up pollution is hard, raising taxes never raises popularity, it takes years for roads to be repaired, and school budgets are practically untouchable - unless it's for sports or the arts - yet millions are wasted in school administration. So, porn becomes the easy target. After all, what politician has run a successful campaign on a Pro-Smut agenda outside of Southern California?
Mary Carey, alas, I hardly knew ye.
But, with the internet, all you need are a couple of firm-bodied teenagers with little-to-no-career goals, a digital camera and a PayPal account, and you too can become a master in the online smut world. More people - men, especially - are familiar with the backgrounds used by "Next Door Nikki" and "Young Anne" than Christiane Amanpour's from CNN.
Good luck, FBI. Have fun busting into college dorms across the country as young students try to earn an extra couple of bucks. Have fun storming some 19-year old girl's classroom to confiscate her picture phone and web cam. Sounds a lot easier than breaking up a terrorist cell or Mafia family.
It boggles my mind that the more close-minded think they can ban something so directly regulated to the human condition. Porn is subjective - what I find pornographic is not what others think is pornographic. Full-frontal or tasteful shading? To cleave, or not to cleave; that is the question.
Dog collars? Because my personal hot black bitch on all fours - my border collie mix Bubby - really wants to make sure she's not breaking the law when being publicly displayed in such a manner. I'd hate to see the FBI bust Dogster.com.
The arbitrary judge-and-jury bothers me - are nude pictures ok, but nude moving pictures not? What, if any, weight will "artistic merit" play in any of this? Will there be a difference between "Perfect 10" and "Hot MILFs Caught on Tape?"
If what "Playboy" displays each month is "porn," then so are half the frescos in Italy. Will the FBI storm in the Louvre, guns drawn, and yank down a Henri Matisse? Or will they let INTERPOL take that gig?
I actually wouldn't mind if they stormed the offices of these dudes who take pictures of pre-op transsexuals and post them in full nudity, though. If you want to change your sex, that's fine, if not a little odd to me, but when I see a picture of a hot girl, I don't want her to have a penis. Nothings quite as sad as seeing a woman with great hair, nice make up, and testicles.
Then again, I am funny like that.
Also, I'm not a fan of aggressively fake breasts. But I would never restrict somebody's ability to look at aggressively fake breasts on a pre-op transsexual - my biggest fear, but also somebody's right. If that's what floats your boat, go ahead and sail it, but don't expect me to be your first mate.
But you should always be allowed to sail.
As a society, we really need to decide which way we're going. We allow technology to rule our lives - the omnipresent cell phone, a major crisis when the office Internet connection is down, yelling at the cable company if HBO isn't coming in right - and then fight it tooth-and-nail when it comes to anything vaguely questionable - if you want 400 channels of TV, surely three or four can show boob, right? If you want medical science to extend the average lifespan 40 years, then don't gripe about stem cell research.
To this point - if you want to use sex in everything - fashion, advertising, marriage, reproduction, careers - then be prepared to deal with sex honestly. Ancient societies made rudimentary sculptures and drawings of nudity; don't hate on them because Mr. Foto hadn't been invented yet.
There are more women than men in America; more men than women in China. With STDs becoming more dangerous, especially AIDS, we're going to need to have effective, open communication and outlets for basic human needs. 30 years ago, bad sex itched. Now, it can kill.
Unless we want to have a big singles' mixer in the middle of the Pacific for all our single, unwashed masses, and ban any travel to Africa, we need to have *MORE* self-expression, not less.
In my world, Cyberskin would be bigger than Microsoft. Or, at least in a limited partnership making devices for all the people of the world. We need cheap computers AND cheap release!
In any event, according to the tone of this article, it doesn't sound like the FBI field agents are taking it too seriously. And I can't imagine a multi-billion dollar industry rolling over and taking this softly. They'll fight hard until the end, and, I will guarantee you, in porn, somebody always meets a messy end.
---- xxx ----
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/09/19/AR2005091901570.html
Recruits Sought for Porn Squad
By Barton Gellman
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, September 20, 2005; Page A21
The FBI is joining the Bush administration's War on Porn. And it's looking for a few good agents.
Early last month, the bureau's Washington Field Office began recruiting for a new anti-obscenity squad. Attached to the job posting was a July 29 Electronic Communication from FBI headquarters to all 56 field offices, describing the initiative as "one of the top priorities" of Attorney General Alberto R. Gonzales and, by extension, of "the Director." That would be FBI Director Robert S. Mueller III.
((SNIPPED))
"I guess this means we've won the war on terror," said one exasperated FBI agent, speaking on the condition of anonymity because poking fun at headquarters is not regarded as career-enhancing. "We must not need any more resources for espionage."
Among friends and trusted colleagues, an experienced national security analyst said, "it's a running joke for us."
A few of the printable samples:
"Things I Don't Want On My Resume, Volume Four."
"I already gave at home."
"Honestly, most of the guys would have to recuse themselves."
-------------------
This makes me wonder - I've always thought of porn as an easy target. Not since the late comic Bill Hicks has their been an eloquent voice in support of pornography - or, at least another comic stealing his bit. Every few years, some ambitious young member of Congress gets all uppity about porn, promises a big crackdown and make it harder for the merchants of smut to peddle their filth, blah blah blah. Some punk junior A.G. who wants to be a Cabinet member one day will launch a crusade that will end porn and throw Hugh Hefner in jail and make the world safe for the children. Remember, in America, if you want to pander...er, I mean, get votes, always do it for the CHILDREN! Because children always need protection from (insert evil thing here).
Truth is, they'll rattle a couple of cages, see if they can find any RICO, forged birth certificates on the performers, make any prostitution connections, bring in a couple of scuzzy dudes who deal in some illegal crap, and make a big deal of it. Then, something else will come up and this will go under the rug. The porn industry is just one of those politically-safe targets a politico can go after when needing a boost in the polls. No politician comes out and says they can't wait to cut school budgets, raise taxes, let the roads go to crap, pour toxic waste into Lake Woebegone and slap a copy of "Juggs" in every backpack.
But, cleaning up pollution is hard, raising taxes never raises popularity, it takes years for roads to be repaired, and school budgets are practically untouchable - unless it's for sports or the arts - yet millions are wasted in school administration. So, porn becomes the easy target. After all, what politician has run a successful campaign on a Pro-Smut agenda outside of Southern California?
Mary Carey, alas, I hardly knew ye.
But, with the internet, all you need are a couple of firm-bodied teenagers with little-to-no-career goals, a digital camera and a PayPal account, and you too can become a master in the online smut world. More people - men, especially - are familiar with the backgrounds used by "Next Door Nikki" and "Young Anne" than Christiane Amanpour's from CNN.
Good luck, FBI. Have fun busting into college dorms across the country as young students try to earn an extra couple of bucks. Have fun storming some 19-year old girl's classroom to confiscate her picture phone and web cam. Sounds a lot easier than breaking up a terrorist cell or Mafia family.
It boggles my mind that the more close-minded think they can ban something so directly regulated to the human condition. Porn is subjective - what I find pornographic is not what others think is pornographic. Full-frontal or tasteful shading? To cleave, or not to cleave; that is the question.
Dog collars? Because my personal hot black bitch on all fours - my border collie mix Bubby - really wants to make sure she's not breaking the law when being publicly displayed in such a manner. I'd hate to see the FBI bust Dogster.com.
The arbitrary judge-and-jury bothers me - are nude pictures ok, but nude moving pictures not? What, if any, weight will "artistic merit" play in any of this? Will there be a difference between "Perfect 10" and "Hot MILFs Caught on Tape?"
If what "Playboy" displays each month is "porn," then so are half the frescos in Italy. Will the FBI storm in the Louvre, guns drawn, and yank down a Henri Matisse? Or will they let INTERPOL take that gig?
I actually wouldn't mind if they stormed the offices of these dudes who take pictures of pre-op transsexuals and post them in full nudity, though. If you want to change your sex, that's fine, if not a little odd to me, but when I see a picture of a hot girl, I don't want her to have a penis. Nothings quite as sad as seeing a woman with great hair, nice make up, and testicles.
Then again, I am funny like that.
Also, I'm not a fan of aggressively fake breasts. But I would never restrict somebody's ability to look at aggressively fake breasts on a pre-op transsexual - my biggest fear, but also somebody's right. If that's what floats your boat, go ahead and sail it, but don't expect me to be your first mate.
But you should always be allowed to sail.
As a society, we really need to decide which way we're going. We allow technology to rule our lives - the omnipresent cell phone, a major crisis when the office Internet connection is down, yelling at the cable company if HBO isn't coming in right - and then fight it tooth-and-nail when it comes to anything vaguely questionable - if you want 400 channels of TV, surely three or four can show boob, right? If you want medical science to extend the average lifespan 40 years, then don't gripe about stem cell research.
To this point - if you want to use sex in everything - fashion, advertising, marriage, reproduction, careers - then be prepared to deal with sex honestly. Ancient societies made rudimentary sculptures and drawings of nudity; don't hate on them because Mr. Foto hadn't been invented yet.
There are more women than men in America; more men than women in China. With STDs becoming more dangerous, especially AIDS, we're going to need to have effective, open communication and outlets for basic human needs. 30 years ago, bad sex itched. Now, it can kill.
Unless we want to have a big singles' mixer in the middle of the Pacific for all our single, unwashed masses, and ban any travel to Africa, we need to have *MORE* self-expression, not less.
