Malfunction

I went to the Giants v. Pats game Saturday night.  And I'll tell you the same thing I told my father as we sat in gridlock traffic following the Patriots' coronation.  While there were many components of the Giants' performance that were cause for optimism, ultimately, to borrow from Denny Green, they are who I thought they were.  In a game that ended up coming down to the fourth quarter, you had to expect the Giants to falter and the Pats to be the Pats.  

While my brother was eager to lay all blame on an early pass interference penalty that went against the good guys, I found confluence of errors contributed to this failure.  

A Few Things Which Bothered Me:

Kevin Gilbride is somehow under the impression it's illegal to deviate from pre-conceived game plans in order to address the way the game is actually playing out.  With Baby Manning at the helm, the last thing we needed were 3rd and longs.  We had plenty of them though, thanks to Gilbride's insistence at running on first and second downs no matter what sort of results were garnered on first down.  

Why is Reuben Droughns ever on the field?  He isn't an effective runner.  Keep him off the field.    

The Giants' all-time leading receiver, Mr. Amani Toomer, doesn't have good hands.  This is amazing to me.  

There were some very costly penalties, a couple of which were questionable if you ask me, that gave too good a team too many chances.  

Ultimately, Eli was given one too many chances to make one of his signature mistakes.  From our seats, I could clearly see Burress was open with a substantial throwing window....roughly 3 seconds before Eli dispatched of the ball.  3 seconds is an eternity in the NFL.  3 seconds far exceeds the difference between a completion and a pick.

In keeping with the theme, my brother, my two buddies, and I were actually on the escalator next to the one that "started going really fast."  Click on the title of this entry for the vagaries.  It was really crazy.  We all just kinda followed the guy in front of us, ending up, luckily, going down the escalator on the right.  My brother turned around to me, screaming over the fans between us, "It's okay, we'll get 'em in the Superbowl."  I laughed, some other people chuckled, then a screeching noise drew our attention to the escalator beside us.  It sped up.  For a brief moment it was almost funny.  Then, I looked down the escalator to the bottom.  There were people standing on it shoulder to shoulder.  This was a potential disaster.  When we got to the bottom, I could tell people were stacked on top of each other, having reached the bottom too quickly to get out of the way.  Thankfully, there were fans at the bottom with the presence of mind to heard everyone, including us, away from the bottom of the escalator so that they could help pull people off of each other.  This happened so quickly, in fact, that I could not tell the extent of any injuries people had sustained, but it left us all a little queasy.      

 

The Looney Bin

Christmas has lost almost all meaning, though it does afford me the opportunity to spend time with the family.  So I guess it means exactly what it's always meant.  Besides, where else can you see a 52 year-old man sing along to War Pigs in a home filled with neighbors' family on Christmas?   

*Video courtesy of my youngest sister, who's pretty timely in her ability to draw her camera phone.

In a fit of selflessness that hopefully will not be replicated, I bought my sister a ticket home from the jungles of Costa Rica for the holiday.  I think her tales of savagery are greatly exaggerated because she's still just a big daisy.  I'll likely eat crow in April when I go to visit her.  It was good to have her home though.  Her favorite present was a book about animal shit.  Seriously.  Complete with pictures and explanations.  It's called "What Shat That?"  It even rates the shit in terms of how messy it is on a scale of five terds, five being the messiest.  

Some fun shit facts: 

Rhino's routinely eat their own shit.  Which is really amazing when you think about it.

Scientists still don't know why dogs eat shit, though there's an evolutionary explanation for their tendency to roll around in it: In order to make themselves smell more like their prey. Obviously this helped them hunt pre-domestication.

Chimpanzees don't throw their shit in the wild.  Only in captivity.        

As Moose and I were spending our first Christmas together, I figured I may as well propose. That's one hell of a segue.  Having already asked her father's permission, I felt like I was capable of anything.  Notoriously grumpy in the early morning, I knew I'd have to weather a storm of early morning cranky rage most guys would avoid in planning a proposal,  in order to pop the question before my mother burst onto the scene singing Christmas carols, an act I literally was able to set my watch to.  (Sometimes our apartment actually comes up on the National Weather Service's radar Monday through Friday between the hours of 6:30 and 7:30AM EST.)