In my world, Cyberskin would be bigger than Microsoft. Or, at least in a limited partnership making devices for all the people of the world. We need cheap computers AND cheap release!
In any event, according to the tone of this article, it doesn't sound like the FBI field agents are taking it too seriously. And I can't imagine a multi-billion dollar industry rolling over and taking this softly. They'll fight hard until the end, and, I will guarantee you, in porn, somebody always meets a messy end.
---- xxx ----
Thursday, September 15, 2005
The 40 Year-Old Virgin - Reviewed by the Five Paragraph Bitter Film Critic
I am dangerously close to declaring any movie starring any member of the Frat Pack as a must-see cinematic event. Steve Carell, while being one of the newer members of the funny fraternity, was a stitch in "Anchorman" and absolutely hilarious in "The 40 Year-Old Virgin." He's funnier than a hairlipped auctioneer.
As with any comedy, a certain degree of suspended disbelief is needed to really enjoy the film, but this one has a certain character to it that makes it seem very plausible. Carell's character, Andy, really appears to be a 40 year-old virgin, not just a parody of one. He's clean, almost childlike, and collects toys, but is not immature and irresponsible. He radiates a nice aura, albeit with a sort of creepy innocence compared to the characters around him.
And those characters are just as funny. Seth Rogan, Paul Rudd, Jane Lynch, Romany Malco and Elizabeth Banks are fantastic, and made their characters memorable without being too much. In-jokes abound, with strategic placement of Jon Stewart's America book, and a reference to Luke Wilson, a prime member of the Frat Pack.
The movie also features Catherine Keener as the love interest, Trish. She's either the ugliest hot woman in Hollywood, or the hottest ugly woman in Hollywood. I like her, though. She's believable. Not a plastic surgery disaster - just a real person. And she's a commanding presence - the woman can do more with a look or a hand gesture than the biggest special effects budget could make - but she also doesn't steal the show.
Still, the star of the movie is Carell, who literally bled to make this movie through the painful chest waxing scene. You can't help but to leaugh and wince at the same time.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 8 out of 9 Whammies! I'd have given it a 7 because it does drag from time-to-time, and, the girl who plays Catherine's daughter, Kat Dennings, was born in `86 and WAY MUCHO developed, which made me feel kinda creepy in a dirty old man way, but the addition of David Koechner in a small role, the man who invented the Whammy, gives it another one, hence, the 8. --------------
As with any comedy, a certain degree of suspended disbelief is needed to really enjoy the film, but this one has a certain character to it that makes it seem very plausible. Carell's character, Andy, really appears to be a 40 year-old virgin, not just a parody of one. He's clean, almost childlike, and collects toys, but is not immature and irresponsible. He radiates a nice aura, albeit with a sort of creepy innocence compared to the characters around him.
And those characters are just as funny. Seth Rogan, Paul Rudd, Jane Lynch, Romany Malco and Elizabeth Banks are fantastic, and made their characters memorable without being too much. In-jokes abound, with strategic placement of Jon Stewart's America book, and a reference to Luke Wilson, a prime member of the Frat Pack.
The movie also features Catherine Keener as the love interest, Trish. She's either the ugliest hot woman in Hollywood, or the hottest ugly woman in Hollywood. I like her, though. She's believable. Not a plastic surgery disaster - just a real person. And she's a commanding presence - the woman can do more with a look or a hand gesture than the biggest special effects budget could make - but she also doesn't steal the show.
Still, the star of the movie is Carell, who literally bled to make this movie through the painful chest waxing scene. You can't help but to leaugh and wince at the same time.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 8 out of 9 Whammies! I'd have given it a 7 because it does drag from time-to-time, and, the girl who plays Catherine's daughter, Kat Dennings, was born in `86 and WAY MUCHO developed, which made me feel kinda creepy in a dirty old man way, but the addition of David Koechner in a small role, the man who invented the Whammy, gives it another one, hence, the 8. --------------
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
ounce of prevention...
Darling Roommate and I have lived in our place for exactly one month.
3 weeks ago, I faxed over a list of problems with the place that the property management should have fixed before we moved in - ranging from minor cosmetic stuff like wallpaper gashes and paint scratches to the major, such as the downstairs toilet not working and a kitchen cabinet ready to fall off at any moment. Oh, and the annoying - my neighbor's pipes clank right next to my bed, waking me up every damned morning. I had a nice chat with the lad at the office at the time, who assured me he'd have people on it immediately.
So far, nada. Since I'm having people over this weekend, I am going to go about fixing the cabinet and toilet situations as much as possible.
Now, I know this is awfully mundane for me to write about. And, I wouldn't write about it, if it weren't for Comcast.
See, Comcast sent us the wrong boxes. We're paying for their Digital Gold package or some other kind of rip-off - 400 freakin' channels, about 300 of which are in Spanish, or for kids, or for Spanish kids, so they do me no good. The key to our cable, besides the internet access (which admittedly has rocked so far), is HBO.
One small problem - we can't HEAR HBO. For some reason, the line volume level is basically nil. In order to hear the HBO, I have to crank the TV volume to the maximum, turn my stereo volume to 92% of max volume (at which point the electricity humming through the system makes more noise than the HBO signal!) and sit approximately 18 inches from the screen.
Comcast's solution - take a day off work while we come in and replace the cable boxes we just installed 3 weeks ago. They gave us the wrong boxes.
OK, I'll believe that. Mainly because I'm gullible and just want my H-B-O. They couldn't give us the right boxes the first time? Eh...what are you gonna do?
However, my property management company is going to need me to do the same thing - clean up something they should have taken care of sooner. My unit was empty for nearly a week between the previous folks moving out and Darling Roommate and I moving in. Why couldn't they do the work *which they knew they needed to do beforehand from the previous tenants* before we moved in?
It's now going to be more expensive for both of these companies to fix what could have been easily prevented.
Sounds something like the system failures in New Orleans, doesn't it? Preventable and cheaper to do right, the first time. Maybe I'm stuck on the idea of getting stuff right, correct, stable...all the debacles of the Gulf Coast, all the politicians covering their own asses in enough spit-laced rhetoric to drown another major U.S. port...
The blame game has been disturbing, and distracting. The grandstanding has been deliberate and denegrating. I'm boggled by the stupidity at all levels - Michael Brown, Rick Santorum, Kathleen Blanco, Ray Nagin - mayors, governors, Senators, oh my!
Estimates for Katrina clean-up are running between 50 and 100 billion dollars. New Orleans is still half underwater. Gas is up to 3 bucks a gallon - and Exxon is about to declare its highest profit quarter ever. But I'd be a fool and a communist to make *any* connection there, huh?
The City of New Orleans would have been spared, lives saved and homes standing with a better levee system - infinitely cheaper than this mess.
Preventative Maintenence. Disaster Prevention. Maybe these should be the buzzwords of 2006.
Just a thought...
3 weeks ago, I faxed over a list of problems with the place that the property management should have fixed before we moved in - ranging from minor cosmetic stuff like wallpaper gashes and paint scratches to the major, such as the downstairs toilet not working and a kitchen cabinet ready to fall off at any moment. Oh, and the annoying - my neighbor's pipes clank right next to my bed, waking me up every damned morning. I had a nice chat with the lad at the office at the time, who assured me he'd have people on it immediately.
So far, nada. Since I'm having people over this weekend, I am going to go about fixing the cabinet and toilet situations as much as possible.
Now, I know this is awfully mundane for me to write about. And, I wouldn't write about it, if it weren't for Comcast.
See, Comcast sent us the wrong boxes. We're paying for their Digital Gold package or some other kind of rip-off - 400 freakin' channels, about 300 of which are in Spanish, or for kids, or for Spanish kids, so they do me no good. The key to our cable, besides the internet access (which admittedly has rocked so far), is HBO.
One small problem - we can't HEAR HBO. For some reason, the line volume level is basically nil. In order to hear the HBO, I have to crank the TV volume to the maximum, turn my stereo volume to 92% of max volume (at which point the electricity humming through the system makes more noise than the HBO signal!) and sit approximately 18 inches from the screen.
Comcast's solution - take a day off work while we come in and replace the cable boxes we just installed 3 weeks ago. They gave us the wrong boxes.
OK, I'll believe that. Mainly because I'm gullible and just want my H-B-O. They couldn't give us the right boxes the first time? Eh...what are you gonna do?
However, my property management company is going to need me to do the same thing - clean up something they should have taken care of sooner. My unit was empty for nearly a week between the previous folks moving out and Darling Roommate and I moving in. Why couldn't they do the work *which they knew they needed to do beforehand from the previous tenants* before we moved in?
It's now going to be more expensive for both of these companies to fix what could have been easily prevented.
Sounds something like the system failures in New Orleans, doesn't it? Preventable and cheaper to do right, the first time. Maybe I'm stuck on the idea of getting stuff right, correct, stable...all the debacles of the Gulf Coast, all the politicians covering their own asses in enough spit-laced rhetoric to drown another major U.S. port...
The blame game has been disturbing, and distracting. The grandstanding has been deliberate and denegrating. I'm boggled by the stupidity at all levels - Michael Brown, Rick Santorum, Kathleen Blanco, Ray Nagin - mayors, governors, Senators, oh my!
Estimates for Katrina clean-up are running between 50 and 100 billion dollars. New Orleans is still half underwater. Gas is up to 3 bucks a gallon - and Exxon is about to declare its highest profit quarter ever. But I'd be a fool and a communist to make *any* connection there, huh?