When my cell phone alarm went off at 7:15, and I didn't turn it off, Moose violently spun over in bed, reaching for what she thought was my cell phone.  She recommended, to put it lightly, that I "turn the fucking alarm off" as she threw her engagement ring at me.  It bounced off my chest, landing between us on the bed.  I turned the alarm off and picked it up, holding it out to her.  As the fog receded, she became vaguely aware something was going on.  The winds of wrath slowed until the air became still.  She gently asked, without gesturing or moving anything but her lips, "What is that?"   

I opened the box, bringing to light the ring inside, asking her, "Will you spend every Christmas with me?" 

A warm embrace and an ever critical "yes" later, and my mom burst in through the door, right on cue, singing, "and so this is Christmas, and what have you done?  Another year over, and a new one's just begun!"  

Within a  half hour our engagement was old news, as we found ourselves around the tree opening presents.  The Sgt. got me this new thing Apple just started mass producing.  It's called an iPod.  It's pretty amazing if I do say so.  You can actually buy and/or steal music off of the internet, copy it from CD's, storing it and listening to it on this little thing roughly the size of a half deck of cards.  Keep your eyes out for these things.  I have a feeling this might take off.

Alright.  I'm going to bed.  I leave tomorrow after work to go to Jersey to watch the Giants ruin the Patriots' perfect season.        

Babes

Below is a blog entry from WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 24, 2007.  It occurred to me earlier today that, as I now have the capacity to post pictures, I needed to recycle this entry, adding to it the most important picture ever taken, in order to compliment the most important story ever told.

So we've had this picture for years. My great grandfather was invited to this guy's place in upstate New York for a weekend of drinking and hunting with a few other dudes and The Babe. Something held the Sultan of Swat up in New York City, likely a lethal combination of loose women, booze, and hot dogs. So, upon my great grandfather's arrival, they went out hunting as a group, sans Bambino. And the host, a Yankee pitcher, brings his new hunting dog...

So they're out and about with their manly guns and the dog. They're quietly stalking around the property looking for things to shoot, maim and kill. Typical hunting stuff I guess. The dog sprints into a clearing for what I can only assume was some kind of bird similar to blurry corpse in the picture.  The bird is flushed out and someone fires their gun, only, instead of looking for the dead bird to retrieve the thing as everyone expects, the dog takes off running frantically in the opposite direction with its tail between its legs. Shortly thereafter, they all reach the conclusion that this "prize" hunting dog is gunshy and pretty much useless. More specifically, every time a gun is fired, the dog completely loses it, its stumpy tail goes between its legs and it runs for its life in the opposite direction. Took them quite a while to find it too.

Later that evening, the group shared drinks and a few laughs over this fact. Eventually, he sells the group on presenting the dog to the Babe as a gift, following their hunt the next day. The idea doesn't take much salesmanship because everyone was completely blotto.

The Babe arrives early the following morning and the group goes hunting for the day. At some point the picture my family holds so dear was taken. At the end of the day they present the dog to Ruth as some grand gesture, drink a bunch of whiskey and pass out 1930 or 1940's style. The following morning Babe Ruth is the first one to head back to the city, presumably to indulge in the aforementioned vices. Obviously, he is accompanied by his new "prize" hunting dog. Upon waking, the rest of the group shares a laugh, each picturing the Babe's next hunting trip and the look on his face when his dog abandons him in the middle of the woods upon the first gunshot.

Eventually my great-grandfather gets into his car for the long trip back to Newark. He ends up stopping for a bite to eat along the way at a little country diner place on the side of the road. At the counter he strikes up a conversation with the guy seated next to him.

Guy says, "You'll never believe who was just here!" Without waiting for a response he adds, "Babe Ruth!"

Great-grandpa responds triumphantly, "Oh I believe it! I was just hunting with him for the weekend! Wait til' you hear this!" he says as he looks around to make sure he has an audience. (That's right.  People actually talked like this back then. )

With his voice raised (for the audience) he then tells the story from the top of how they duped Babe Ruth into thinking he had been given a prize-winning hunting dog when in truth they'd given him a gunshy mutt... Only before he gets to the punch-line he's interrupted by a member of the audience, "Well, joke's on you, your buddies, and the guy Babe just sold the dog to for $25!"

My Bad

The altercation described in the previous post involved the friend of a friend and the tall yuppie described therein.  I should have made that clearer.  I actually got phone calls and emails today from four separate people looking for more details of the fight I'd gotten in over a parking space.  My days of fighting are over.  See blog entry dated FRIDAY, JULY 28, 2006 for further explanation.

Don't Move Barrels in Boston (A Vicarious Warning)

The wife drives her mother home, places the barrel in our parking spot before she leaves. Comes back and the barrel is on its side, as if it's been tossed aside.  There's a car in the spot. So I go out there and bury the windshield, roof, back window, and pack snow around the tires. A couple hours later the car's gone so I re-shovel and park.  Later on, having run an errand, I returned to find my barrel missing.  It was behind a snow bank across the street. 

Later still, having gone out again, I found the barrel missing upon my return.  So I get out of the car to look for my barrel and some tall yuppie with a case of Sam Adams on his shoulder comes over.

"Hey, you bury in my car?"

"Yeah, you park in my spot?"

"Yeah, but why is it your spot? If everyone just shoveled out and no one left a barrel everything would be fine."

"That's nice, go try it somewhere else. Don't touch my fucking barrel or I'll break your neck"

Ended up going back and forth for 5-10 minutes.  I threatened him and his car 30-40 times before finally he says "Listen buddy, you touch my car and I'll take all 5 foot nothin' of you and..." At which point I grabbed him by the shirt and steered him into a snowbank and got on top of him. We were locked up, no punches were thrown, and some guy warming up his car came over to break it up.

Idiot & the Odyssey

A four and a half hour commute leaves one with a lot of time to think.  Where have I come from?  Where am I going?  Well, I was coming from work and was on my way home.   A snowstorm  really unloaded on the greater Boston area, leading every moron with a car and a commute out and onto the roads to act the part from 1:00pm until well after I had arrived home and inhaled my body weight in beef pad Thai, courtesy of Moose.  In leaving work at 4:30 I thought I'd successfully waited the whole ordeal out.  Can't out-wait destiny.  Little did I know, I was driving right into the eye of this shit storm.

Initially I was pretty focused.  Stuck in gridlock traffic within a half mile of my office for about two hours, I made a couple phone calls, sent a few text messages.  As I looked around- at a guy peeing in the street next to his parked car, a woman swinging her door open into oncoming traffic so that she could clear her windshield, etc.- wondered how dumb people must be in places like Alabama and Louisiana if this was Massachusetts.  Still, misery loves company, and I had plenty of it.  Soon, I came to realize my phone was running low on power.  In order to conserve for a potential emergency call, I had to hunker down and find a new way to occupy myself.  Like I said, I was pretty focused so I listened to a bunch of jazz.  Modeski, Martin, Wood & Schofield's Out Louder.  Jury's still out on that one.  This was only my second listen.  I'll let you know.  I found a pretty sweet "Beyond Jazz" radio station on XM radio.  Some pretty heady stuff. Kept me occupied for approximately an hour, hour and a half?  Two hours?  Two years?  That's what it began to feel like.  Eventually, my eyes widened when I realized I could hear my rage rattling around in the back of my head.  My temper's never been something to be proud of.  Lately, I've been trying to come up with new and improved ways to control it in order to avoid Mussolini imposed sanctions in the form of anger management.  (You know it's bad when a dictator with a historically renowned temper thinks you have a problem.)  

Rage made a brief sojourn to my mouth before returning to its respite in the back of my mind. While on the phone with my mother, having realized I hadn't moved an inch in over 25 minutes, I went on a profanity laden tirade.  Again, not something I'm proud of.  Apparently, neither was she.  She couldn't get off the phone fast enough.  Who could blame her?  "Uuuuh....Ok Seamus, call us when you get home."  "Click."  Soon, I would come face to face with the bowels of the recesses of my mind.  