The City of New Orleans would have been spared, lives saved and homes standing with a better levee system - infinitely cheaper than this mess.
Preventative Maintenence. Disaster Prevention. Maybe these should be the buzzwords of 2006.
Just a thought...
Saturday, September 03, 2005
It's time to be truly tasteless
Did you hear the mayor of New Orleans died last night? His finals words were "Glub glub glubbb...."
Many Hollywood celebrities have banded together to rasie money for the victims of Katrina. Kevin Coster has donated all the proceeds from his film "Waterworld." Come on, Kevin, haven't those people suffered enough?
A bunch of lesbians have arrived at New Orleans. They heard there were dykes that needed plugging.
The Louisiana Race Track has recently been modified for Seahorse Racing.
The New Orleans Saints Cheerleaders are now going to be the hottest Syncronized Swimming team ever.
The storm even screwed up the Governor's Mansion. Knocked the thing right off its axles.
Many Hollywood celebrities have banded together to rasie money for the victims of Katrina. Kevin Coster has donated all the proceeds from his film "Waterworld." Come on, Kevin, haven't those people suffered enough?
A bunch of lesbians have arrived at New Orleans. They heard there were dykes that needed plugging.
The Louisiana Race Track has recently been modified for Seahorse Racing.
The New Orleans Saints Cheerleaders are now going to be the hottest Syncronized Swimming team ever.
The storm even screwed up the Governor's Mansion. Knocked the thing right off its axles.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Best thing ever
http://www.pandora.com
Think of this as the iPod Shuffle of music you don't own. Or, a streaming music TiVo. Or, do what I do, and simply think this is the best. thing. ever.
Simply tell Pandora what song or band you like, and it will play music it thinks you will like based on various traits like the tone, key, vocals and instrumentation. The first 10 hours are free, but I'm already in love. TiVo pretty much kicks ass, but it still thinks that because I like the Family Guy, that I like ALL animation, and that I'd love Kim Possible. However, this is much more intuitive - it figures out things a little more intelligently than TiVo. Also, since you're right there listening to this streaming service, you can instantly judge the tunes for appropriateness. You can even buy the song from iTunes or Amazon as it's playing.
What a BRILLIANT idea!
Consider the $36 payment to them for a year a wise investment.
-- This concludes my shameless commercial plug in which I don't receive a plug nickle. I'm like the world's cheapest sell-out. --
Think of this as the iPod Shuffle of music you don't own. Or, a streaming music TiVo. Or, do what I do, and simply think this is the best. thing. ever.
Simply tell Pandora what song or band you like, and it will play music it thinks you will like based on various traits like the tone, key, vocals and instrumentation. The first 10 hours are free, but I'm already in love. TiVo pretty much kicks ass, but it still thinks that because I like the Family Guy, that I like ALL animation, and that I'd love Kim Possible. However, this is much more intuitive - it figures out things a little more intelligently than TiVo. Also, since you're right there listening to this streaming service, you can instantly judge the tunes for appropriateness. You can even buy the song from iTunes or Amazon as it's playing.
What a BRILLIANT idea!
Consider the $36 payment to them for a year a wise investment.
-- This concludes my shameless commercial plug in which I don't receive a plug nickle. I'm like the world's cheapest sell-out. --
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
The Aristocrats - Reviewed by the Five Paragraph Bitter Film Critic
This is the movie I have been waiting my whole life for.
As a former stand-up comic, I was introduced to the world of the titular joke in the late `90s, at a comedy club in Iowa. I had heard the joke before in it's basic sense - guy walks into the agent's office, tells him he's got a great act, a *family* act, and then proceeds to have sex with his kids. The act's name? "The Aristocrats!" In itself, it's not funny.
However, when told by a professional funny person, the joke takes on a life of its own. The sex gets naughtier, kinkier and, depending on the jurisdiction, probably illegal. The kids get younger, the man gets nastier, animals are involved. Nothing is sacred from the lengths this man will go to impress this agent - no religious, historical or political icon can escape the power of the Aristocrats.
This movie examines this truly tasteless joke, and is told from old-time funny men like Don Rickles and Larry Storch to guys who made their names during stand-ups boom in the 1970s and 1980s - Robin Williams, Taylor Negron, for example, and current stars like the South Park gang, Dana Gould and Doug Stanhope...whom I've seen naked. Thrice.
This is not a family movie. This is not a feel-good film. There are no heroes, no plucky young orphans fighting an evil lord. There is Sarah Silverman, though, and she's close. If you like raw, crude, in-your-face humor and can swim in a pool of profanity, and don't mind hearing Bob Saget use words he NEVER used on "Full House," then this is the film for you.
---------------- 4.7 Whammies out of 6. 1 whole Whammy was deducted for having WAY too many Eric Idle and Billy Connolly scenes, and not nearly enough Bob Saget and Emo Phillips. A second Whammy was deducted for having the completely unfunny Paul Reiser dominate part of the film. However, a .7 of a Whammy was added because I've met seven of the performers in the film, and each one of those bastards is worth a tenth of a Whammy. ----------------------
As a former stand-up comic, I was introduced to the world of the titular joke in the late `90s, at a comedy club in Iowa. I had heard the joke before in it's basic sense - guy walks into the agent's office, tells him he's got a great act, a *family* act, and then proceeds to have sex with his kids. The act's name? "The Aristocrats!" In itself, it's not funny.
However, when told by a professional funny person, the joke takes on a life of its own. The sex gets naughtier, kinkier and, depending on the jurisdiction, probably illegal. The kids get younger, the man gets nastier, animals are involved. Nothing is sacred from the lengths this man will go to impress this agent - no religious, historical or political icon can escape the power of the Aristocrats.
This movie examines this truly tasteless joke, and is told from old-time funny men like Don Rickles and Larry Storch to guys who made their names during stand-ups boom in the 1970s and 1980s - Robin Williams, Taylor Negron, for example, and current stars like the South Park gang, Dana Gould and Doug Stanhope...whom I've seen naked. Thrice.
This is not a family movie. This is not a feel-good film. There are no heroes, no plucky young orphans fighting an evil lord. There is Sarah Silverman, though, and she's close. If you like raw, crude, in-your-face humor and can swim in a pool of profanity, and don't mind hearing Bob Saget use words he NEVER used on "Full House," then this is the film for you.
---------------- 4.7 Whammies out of 6. 1 whole Whammy was deducted for having WAY too many Eric Idle and Billy Connolly scenes, and not nearly enough Bob Saget and Emo Phillips. A second Whammy was deducted for having the completely unfunny Paul Reiser dominate part of the film. However, a .7 of a Whammy was added because I've met seven of the performers in the film, and each one of those bastards is worth a tenth of a Whammy. ----------------------
Friday, August 26, 2005
Put the beer can down, Sidney
From the A.P. :
Orioles' Ponson arrested, charged with DUI
Pitcher stopped on I-95 early today for following too closely
The Associated Press
Originally published August 25, 2005, 7:12 AM EDT
Baltimore Orioles pitcher Sidney Ponson was arrested early this morning for driving under the influence and driving while impaired, WJZ-TV has reported.
The arrest was made after a traffic stop at 1:31 a.m. on southbound Interstate 95, south of I-395, said Maryland Transportation Authority Police Corporal Pamela Thorne.
Thorne said Ponson was driving a 2005 Mercedes-Benz and was stopped for following to closely. He was subsequently arrested for the traffic violation, DUI and DWI and has been released.
------------ SNIPPED --------------
Sad thing is, though - this isn't the first time, second time, or even fifth alcohol-related incident he's had.
When I lived in Canton, I saw him and Scott Erickson come into Looney's on a Sunday night, and Sidney was *BEYOND* plastered. Couldn't walk down the stairs. He slurred his words, babbled, spit up, punched at a stripper - all in a night of fun. He was scheduled to pitch in 36 hours.
I've seen him out at all sorts of Baltimore hot spots - Club One, Power Plant, Bay Cafe - and each time he was just buttered up. He can drink a goodly amount of booze, and he's the life of the party, but he's doing way too much. He's now no longer a talented pitcher pissing away his talent - he's an alcoholic pissing away his LIFE.
He is literally the life of the party when he gets going. Absolutely hilarious guy, boisterous, fun-loving - the kind of dude you want to have a beer with. He's a laughing sort, always friendly, kinda like that fat drunk fraternity guy who you just couldn't help but to like. He'd have been a fantastic Baltimore Colt, circa 1959, when you could walk into the corner bar and guys would buy you a Premium because you were a Colt. Well, Sidney's in that mold, but he's also getting the Grey Goose to chase his beer. He's got great taste in drinks, but an unquenchable thirst.
But, just like the fat drunk fraternity guy, you also have to pity him, because fat drunk and stupid is no way to get through life, son.
If the O's are smart, they shut him down this year, and put him in detox. They can't mandate it because of the player's union, but if there's ever been a guy who needs it, it's Sidney. He needs to get off the sauce. If he wasn't a baseball pitcher, he'd be in jail for a while. This has been a bad year for him, and he's hitting rock bottom. This is the moment of clarity for an alcoholic, if he has one, because he's really in trouble now. 2 drunk driving charges, an assault on the beach and a fight at the bar, and that's just the stuff we know about in the past 12 months. He also had a charge against him in the minor leagues. What else might be lurking on his rapidly-expanding rap sheet?
Sidney doesn't need to go to AAA, he doesn't need to go on the DL - he needs to go to A.A. and the Betty Ford Clinic before he kills himself or somebody else. Wasting baseball talent is one thing; wasting lives is another.
- - - - 30 - - - -
Orioles' Ponson arrested, charged with DUI
Pitcher stopped on I-95 early today for following too closely
The Associated Press
Originally published August 25, 2005, 7:12 AM EDT
Baltimore Orioles pitcher Sidney Ponson was arrested early this morning for driving under the influence and driving while impaired, WJZ-TV has reported.
The arrest was made after a traffic stop at 1:31 a.m. on southbound Interstate 95, south of I-395, said Maryland Transportation Authority Police Corporal Pamela Thorne.
Thorne said Ponson was driving a 2005 Mercedes-Benz and was stopped for following to closely. He was subsequently arrested for the traffic violation, DUI and DWI and has been released.
------------ SNIPPED --------------
Sad thing is, though - this isn't the first time, second time, or even fifth alcohol-related incident he's had.
When I lived in Canton, I saw him and Scott Erickson come into Looney's on a Sunday night, and Sidney was *BEYOND* plastered. Couldn't walk down the stairs. He slurred his words, babbled, spit up, punched at a stripper - all in a night of fun. He was scheduled to pitch in 36 hours.
I've seen him out at all sorts of Baltimore hot spots - Club One, Power Plant, Bay Cafe - and each time he was just buttered up. He can drink a goodly amount of booze, and he's the life of the party, but he's doing way too much. He's now no longer a talented pitcher pissing away his talent - he's an alcoholic pissing away his LIFE.
He is literally the life of the party when he gets going. Absolutely hilarious guy, boisterous, fun-loving - the kind of dude you want to have a beer with. He's a laughing sort, always friendly, kinda like that fat drunk fraternity guy who you just couldn't help but to like. He'd have been a fantastic Baltimore Colt, circa 1959, when you could walk into the corner bar and guys would buy you a Premium because you were a Colt. Well, Sidney's in that mold, but he's also getting the Grey Goose to chase his beer. He's got great taste in drinks, but an unquenchable thirst.
But, just like the fat drunk fraternity guy, you also have to pity him, because fat drunk and stupid is no way to get through life, son.
If the O's are smart, they shut him down this year, and put him in detox. They can't mandate it because of the player's union, but if there's ever been a guy who needs it, it's Sidney. He needs to get off the sauce. If he wasn't a baseball pitcher, he'd be in jail for a while. This has been a bad year for him, and he's hitting rock bottom. This is the moment of clarity for an alcoholic, if he has one, because he's really in trouble now. 2 drunk driving charges, an assault on the beach and a fight at the bar, and that's just the stuff we know about in the past 12 months. He also had a charge against him in the minor leagues. What else might be lurking on his rapidly-expanding rap sheet?
Sidney doesn't need to go to AAA, he doesn't need to go on the DL - he needs to go to A.A. and the Betty Ford Clinic before he kills himself or somebody else. Wasting baseball talent is one thing; wasting lives is another.
- - - - 30 - - - -
Monday, August 15, 2005
Stewie Griffin - The Untold Story - Reviewed by the Five Paragraph Bitter Film Critic
Allright, I can hear you griping already, my fine audience of morally-upright folks. "How dare you review a DVD movie that hasn't come out yet? Why would you support illegal file sharing and the theft of intellectual property? Why, I never!" Why yes, my sin-free flock, you are right. I am bad. I am naughty. I downloaded a movie that hasn't been released yet. Do I feel guilty about it? Not one bit. See, because I love the Family Guy, I will buy at least one copy for me, about 5 copies as gifts, and, thanks to people like me who downloaded the original tv broadcasts, the show is back on the air. So, I'm sorry if I don't see where I'm exactly harming anybody, as I wear my Family Guy-licensed "Evil Monkey" t-shirt. Now, on to the movie.
First things first - it is DAMNED funny. The story appears to be three seperate stories about Stewie, the maniacal omnisexual baby, and his quest to find out his place in the world. After a near-death experience sends Stewie briefly into Hell, he decides to become, once and for all, a "good boy." One day, he sees on TV a man who looks a lot like himself in San Francisco - could this be Stewie's REAL father? So Brian and Stewie hit the road in Quagmire's Winnebago (a.k.a. the Wanna-Bang-O) RV and go on a roadtrip. Glen's goal is to do a chick in each state, and the three head westward.
The best line in the movie comes from Brian looking at the sign Quagmire put on the side of the Wanna-Bang-O - "Cross Country Trip" BRIAN: Shouldn't there be a 'U' in Country?" QUAGMIRE: "Nope!"
Then again, hearing Stewie, Peter and Lois all drop the "F-Bomb" without that annoying little beep is pretty much up there, too. Peter's almost nonsensical rant about that damned Lindsay Lohan, "and her outfits, all up there, in her little outfits. What do you want, Lindsay, do you want to go out with me, is that what you want?" And, by the way, Meg gets a sex change, Stewie shaves his ass, Brian gets him drunk, Chris becomes a cop, and Asian reporter Tricia Takinawa love David Bowie long-time.
In short, it's an hour and a half of Family Guy. There are just a couple of stretches of slowness, and a couple of jokes that just don't hit, but, it's yet again a brilliant slice of hilarity from Seth MacFarlane and his crew. 90 minutes of Family Guy is works quite well.
----------------- Total Rating : 6 out of 6.5 Whammies. A 1/2 Whammy was deducted for an extremely long download time. -------------------------------------------------------------
First things first - it is DAMNED funny. The story appears to be three seperate stories about Stewie, the maniacal omnisexual baby, and his quest to find out his place in the world. After a near-death experience sends Stewie briefly into Hell, he decides to become, once and for all, a "good boy." One day, he sees on TV a man who looks a lot like himself in San Francisco - could this be Stewie's REAL father? So Brian and Stewie hit the road in Quagmire's Winnebago (a.k.a. the Wanna-Bang-O) RV and go on a roadtrip. Glen's goal is to do a chick in each state, and the three head westward.
The best line in the movie comes from Brian looking at the sign Quagmire put on the side of the Wanna-Bang-O - "Cross Country Trip" BRIAN: Shouldn't there be a 'U' in Country?" QUAGMIRE: "Nope!"
Then again, hearing Stewie, Peter and Lois all drop the "F-Bomb" without that annoying little beep is pretty much up there, too. Peter's almost nonsensical rant about that damned Lindsay Lohan, "and her outfits, all up there, in her little outfits. What do you want, Lindsay, do you want to go out with me, is that what you want?" And, by the way, Meg gets a sex change, Stewie shaves his ass, Brian gets him drunk, Chris becomes a cop, and Asian reporter Tricia Takinawa love David Bowie long-time.
In short, it's an hour and a half of Family Guy. There are just a couple of stretches of slowness, and a couple of jokes that just don't hit, but, it's yet again a brilliant slice of hilarity from Seth MacFarlane and his crew. 90 minutes of Family Guy is works quite well.
----------------- Total Rating : 6 out of 6.5 Whammies. A 1/2 Whammy was deducted for an extremely long download time. -------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Why I'm Bailing on online dating
A few random reasons over the past couple of months why I'm giving up my Match.com ad:
1) If you're mad at your current boyfriend, and are reading this site out of spite, please don't go so far as to create a profile, respond to a few ads, go out on a couple of dates, and then decide you're not mad at your boyfriend anymore. You wouldn't trust a guy who would do that; so why do it yourself?
2) If you then get re-mad at the boyfriend, don't call up one of the aforementioned dates, and beg forgiveness, and then get back with the boyfriend anyway.
3) If you hear voices in your head - not like an inner dialogue, but, seriously, multiple voices - please don't reply to an ad. You need to go to therapy.
4) Please don't tell a guy you've fallen in love with them after the first MEETING. I'm not a bad guy, but I'm also not that dang sexy.
5) If you tell a guy that you like them, and can't wait to see them again...don't wait over a month to even talk to them again, let alone even reply to an email.
6) Do not spend your entire time ont he first date telling me about how there are no worthwhile single men in the DC area anymore. Please. I don't have time for your psuedo-drama.
7) Simply be honest - be honest in your emails, be honest on your phone calls, and be honest if and when we finally meet. If you lied about your pictures, your profile, your status - it'll all become painfully obvious in person. So, just be yourself.
1) If you're mad at your current boyfriend, and are reading this site out of spite, please don't go so far as to create a profile, respond to a few ads, go out on a couple of dates, and then decide you're not mad at your boyfriend anymore. You wouldn't trust a guy who would do that; so why do it yourself?
2) If you then get re-mad at the boyfriend, don't call up one of the aforementioned dates, and beg forgiveness, and then get back with the boyfriend anyway.
3) If you hear voices in your head - not like an inner dialogue, but, seriously, multiple voices - please don't reply to an ad. You need to go to therapy.
4) Please don't tell a guy you've fallen in love with them after the first MEETING. I'm not a bad guy, but I'm also not that dang sexy.
5) If you tell a guy that you like them, and can't wait to see them again...don't wait over a month to even talk to them again, let alone even reply to an email.
6) Do not spend your entire time ont he first date telling me about how there are no worthwhile single men in the DC area anymore. Please. I don't have time for your psuedo-drama.