I happened upon a dance music station on the XM.  Slutty sounding female vocal accompanied by copious quantities of bass and synthesizer.  The kind of stuff you usually hear blaring out of some dickhead mobile driven by some cheesedick with a Brooklyn blowout.  I liked it.  I tried singing along, though not knowing the words, I just tried to shadow the melodies.  At some point, sitting there in my car that I'd transformed into the lamest club ever,  I realized and was bothered by the fact that I've become increasingly self-conscious as I've grown older.  In an act of defiance, I started dancing.  Dancing my ass off.  I can only imagine how ridiculous I looked.  I also didn't really care.            

Shortly thereafter, I outgrew my 17 year-old guido phase.  It was as short a phase as it was late thankfully.  I hate guidos.  I continued on in my exploration of the XM radio.  Found a station ridiculously named, "Ethel".  Fittingly, Ethel was playing Coldplay.    Also fittingly, I was able to admit to myself that I liked them both; Ethel and that Coldplay tune.  I was somewhat surprised, however, to find that I even knew many of the words.  I like that Chris Martin.  Great voice.  Great green and red band-aids on his index and ring fingers.  Apple's pretty cool too.  Coldplay gave way to something terrible, however.  Something straight from hell like Nickelback.  I turned the radio off abruptly.  The rage was back.  I rolled down my window and began screaming my favorite profanities across the Charles river towards the ivory towers that line the other side.  I'm pretty sure Noam Chomsky's pencil point broke upon receipt.  

Radio went back on.  I discovered stations 101-110 all play Christmas songs!  I rejoiced as I sang Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, realizing I was still compelled to sing it the way I had as a child.  Parody.  It is on this note that I will leave you.  Below please find some of my favorite childhood Christmas song parodies. 

Disclaimer: Some of these songs are almost not funny anymore in light of all that's transpired in schools since I last picked my nose and wiped the fruits of my labor on the underbelly of my desk.  Almost.       

Deck the halls with gasoline fa la la la la la la la la Light a match and watch it clean fa la la la la la la la la Watch the school burn down to ashes Fa la la la la la la la la Aren't you glad you played with matches fa la la la la la la la la. 

Joy to the world, the school burnt down
and all the teachers are died
The principle is gone,
We flushed him down the john
The janitor is dead
we shot him in the head
and now it's up to us
to burn the school bus.

Jingle Bells
Batman Smells
Robin Laid an Egg
The Batmobile Lost a Wheel
And Joker got away

Jingle Bells
Batman Smells
Robin Laid an Egg
The Batmobile Lost a Wheel
And Joker got away

Jingle Bells
Batman Smells
Robin Laid an Egg
The Batmobile Lost a Wheel
And Jo-ker got away

THE JOKER GOT AWAY!
THE JOKER GOT AWAY!

You know Dasher and Dancer
And Prancer and Vixen,
Comet and Cupid
And Donner and Blitzen.
But do you recall
The most famous reindeer of all?

Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer
REINDEER!
Had a very shiny nose
LIKE A LIGHTBULB!
And if you ever saw it
SAW IT!
You would even say it glows
LIKE A FLASHLIGHT!
All of the other reindeer
REINDEER!
Used to laugh and call him names
LIKE PINNOCHIO!
They never let poor Rudolph
RUDOLPH
Play in any reindeer games
LIKE MONOPOLY!  

(this line always killed me cause I always hated Monopoly.  I used to try and have it changed to other stuff like Hungry Hippos or Candyland...  My ideas never took off.)

Then one foggy Christmas Eve
Santa came to say
HO HO HO!
Rudolph with your nose so bright
Won't you guide my sleigh tonight?
Then all the reindeer loved him
And they shouted out with glee
YIPPEE!
Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer
REINDEER!
You'll go down in history!"
LIKE GEORGE WASHINGTON!  

(Again.   This line always bugged me because we learned pretty early on that Washington had slaves.  I used to try and have it changed to MLK.  I also was convinced I wrote "Trick or Treat Smell my Feet" but that's a story for another month.  Two months ago to be specific.)

My Crystal Balls

Picture this:  Mike Vick's the toast of the town.  He's the best athlete in the NFL and he's filthy rich.  Now fast forward to today: Vick's in jail and Bobby Petrino took a $2,000,000 pay cut to go back to coaching college football.  I hesitate to say "big-time college football" because, prior to the last couple years, Arkansas was not a team I could remember seeing in the top 25 at any point during any season my entire life.  Obviously Petrino's a snake; lacking even the requisite decency to notify his players prior to his departure THREE GAMES AWAY FROM THE END OF HIS FIRST SEASON AT THE HEALM.  Arthur Blank feels betrayed.  Falcons players feel betrayed.  No doubt the people of Atlanta are wringing their hands in frustration.  

Moreover, there will be no can't miss quarterback in the draft this year, a position at which the Falcons are in dire need.  Earlier this week, on Monday night football to be specific, Blank went on record as saying he would not rule out Vick's returning to the NFL in a Falcons uniform.  He can't afford to wait.  Nor should he.  My left ball tells me the Falcons are in deep shit well into the future.   

Mangini is a huge fucking rat.  He admits that he requests and is routinely granted permission to film away games from multiple angles, sideline and endzone, each and every week.  Teams routinely request the same of the Jets' organization.  This request is routinely granted.  So how and why did he tattle on Bill Bellichick?  Because he didn't ask permission?  This is amazing to me.  Tough to be a Jets fan.  Coach is a pussy; they play in Giants stadium; they're terrible.  My other ball says the Jets are going to get worked this weekend.   

John Zorn

He was awarded a McArther grant last year.  He plays under a pseudonym in Japan; Dekoboko Hajime.  He's interpreted Ornette Colman and been in bands with rock, metal, and death metal musicians (amongst them, Melvin Gibbs, formerly of Living Colour and Rollins' Band).  He started his own record label for decidedly experimental musicians, Tzadick.  He's part of a recent movement making Jewish music cool, at least to me.  And perhaps most importantly, he's written and performed (not in) the scores for gay porn.

Click on the title of this entry/"John Zorn" for a taste.  Not of gay porn, a live performance.  

Fish

While in Florida with Moose, I spent a sizable chunk of a day at the beach trying to catch a fish with my bare hands.  Naturally, fishing barehanded is near impossible........  Unless you're me. 

  

In Rainbows

*Pictures courtesy of Zachary Moore

In what was undoubtedly one of the most anticipated releases of the year, albeit on short notice, In Rainbows managed to elude me for quite some time after its exclusively for download release. Between computer difficulty and (local) friends with no taste in music, it wasn't until Thanksgiving that I was able to sit down for a highly anticipated first listen. A bit surreal, as I was sitting in the waiting room of the hospital while my mother had an endoscopy, I was impressed nonetheless.

"Bodysnatchers" was an initial favorite. Always a sucker for a visceral guitar riff, the song takes off with an air guitar inspiring line that is tuned, produced or mixed in a manner that provide an added dimension. Sounds like it may have been recorded, or written, in a vacuum....in space.

"Nude (Big Ideas)" is cleaner, gentler than its two predecessors. For the first time on the album Thom's vocals are front and center, urged along by an otherworldly bass line and complimented by delicate guitar and atmospherics.  "Don't get any big ideas, they're not gonna happen", this tune seems ripe with resignation. Prudent here and now, wherever you are, if you're paying any attention. 

From macro to micro, "Weird Fishes/Arpeggi" reorients initially, focused on a singular person's power over another. The music even seems to provide some optimism that disappears just as the song seems to refocus on helplessness. 

"All I Need" commences with a fuzzbox bass line that is soon joined by York's vocal. "You're all that I need" elicits thoughts of co-dependency devoid of any trace of taboo. By the time the piano ramps up and the song works towards its climax, you may just find myself happy and thankful to have ever had the privilege of leaning on another person.

"Faust Arp" introduces the acoustic guitar for the first time on the album. Seemingly to help withdraw the sentiments of "All I Need", something that made me uncomfortable at first, this is a finely crafted turn I've come to appreciate and embrace.

Now, with the benefit of having heard the album at least 20 times, "The Reckoner" has undoubtedly become a favorite. Comforting and beautiful, we are granted a pardon for all ills lamented over previously. This is a song, like "Atoms for Peace" on York's solo album, that elicits awe in the face of a singing voice the likes of which the world had previously never heard.