7) Simply be honest - be honest in your emails, be honest on your phone calls, and be honest if and when we finally meet. If you lied about your pictures, your profile, your status - it'll all become painfully obvious in person. So, just be yourself.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Are We Not Men? Or, Are We Devo?
From a discussion on another board, in which the male role was debated...
-----------------------
Men aren't becoming more feminine, per se; we're simply the first generation in ages in which men are expected to be less manly. I know, I know, Loocy, I gots some 'splainin' to do. But, since I'm a history nut, my 'splainin' should (hopefully) make sense.
Ever since the women's suffrage movement in the United States, men have felt like they were under attack by women. For every perceived threat, real or imagined, men have tried to rally against women's advances - for every Elizabeth Cady Stanton or Susan B. Anthony, meet psychologist H.W. Frink and anti-Suffragist William Cremer. Frink thought feminists were crazy, and were simply hiding their masculine desires. Cremer lauched a campaign against women's voting rights, and collected 250,000 signatures. That was pre-WWI, too - no e-mail petitions for this guy!
For every group that was women-centric - the Abolitionists, Labor movement, Prohibitionists, for instance - there was an equally large male-centric group who supported them, and at least one male-centric group who opposed them. So, as society was changing, lifestyles changed and mindsets began to as well.
There was one constant in all this, though. Traditional gender roles within the home were still fairly stable. Eventhough women could vote and have jobs and political power, they still took care of the home, and the man was responsible for lifting heavy things and killing icky spiders. Mom was the caregiver to the children, and Dad was the disciplinarian. One of the most dreaded phrases in the 20th Century - "Wait until your father comes home!"
Nowadays, roles are reversed all the time. Of my last four girlfriends, I've made less money at that time than they did, and I wasn't exactly homeless, either! (came close once, though...) Had any of those relationships progressed, I wouldn't be the primary income source for the household, a BIG difference over life 20 years ago. Every day I go to work at my DoD building, I see at least 30 female soldiers who are trained to be better fighters, better shooters and in better shape than most men on the planet. Meanwhile, poor little civilian bachelors have to figure out what to cook for dinner, what tv shows to watch, and what to wear in the morning. Female soldiers go back to the base, go to the mess hall and then wear the same outfit tomorrow.
Between medical science extending our lifespans, our potential for health and increasing our child-bearing range, a girl who's 23 and not married isn't an old maid anymore. That wasn't the case in 1905. She's got 60 more years of life expectancy now; then, she had maybe 20. There's less pressure now to settle down at a certain age. Also, more people are opting to simply not have kids at all, futher reducing the need for marriage.
All the stereotypical male events of the past are a lot harder to do nowadays. My grandfather and my great uncles in Pennsylvania loved to hunt and fish, and the living ones still do, and have passed that love to their kids. Now, we have to watch for endangered species and toxic lakes and Blinky, the three-eyed fish. Guys used to be able to hang around a garage and fix up old cars. Have you SEEN Pimp My Ride or Monster Garage? Can't do that anymore. Computer relays, anti-lock brakes, airflow control modulators - you not only have to know advanced diesel physics, but also electronics, computer science, art and welding. Old time farmers used to know how to fix everything on their ranch - the tractor, the truck, the plow, the windmill. Hell, if my circuit breaker trips, I'm sitting there like a dummy, poking my George Foreman grill, wondering how it shut off my microwave AND my lights.
The male role is just different than it was. We're expected to me more involved in the raising of the children. We're expected to be at least somewhat capable in the kitchen and the bedroom. We can dress ourselves, and do our own laundry, and even buy clothes that sort-of fit. We're not supposed to be non-communicative all the time. We are still supposed to kill icky spiders, though.
However, we're a lot manlier than those fops of the 17th and 18th Centuries. Have you ever seen paintings of those guys? With their little waltzes and harpsichords and merkins? Their little kerchiefs and frilly collars and make up and wigs? That's pretty damned womanly, and I'd even be scared of a woman who dressed like that. Whole damned generations of men dressing like dogs with weird collars so they don't chew their neutering stitches out.
And while Grandpa may have been able to shoot a defenseless deer with a high-powered rifle, and catch trout the size of couches, I'm able to turn the venison into a stew with rosemary and red potatoes in a sourdough bread bowl and that fish into a filet pan-seared in extra-virgin olive oil with a garlic-peppercorn crust over a bed of wild rice and spring vegetables. Grandpa would burn ice. I do what he couldn't, he did what I didn't want to - both sides of the equation are important if you want to eat.
What does that mean? Simply put - we can literally be anything we want to be. All those ads at Lady Foot Locker and inside Jane magazine, showing women they can be empowered to do anything and aspire to greatness - they can be aimed at guys as well. All those mixed signals that womens' magazines have been giving them for decades - Be Strong! Be Demure! Be Smart - Men Like Smart Women! Don't Be Too Smart, or You'll Sound Like a Bitch! Be Thin! Lose Weight! Be Comfortable in Your Own Skin! Be Happy Who You Are! Be Better and Happier Than You Are! How to Get Your Ex-Back! How to Get Back at Your Ex! How to Look Better! Look Your Best! Hairstyle Do's and Don'ts -Guess what? They're all hitting us now, and we don't have the experience in how to deal with this. Are we supposed to be Jack Black or Jack White? Kyan Douglas or Hugh Douglas? Chippendale or Dale Earnhardt, Jr.? Man or Astroman? Ice-T or Ice-Cube? Will Farrell or Colin Farrell?
Which Keanu character are we? Little Buddha, Neo, Ted Logan or the doctor who schtumped Diane Keaton? Some days we're more Jack Traven (Speed), others we're Donnie Barksdale (The Gift), and others we're more Johnny Utah (Point Break). A few of us are Scott Favor (My Own Private Idaho), and are fine with that.
I just pretend Johnny Mnemonic never happened.
The correct answer to all of those is "yes," if we're to believe pop culture. They're all just trying to sell us something, after all.
So, simply view these conflicting roles and messages as a buffet table. Take the foods you like, avoid the foods you don't like. If you hate beans, don't fill up your plate with beans and get back to your seat and bitch about a plate full of beans. However, if you've never had beans, take a sample. See what you think. Might be the best dang foodstuff you've ever had.
At the end of the day, we still have our sticky-outty parts, and girls have the sticky-innie parts, and no amount of spackle in the panties can change that.
Though surgeons in Sweden can.
----------###----------------
-----------------------
Men aren't becoming more feminine, per se; we're simply the first generation in ages in which men are expected to be less manly. I know, I know, Loocy, I gots some 'splainin' to do. But, since I'm a history nut, my 'splainin' should (hopefully) make sense.
Ever since the women's suffrage movement in the United States, men have felt like they were under attack by women. For every perceived threat, real or imagined, men have tried to rally against women's advances - for every Elizabeth Cady Stanton or Susan B. Anthony, meet psychologist H.W. Frink and anti-Suffragist William Cremer. Frink thought feminists were crazy, and were simply hiding their masculine desires. Cremer lauched a campaign against women's voting rights, and collected 250,000 signatures. That was pre-WWI, too - no e-mail petitions for this guy!
For every group that was women-centric - the Abolitionists, Labor movement, Prohibitionists, for instance - there was an equally large male-centric group who supported them, and at least one male-centric group who opposed them. So, as society was changing, lifestyles changed and mindsets began to as well.
There was one constant in all this, though. Traditional gender roles within the home were still fairly stable. Eventhough women could vote and have jobs and political power, they still took care of the home, and the man was responsible for lifting heavy things and killing icky spiders. Mom was the caregiver to the children, and Dad was the disciplinarian. One of the most dreaded phrases in the 20th Century - "Wait until your father comes home!"
Nowadays, roles are reversed all the time. Of my last four girlfriends, I've made less money at that time than they did, and I wasn't exactly homeless, either! (came close once, though...) Had any of those relationships progressed, I wouldn't be the primary income source for the household, a BIG difference over life 20 years ago. Every day I go to work at my DoD building, I see at least 30 female soldiers who are trained to be better fighters, better shooters and in better shape than most men on the planet. Meanwhile, poor little civilian bachelors have to figure out what to cook for dinner, what tv shows to watch, and what to wear in the morning. Female soldiers go back to the base, go to the mess hall and then wear the same outfit tomorrow.
Between medical science extending our lifespans, our potential for health and increasing our child-bearing range, a girl who's 23 and not married isn't an old maid anymore. That wasn't the case in 1905. She's got 60 more years of life expectancy now; then, she had maybe 20. There's less pressure now to settle down at a certain age. Also, more people are opting to simply not have kids at all, futher reducing the need for marriage.
All the stereotypical male events of the past are a lot harder to do nowadays. My grandfather and my great uncles in Pennsylvania loved to hunt and fish, and the living ones still do, and have passed that love to their kids. Now, we have to watch for endangered species and toxic lakes and Blinky, the three-eyed fish. Guys used to be able to hang around a garage and fix up old cars. Have you SEEN Pimp My Ride or Monster Garage? Can't do that anymore. Computer relays, anti-lock brakes, airflow control modulators - you not only have to know advanced diesel physics, but also electronics, computer science, art and welding. Old time farmers used to know how to fix everything on their ranch - the tractor, the truck, the plow, the windmill. Hell, if my circuit breaker trips, I'm sitting there like a dummy, poking my George Foreman grill, wondering how it shut off my microwave AND my lights.
The male role is just different than it was. We're expected to me more involved in the raising of the children. We're expected to be at least somewhat capable in the kitchen and the bedroom. We can dress ourselves, and do our own laundry, and even buy clothes that sort-of fit. We're not supposed to be non-communicative all the time. We are still supposed to kill icky spiders, though.
However, we're a lot manlier than those fops of the 17th and 18th Centuries. Have you ever seen paintings of those guys? With their little waltzes and harpsichords and merkins? Their little kerchiefs and frilly collars and make up and wigs? That's pretty damned womanly, and I'd even be scared of a woman who dressed like that. Whole damned generations of men dressing like dogs with weird collars so they don't chew their neutering stitches out.
And while Grandpa may have been able to shoot a defenseless deer with a high-powered rifle, and catch trout the size of couches, I'm able to turn the venison into a stew with rosemary and red potatoes in a sourdough bread bowl and that fish into a filet pan-seared in extra-virgin olive oil with a garlic-peppercorn crust over a bed of wild rice and spring vegetables. Grandpa would burn ice. I do what he couldn't, he did what I didn't want to - both sides of the equation are important if you want to eat.
What does that mean? Simply put - we can literally be anything we want to be. All those ads at Lady Foot Locker and inside Jane magazine, showing women they can be empowered to do anything and aspire to greatness - they can be aimed at guys as well. All those mixed signals that womens' magazines have been giving them for decades - Be Strong! Be Demure! Be Smart - Men Like Smart Women! Don't Be Too Smart, or You'll Sound Like a Bitch! Be Thin! Lose Weight! Be Comfortable in Your Own Skin! Be Happy Who You Are! Be Better and Happier Than You Are! How to Get Your Ex-Back! How to Get Back at Your Ex! How to Look Better! Look Your Best! Hairstyle Do's and Don'ts -Guess what? They're all hitting us now, and we don't have the experience in how to deal with this. Are we supposed to be Jack Black or Jack White? Kyan Douglas or Hugh Douglas? Chippendale or Dale Earnhardt, Jr.? Man or Astroman? Ice-T or Ice-Cube? Will Farrell or Colin Farrell?
Which Keanu character are we? Little Buddha, Neo, Ted Logan or the doctor who schtumped Diane Keaton? Some days we're more Jack Traven (Speed), others we're Donnie Barksdale (The Gift), and others we're more Johnny Utah (Point Break). A few of us are Scott Favor (My Own Private Idaho), and are fine with that.
I just pretend Johnny Mnemonic never happened.
The correct answer to all of those is "yes," if we're to believe pop culture. They're all just trying to sell us something, after all.
So, simply view these conflicting roles and messages as a buffet table. Take the foods you like, avoid the foods you don't like. If you hate beans, don't fill up your plate with beans and get back to your seat and bitch about a plate full of beans. However, if you've never had beans, take a sample. See what you think. Might be the best dang foodstuff you've ever had.
At the end of the day, we still have our sticky-outty parts, and girls have the sticky-innie parts, and no amount of spackle in the panties can change that.
Though surgeons in Sweden can.
----------###----------------
Monday, August 01, 2005
debate me baby one more time.
On another board, we've been discussing the best rock band of all time. I posited "Spinal Tap" but only semi-in jest. I didn't come up with the list of finalists, merely used the most frequently mentioned ones. Post follows as below:
The Best Rock Band can be proven scientifically. Simply list the major factors of Being A Rock Star, and proceed from there.
Or, maybe I've been watching "Rockstar - INXS" too much.
The categories are:
A) Career Longetivity and Productivity
B) Critical and Consumer Acclaim
C) Stage Performances
D) Drug Abuse
E) Turn towards Eastern musical and religious influences
F) Band member fight with life-threatening disease or early death.
G) Progeny in the rock world.
H) Midwestern State Fair Factor
I) Tribute Bands
Let's take the most mentioned bands, and plug them into the Rank-O-Matic - the Beatles, the Who, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, U2, The Beach Boys, Pink Floyd, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Barenaked Ladies, Dave Matthews Band and REM.
A - Longetivity and Productivity
The Beatles - From the 60s through the 70s, Meet the Beatles, Abbey Road, Hey Jude, White Album, Sgt. Peppers, Revolver....wow. Plus, each band member made good solo albums - Paul McCartney and Wings were really, really good.
The Who - Tommy alone is all this band needs.
Led Zep - Albums so cool, they're listed in Roman Numerals like Super Bowls - plus Houses of the Holy and Physical Graffiti. Very productive ten years. T
The Rolling Stones - Exile on Main Street, Tattoo You, Beggars' Banquet and they've been recording together for 40 years. They've got the longetivity part down pat
U2 - Boy. War. Joshua Tree. Achtung Baby. 20+ years recording together. No line up changes.
The Beach Boys - Little Deuce Coupe and California Girls changed to the highly-influential Pet Sounds. Even came back from the grave with Kokomo. Try to resist that songs' power. Aruba, Jamaica, ooh, I wanna take you to Bahamas, Montego, baby why don't we go down to Kokomo...
Pink Floyd - The Wall and Dark Side of the Moon and the best album art.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - A rock tornado - didn't last long, but recorded some great albums really, really quickly.
Barenaked Ladies - They've been together for over 15 years, and it doesn't seem possible. Gordon, Born on a Pirate Ship, Maroon, Stunt - good stuff. I pretend that Postcards with Chimpanzee's song never existed.
Dave Matthews Band - They peaked really early - Under the Table and Dreaming is a must-own for most people under the age of 40 - and Ants Marching still gets feet tapping.
REM - If only the Reagan Years lasted for them, as they kicked out some good albums, like Reckoning, Life's Rich Pageant and Document, plus Fables of the Reconstruction. Sadly, once Bush the Elder came to office, they went and made Shiny Happy People, possibly my least favorite song until that damned BNL Chimpanzee song.
B - Critical and Consumer Acclaim
All of these bands have sold well, but, the Beatles only had one #1 album while they were producing albums. They had sustain, but never turned it up to 11.
Barenaked Ladies' "Gordon" is one of the best-selling albums in Canada. Selling over a million copies of anything in a country with less than 30 million people is amazing.
Pink Floyd - Wasn't Dark Side of the Moon on the Billboard Charts for 15 years or something? Amazing!
The Beach Boys' Smile was supposed to be released after Pet Sounds but the success of the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's and Brian Wilson's complete looniness shelved the project for over thirty years. Of the few people who heard the studio tapes back then, it was regarded as the most technologically advanced album in terms of techniques, use of many layers of sound, and, even sampling!
C - Stage Performances
While I can certainly see a debate between the Beatles, the Who, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, U2, and The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Black Sabbath, and even Barenaked Ladies as the Best Rock Band to See Live, I really can't see where REM merits discussion because they weren't great live. Influential - yes. Between "Radio Free Europe" and albums like Murmur, they definitely brought in a lo-fi, DYI sound that later propelled bands like Pavement. However, to be a truly great band, you simply have to rock out on stage.
Every great band has to have a defining moment at a concert. To wit - Black Sabbath. Not the greatest rock band, but, they raged on stage.
Beatles - the kids screamed so loud at the Ed Sullivan Show, nobody could hear the music.
The Who - Smashing guitars to the point of hearing loss
Led Zeppelin - 3, 4 hour concerts and people STILL wanted more Zep
The Beach Boys - Getting banned by James Watt from the 4th of July concert in DC is pretty funny
The Rolling Stones - They've been touring since the `60s and are still a must-see
U2 - One of the few bands to still rock as they enter middle age.
Pink Floyd - Originators of multimedia experiences at concerts. They did laser shows before they became dumb laser shows.
DMB - They have followed in the Grateful Dead's tradition of jam band shows quite well. No real trascendental moment, but good concert recordings. Maybe their take of "All Along The Watchtower" would classify if it had gotten more support.
Jimi Hendrix - Woodstock. Star Spangled Banner. Fin.
Black Sabbath - biting a bat's head off at a concert in Des Moines is legendary.
BNL - A rumour of a free show brought over a quarter million fans to the streets in Beantown. That's rockin'
REM - uh...well...it was cool when I saw them and Kate from the B-52s came out and sang "Roam" with them.
D - Drug Abuse
It could also be argued that drug abuse is vital to the Total Rockstar Experience. To that end:
The Beatles - "They were so high, they let Ringo sing a couple of songs" - Bill Hicks
the Who - Keith Moon alone is legendary
Led Zeppelin - Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll was pracitcally named after these guys
The Rolling Stones - Keith Richards has become a drug-addled cliche'
U2 - Is Guiness a drug or a foodstuff?
The Beach Boys - Brian Wilson could have taught Elvis things.
Pink Floyd - What ever REALLY happened to Syd Barrett? And, you can't listen to a Pink Floyd album without coughing.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Jimi didn't do drugs. Jimi lived drugs. Allright...
Barenaked Ladies - OK, probably too straight-laced. I'm sure they may have had too many Molson's one night, or ate one too many Tim Horton's donuts. Definite points off.
Dave Matthews Band - Contact highs alone from their shows and Bonaroo would elevate them to epic status. Plus, since nobody's ever really deciphered what the hell Dave is singing, I'm guessing crack would be involved.
REM - Michael Stipe acts like he's on drugs, and has the haircuts to prove it. That's gotta count. The one dude got busted on a flight with some dope. Not in a Led Zep class, but not too innocent.
Honorable mentions go out to Motley Crue and the Doors and Cypress Hill, purely for their sheer devotion to partying.