If anyone else ever opened a song with the line "I don't want to be your friend, I just wanna be your lover," I'd likely turn it off. With brilliance, however, comes more leash. At this point, I think it's safe to say there's nothing around Radiohead's collective neck. They can pretty much go anywhere and we'd follow them. "House of Cards" serves as affirmation.

"Jigsaw Falling into Place" finds each band member working in the same direction at the same time toward the same end, making it a bit of an anomaly on the album.  It's befitting the lyrics, though, describing the manner in which chaos ends in order, in the form of two people pairing off.     

Fittingly, the album closes with mention of death. In typical Radiohead fashion, the song is looming and ominous, beautiful, and cause for celebration. There really isn't anything else out there like them.  No waining brilliance here.  9.5/10

The Best Bar in Boston......

Sullivan's Motherfuckin Tap!!!!

Big Cats Big Guns

Courtesy of my sister in Costa Rica:

You know how everyone is always itching to see a big cat, but we never do because they run from us? I did see that baby a while ago and everyone was insanely jealous. Well, the other day, Jane was crashing though some shitty bamboo exactly where I had been the day before....and she almost had a heart attack because, after crawling under a dense portion of bamboo to come out on the other side, she was face to face with a huge sleeping ocelot! She was probably even more terrified when she realized it was dead......shot in the chest. So the only person to see this incredible animal was some asshole with a gun. I actually found a dead, dismembered deer in the same location the day before, so poachers are definitely loving that area lately. The body of the deer was gone, so they took that. They left the whole cat laying there so that was an even greater waste. What the hell was the point?

This is also the area where my monkeys that just lost their alpha hang out. The same group that alarmed at us like crazy after he disappeared....so this is more proof it was a poacher that got poor Coltrane and Kanela. Very frustrating. People are so stupid. It was beautiful.

Seriously. Was it?

Was last night's game fixed or what? Seriously. I don't know if I was just tired or what but that game seemed fixed to me. And I'm not anti-Patriots. I thought Spygate was blown way out of proportion, I don't think Bill Bellicheck is obligated to be personable, although he's a fancy pants I'll admit Tom Brady's amazing, and I think that if the Patriots can blow teams out that they're more than welcome to.

That being said, there were calls made last night at the end of that game that were inexplicable. Especially for such a close game.

I might Be Wrong starts around the 6 Minute Mark

Eye Brows

Almost everything that happens over the course of your average workday makes me sick to my stomach.  When I walk by people at work with whom I've already had the token "Is it Friday yet" or the "I think it's a two cups of coffee day!" conversation and, rather than saying hello, or anything at all for that matter, upon making eye contact with each other I'll simply raise my eyebrows and tighten and raise my lips slightly. So fucking stupid. I probably do this at least 300 times a day. And, depending on mood, varying degrees of self-loathing inevitably ensue.

Ween

After three nips of Jameson on the T platform and a stiffy at the Beantown Pub, Mussolini, who's apparently launched a campaign to become the coolest dictator girlfriend around, met me out front between the pub and the Orpheum. Ween went on shortly after 8:00. Having arrived at 8:00 on the nose, doors having opened at 7:30, we split a $9 beer under the presumption we had at least enough time for one between the two of us. As my date handed me the IPA for my first sip, applause indicated the inevitable. For my second consecutive Orpheum jaunt I could be found hurriedly chugging beer with Mussolini in the lobby for the duration of the first song. (You can't drink in the seats at the Orpheum. Them's the rules). Par for the course.

I picked up the pace, drinking more than my fair share, determined to limit our losses to one song. As we were guided to the wrong seats by a coincidentally female usher, the opening chords of "Transdermal Celebration" made me downright giddy. Our seats weren't bad. Neither were our real seats, to which we were forcibly moved at the song's conclusion. Dead center, five rows up on the balcony. I'm sure, if I had a bag of cherries and a little tail wind, I could have spit a pit right between Gene's bulging bug eyes.