E - Turn Towards Eastern Musical Influences:
the Beatles - Check. Practically invented this.
the Who - not unless the Japanese used electric guitars 500 years ago, no.
Led Zeppelin - some influence, mostly on the album cuts
The Rolling Stones - pretty much steered clear of it musically. Maybe used a sitar a few times, never OD'd on it.
U2 - Dancehalls in Hungary are technically east of the UK, and that Pop album had a lot of dance music on it...
The Beach Boys - Ravi! Ravi! Ravi!
Pink Floyd - A bit, yeah, sure. Not oppressively, though.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Some chimes and woodwinds, sure.
Barenaked Ladies - Two of the guys are Jewish. Israel is east of Canada. Sure, I'll count it.
Dave Matthews Band - Oh yeah, I'll count Africa for this.
REM - Not much musically, but they have some very Eastern influences in their lifestyles.
F - Band member fight with life-threatening disease or early death.
the Beatles - Two are gone, two are alive. John Lennon is still missed.
the Who - Keith Moon = Gone
Led Zeppelin - John Bonham = Gone
The Rolling Stones - mostly alive, how, we'll never know.
U2 - Alive and Kicking
The Beach Boys - Brian Wilson might as well have been dead for years.
Pink Floyd - Living, but Barrett scares me.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Gone
Barenaked Ladies - Kevin Hearn survived a scary bout with leukemia. If the band survives that Chimpanzee song, it'll be a miracle.
Dave Matthews Band - Alive. No known scares. Points off.
REM - brain tumor definitely counts.
G - Progeny in the rock world.
The Beatles - every pop band from England. Keane, Travis, Coldplay, Radiohead, The Wonder Stuff, XTC, etc...
The Who - Any kid who played the guitar wished they could do the windmill. Queen, Styx, Kiss - all used the Who's bombast and sense of style.
Led Zeppelin - The same kids who tried to windmill tried Stairway to Heaven - White Stripes to Motley Crue to Metallica.
The Rolling Stones - Liz Phair to David Bowie to the Replacements.
U2 - Coldplay, The Alarm, Simple Minds
The Beach Boys - Cheap Trick played the guitar part, and all those damned boy bands picked up the four part vocal harmony
Pink Floyd - Radiohead. Grandaddy. Garbageland.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Lenny Kravitz is a prime example, as is any band formed after a guitarist - Will Sexton to Robert Cray and Living Color all worship the man.
Barenaked Ladies - Moxy Fruvous, Arrogant Worms.
Dave Matthews Band - they have bands who are contemporaries, like Big Head Todd and Widespread Panic. Maybe Carbon Leaf? Jason Mraz has mentioned him as an influence.
REM - Pavement. Nirvana. The Replacements. Any band I played when I was a deejay in the `90s.
H - Midwestern State Fair Factor
If an aging band plays in any of the Midwestern State Fairs - Iowa, Nebraska, Indiana, Kansas - they can't be considered the best rock band ever. They just can't. Nothing is more pathetic than hearing a bunch of fifty year old fat dudes trying to rock out. I love Buffett, but, he's eliminated, too.
This eliminates Bachman Turner Overdrive, The Allman Brothers, Skynrd, Cheap Trick, REO Speedwagon and Chicago, plus countless others.
the Beatles - Broke up before it could happen
the Who - Well, this category eliminates one contender...
Led Zeppelin - This would eliminate Led Zep, who played the Wisconsin State Fair, but that was back in 1969, when they were just starting out. That show probably rocked.
The Rolling Stones - San Antonio State Fair (funny, I thought that was a town) back in 1964. Doesn't count.
U2 - Puh-leeeze
The Beach Boys - Bum bum bum, another one bites the dust.
Pink Floyd - Played in Louisiana's State Fair back in the day. Doesn't count, either.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Died too soon to be washed up and playing that circuit.
Barenaked Ladies - I could totally envision them doing that one day, except it wouldn't be Iowa or Nebraska, but Manitoba and the Northwest Territories.
Dave Matthews Band - Adios. But, they're not washed up yet. So, this may not count.
REM - Not yet, but I wouldn't be surprised...
I - Tribute Bands!
You can't be a legendary rock band without a tribute band, or three!
the Beatles - Apple, Beatallica, the Fab Faux, Rubber Soul
the Who - Who's Who
Led Zeppelin - Dread Zeppelin, Led Zepagain
The Rolling Stones - Satisfaction, Sticky Fingers, The Rollin' Clones, The Stolling Rones...
U2 - Named, appropriately enough, 2U. Unforgettable Fire and Even Better Than the Real Thing. Also, these guys - Clicky!
The Beach Boys - The Sunny Boys and The Beach Toys (worst. name. ever)
Pink Floyd - Bricks in the Wall, Comfortably Numb, Pig Floyd, The Wall and Think Floyd
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Voodoo Child, Purple Haze, FIRE
Barenaked Ladies - Gordon, and, fittingly, the Fully Clothed Gents.
Dave Matthews Band - One Sweet World, The Dreaming Tree, and the perfectly named Dave Matthews Tribute Band
REM - Reckoning, The REM Experience (new worst.name.ever.)
So, when all of these factors are considered, it's obvious that Spinal Tap remains the best band ever...
Seriously, though - if longetivity is rated, bands like Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix can't be counted - they had an incredibly prolific period early on, but later stuff sucked...or, they died. Zep had seven years of rock brilliance (`69 through `76), and then puttered around a few years, and then disappeared. The Doors would be in this level, too - brilliant when they were around, but the magic died in Paris. Dave Matthews and the Barenaked Ladies haven't been around long enough. REMs newest material has been borderline unlistenable, as has been the Stones. Running on reputation and history. The Beach Boys haven't updated their sound, and still do the same tunes they did back in the `60s. Pink Floyd and the Who, while great, were never as popular as Led Zep or the Stones. The Beatles and U2 had a 15 - 20 year recording period of consistently good material, with only a couple of clunkers sparsed between.
So, I'll go with :
1) Beatles - longetivity + brilliance + consitency + good solo projects. Ultratalented individuals.
2) U2 - see above, slightly shorter career, so far. Saving the world one issue at a time.
3) Led Zeppelin - too short a career to be the best, but damned good. Incredible 7 year run.
4) Rolling Stones - long, brilliant career, but a 20 year drought with one so-so hit. Should have retired years ago.
The Best Rock Band can be proven scientifically. Simply list the major factors of Being A Rock Star, and proceed from there.
Or, maybe I've been watching "Rockstar - INXS" too much.
The categories are:
A) Career Longetivity and Productivity
B) Critical and Consumer Acclaim
C) Stage Performances
D) Drug Abuse
E) Turn towards Eastern musical and religious influences
F) Band member fight with life-threatening disease or early death.
G) Progeny in the rock world.
H) Midwestern State Fair Factor
I) Tribute Bands
Let's take the most mentioned bands, and plug them into the Rank-O-Matic - the Beatles, the Who, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, U2, The Beach Boys, Pink Floyd, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Barenaked Ladies, Dave Matthews Band and REM.
A - Longetivity and Productivity
The Beatles - From the 60s through the 70s, Meet the Beatles, Abbey Road, Hey Jude, White Album, Sgt. Peppers, Revolver....wow. Plus, each band member made good solo albums - Paul McCartney and Wings were really, really good.
The Who - Tommy alone is all this band needs.
Led Zep - Albums so cool, they're listed in Roman Numerals like Super Bowls - plus Houses of the Holy and Physical Graffiti. Very productive ten years. T
The Rolling Stones - Exile on Main Street, Tattoo You, Beggars' Banquet and they've been recording together for 40 years. They've got the longetivity part down pat
U2 - Boy. War. Joshua Tree. Achtung Baby. 20+ years recording together. No line up changes.
The Beach Boys - Little Deuce Coupe and California Girls changed to the highly-influential Pet Sounds. Even came back from the grave with Kokomo. Try to resist that songs' power. Aruba, Jamaica, ooh, I wanna take you to Bahamas, Montego, baby why don't we go down to Kokomo...
Pink Floyd - The Wall and Dark Side of the Moon and the best album art.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - A rock tornado - didn't last long, but recorded some great albums really, really quickly.
Barenaked Ladies - They've been together for over 15 years, and it doesn't seem possible. Gordon, Born on a Pirate Ship, Maroon, Stunt - good stuff. I pretend that Postcards with Chimpanzee's song never existed.
Dave Matthews Band - They peaked really early - Under the Table and Dreaming is a must-own for most people under the age of 40 - and Ants Marching still gets feet tapping.
REM - If only the Reagan Years lasted for them, as they kicked out some good albums, like Reckoning, Life's Rich Pageant and Document, plus Fables of the Reconstruction. Sadly, once Bush the Elder came to office, they went and made Shiny Happy People, possibly my least favorite song until that damned BNL Chimpanzee song.
B - Critical and Consumer Acclaim
All of these bands have sold well, but, the Beatles only had one #1 album while they were producing albums. They had sustain, but never turned it up to 11.
Barenaked Ladies' "Gordon" is one of the best-selling albums in Canada. Selling over a million copies of anything in a country with less than 30 million people is amazing.
Pink Floyd - Wasn't Dark Side of the Moon on the Billboard Charts for 15 years or something? Amazing!
The Beach Boys' Smile was supposed to be released after Pet Sounds but the success of the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's and Brian Wilson's complete looniness shelved the project for over thirty years. Of the few people who heard the studio tapes back then, it was regarded as the most technologically advanced album in terms of techniques, use of many layers of sound, and, even sampling!
C - Stage Performances
While I can certainly see a debate between the Beatles, the Who, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, U2, and The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Black Sabbath, and even Barenaked Ladies as the Best Rock Band to See Live, I really can't see where REM merits discussion because they weren't great live. Influential - yes. Between "Radio Free Europe" and albums like Murmur, they definitely brought in a lo-fi, DYI sound that later propelled bands like Pavement. However, to be a truly great band, you simply have to rock out on stage.
Every great band has to have a defining moment at a concert. To wit - Black Sabbath. Not the greatest rock band, but, they raged on stage.
Beatles - the kids screamed so loud at the Ed Sullivan Show, nobody could hear the music.
The Who - Smashing guitars to the point of hearing loss
Led Zeppelin - 3, 4 hour concerts and people STILL wanted more Zep
The Beach Boys - Getting banned by James Watt from the 4th of July concert in DC is pretty funny
The Rolling Stones - They've been touring since the `60s and are still a must-see
U2 - One of the few bands to still rock as they enter middle age.
Pink Floyd - Originators of multimedia experiences at concerts. They did laser shows before they became dumb laser shows.
DMB - They have followed in the Grateful Dead's tradition of jam band shows quite well. No real trascendental moment, but good concert recordings. Maybe their take of "All Along The Watchtower" would classify if it had gotten more support.
Jimi Hendrix - Woodstock. Star Spangled Banner. Fin.
Black Sabbath - biting a bat's head off at a concert in Des Moines is legendary.
BNL - A rumour of a free show brought over a quarter million fans to the streets in Beantown. That's rockin'
REM - uh...well...it was cool when I saw them and Kate from the B-52s came out and sang "Roam" with them.
D - Drug Abuse
It could also be argued that drug abuse is vital to the Total Rockstar Experience. To that end:
The Beatles - "They were so high, they let Ringo sing a couple of songs" - Bill Hicks
the Who - Keith Moon alone is legendary
Led Zeppelin - Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll was pracitcally named after these guys
The Rolling Stones - Keith Richards has become a drug-addled cliche'
U2 - Is Guiness a drug or a foodstuff?
The Beach Boys - Brian Wilson could have taught Elvis things.
Pink Floyd - What ever REALLY happened to Syd Barrett? And, you can't listen to a Pink Floyd album without coughing.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Jimi didn't do drugs. Jimi lived drugs. Allright...
Barenaked Ladies - OK, probably too straight-laced. I'm sure they may have had too many Molson's one night, or ate one too many Tim Horton's donuts. Definite points off.
Dave Matthews Band - Contact highs alone from their shows and Bonaroo would elevate them to epic status. Plus, since nobody's ever really deciphered what the hell Dave is singing, I'm guessing crack would be involved.
REM - Michael Stipe acts like he's on drugs, and has the haircuts to prove it. That's gotta count. The one dude got busted on a flight with some dope. Not in a Led Zep class, but not too innocent.
Honorable mentions go out to Motley Crue and the Doors and Cypress Hill, purely for their sheer devotion to partying.
E - Turn Towards Eastern Musical Influences:
the Beatles - Check. Practically invented this.
the Who - not unless the Japanese used electric guitars 500 years ago, no.
Led Zeppelin - some influence, mostly on the album cuts
The Rolling Stones - pretty much steered clear of it musically. Maybe used a sitar a few times, never OD'd on it.
U2 - Dancehalls in Hungary are technically east of the UK, and that Pop album had a lot of dance music on it...
The Beach Boys - Ravi! Ravi! Ravi!
Pink Floyd - A bit, yeah, sure. Not oppressively, though.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Some chimes and woodwinds, sure.
Barenaked Ladies - Two of the guys are Jewish. Israel is east of Canada. Sure, I'll count it.
Dave Matthews Band - Oh yeah, I'll count Africa for this.
REM - Not much musically, but they have some very Eastern influences in their lifestyles.
F - Band member fight with life-threatening disease or early death.
the Beatles - Two are gone, two are alive. John Lennon is still missed.
the Who - Keith Moon = Gone
Led Zeppelin - John Bonham = Gone
The Rolling Stones - mostly alive, how, we'll never know.
U2 - Alive and Kicking
The Beach Boys - Brian Wilson might as well have been dead for years.
Pink Floyd - Living, but Barrett scares me.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Gone
Barenaked Ladies - Kevin Hearn survived a scary bout with leukemia. If the band survives that Chimpanzee song, it'll be a miracle.
Dave Matthews Band - Alive. No known scares. Points off.
REM - brain tumor definitely counts.
G - Progeny in the rock world.
The Beatles - every pop band from England. Keane, Travis, Coldplay, Radiohead, The Wonder Stuff, XTC, etc...
The Who - Any kid who played the guitar wished they could do the windmill. Queen, Styx, Kiss - all used the Who's bombast and sense of style.
Led Zeppelin - The same kids who tried to windmill tried Stairway to Heaven - White Stripes to Motley Crue to Metallica.
The Rolling Stones - Liz Phair to David Bowie to the Replacements.
U2 - Coldplay, The Alarm, Simple Minds
The Beach Boys - Cheap Trick played the guitar part, and all those damned boy bands picked up the four part vocal harmony
Pink Floyd - Radiohead. Grandaddy. Garbageland.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Lenny Kravitz is a prime example, as is any band formed after a guitarist - Will Sexton to Robert Cray and Living Color all worship the man.
Barenaked Ladies - Moxy Fruvous, Arrogant Worms.
Dave Matthews Band - they have bands who are contemporaries, like Big Head Todd and Widespread Panic. Maybe Carbon Leaf? Jason Mraz has mentioned him as an influence.
REM - Pavement. Nirvana. The Replacements. Any band I played when I was a deejay in the `90s.
H - Midwestern State Fair Factor
If an aging band plays in any of the Midwestern State Fairs - Iowa, Nebraska, Indiana, Kansas - they can't be considered the best rock band ever. They just can't. Nothing is more pathetic than hearing a bunch of fifty year old fat dudes trying to rock out. I love Buffett, but, he's eliminated, too.
This eliminates Bachman Turner Overdrive, The Allman Brothers, Skynrd, Cheap Trick, REO Speedwagon and Chicago, plus countless others.
the Beatles - Broke up before it could happen
the Who - Well, this category eliminates one contender...
Led Zeppelin - This would eliminate Led Zep, who played the Wisconsin State Fair, but that was back in 1969, when they were just starting out. That show probably rocked.
The Rolling Stones - San Antonio State Fair (funny, I thought that was a town) back in 1964. Doesn't count.
U2 - Puh-leeeze
The Beach Boys - Bum bum bum, another one bites the dust.
Pink Floyd - Played in Louisiana's State Fair back in the day. Doesn't count, either.
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Died too soon to be washed up and playing that circuit.
Barenaked Ladies - I could totally envision them doing that one day, except it wouldn't be Iowa or Nebraska, but Manitoba and the Northwest Territories.
Dave Matthews Band - Adios. But, they're not washed up yet. So, this may not count.
REM - Not yet, but I wouldn't be surprised...
I - Tribute Bands!
You can't be a legendary rock band without a tribute band, or three!
the Beatles - Apple, Beatallica, the Fab Faux, Rubber Soul
the Who - Who's Who
Led Zeppelin - Dread Zeppelin, Led Zepagain
The Rolling Stones - Satisfaction, Sticky Fingers, The Rollin' Clones, The Stolling Rones...
U2 - Named, appropriately enough, 2U. Unforgettable Fire and Even Better Than the Real Thing. Also, these guys - Clicky!
The Beach Boys - The Sunny Boys and The Beach Toys (worst. name. ever)
Pink Floyd - Bricks in the Wall, Comfortably Numb, Pig Floyd, The Wall and Think Floyd
The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Voodoo Child, Purple Haze, FIRE
Barenaked Ladies - Gordon, and, fittingly, the Fully Clothed Gents.
Dave Matthews Band - One Sweet World, The Dreaming Tree, and the perfectly named Dave Matthews Tribute Band
REM - Reckoning, The REM Experience (new worst.name.ever.)
So, when all of these factors are considered, it's obvious that Spinal Tap remains the best band ever...
Seriously, though - if longetivity is rated, bands like Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix can't be counted - they had an incredibly prolific period early on, but later stuff sucked...or, they died. Zep had seven years of rock brilliance (`69 through `76), and then puttered around a few years, and then disappeared. The Doors would be in this level, too - brilliant when they were around, but the magic died in Paris. Dave Matthews and the Barenaked Ladies haven't been around long enough. REMs newest material has been borderline unlistenable, as has been the Stones. Running on reputation and history. The Beach Boys haven't updated their sound, and still do the same tunes they did back in the `60s. Pink Floyd and the Who, while great, were never as popular as Led Zep or the Stones. The Beatles and U2 had a 15 - 20 year recording period of consistently good material, with only a couple of clunkers sparsed between.
So, I'll go with :
1) Beatles - longetivity + brilliance + consitency + good solo projects. Ultratalented individuals.
2) U2 - see above, slightly shorter career, so far. Saving the world one issue at a time.
3) Led Zeppelin - too short a career to be the best, but damned good. Incredible 7 year run.
4) Rolling Stones - long, brilliant career, but a 20 year drought with one so-so hit. Should have retired years ago.
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