I'm admittedly unfamiliar with substantial portions of Ween's vast catalogue, but I can say with confidence that I knew 95% of the songs they played. "Object", a song I actually sang to myself pretty much all day today, was a highlight. It's a gentle tune. A pretty tune. Could be a love song.... if it weren't deliberately written with the skewed sensibilities of a sociopath. "Learning to Love", a Ween flavored honky-tonk I actually didn't like upon first listen, had everybody bouncing. Moose was no exception (she kneels at the alter of Boognish).  My mouth hung open during Dean's extended noodling through the jam that is the second half of "Woman and Man". Much of what draws me to a band like Ween is their schizoid nature: their propensity to genre hop with a sense of humor that can hit you over the head or be found between the lines, unabashed crudeness and ernest sensitivity that reveal themselves over the course of adjacent songs.  

We screamed when Dean chopped into "Your Party".  An initial favorite of ours on the new album "Party" is a satirical play on aging yuppies and their collectively deteriorating sense of fun, even when explicitly trying to have it, their ever "developing" sense of propriety and etiquette, sprinkled with remnants of youthful "indiscretion".  I can't help but wonder if the song was written under the same pretense I find it. Ultimately immaterial, but I can't help but wonder.

When they came back out for an encore I was hoping for "The Argus".  This sentiment was soon forgotten and surely didn't impede the juvenile glee I found in screaming along to "AIDS".  At 10:30, when all was screamed, sung, strummed, struck, and done, I was extremely thankful Mussolini recommended we get Ween tickets.    

9.5/10

Boognish

Tomorrow: Ween. Live style. Can't fucking wait. This will be my first time.

I hope they play "Spinal Meningitis" in honor of my sister, who had spinal meningitis as a baby. Like my brother and other sister at a Ween show a while back, I'll have to call her when and if they play it. I'd like to hear "Transdermal Celebration" and "The Argus". Actually, I'd like to hear as much of Montreal and White Pepper as humanly possible. Though I've only listened to La Cuckaracha twice, I'm excited to hear it live.

I actually meant to write a lot more but I'm pretty exhausted. Exhausted from thinking about killing myself all day. Jk jk. I love my job. Couldn't be happier. Tomorrow's another day.....to wear a suit and sit in a cubicle wishing I were somewhere else.

Nighty nighty.

Staring at the Sun

Sometimes music takes time to grow on you. Sometimes it hits you immediately. Staring at the Sun, a TV on the Radio tune that ended an episode of John from Cincinnati, struck immediately.

This is a band with its own sound.

Land of Confusion video

In Times of War and Upheaval

The monkeys are insane right now. I was out all day yesterday and lost the monkeys at 6am, and never found them again. Frustrating to say the least. They vanished into thin air. Literally. Watched a monkey go into a tree, and he never came out. And they were all just gone.

What is interesting, and also the reason they are so difficult to find right now, is we picked this group up about a week ago, to discover that the alpha male, Coltraine (the one that chased me away from the group a couple months ago) was missing, along with Kanela, a juvenile female. One of my peers, a native, thinks poachers got them, because they had been hanging out in an area where we most commonly see poachers, and they alarmed at us like crazy for the first two days we were with them. Usually only monkeys that are unhabituated (not used to people hanging out with them) alarm at us like that. So it seems likely that a human had something to do with Coltraine and Kanela disappearance, which would explain their nervousness in our presence. Very sad. People can be such stupid assholes.

So now, Oden is alpha. Another jerkoff. He approached me the other day, aggressive coughing, and reached out like he was going to hit me, but for some reason pointing at them works, so I pointed and he backed off. But not without branch breaking and dragging the branch with his tail in a circle around me first. Both are displays of
aggression. The monkeys are not typically aggressive towards us, even
though I have had encounters like this. It's a new alpha trying to establish and demonstrate his dominance...Coltraine had carried on in a similar manner at first. They are nervous and eager so they threaten everything. Plus, with Oden, this was during an intergoup (where two groups of monkeys intermingle for a time). Power...probably the scariest, bad-ass-mother-fucker of a monkey in the history of monkeys...is the alpha of a small neighboring group. His bottom lip is all shredded
up, and hangs open all time, so it looks like he is permanently aggressive threatening. And he's huge. There are no other males in his group. It's just him and three females (that is unusually small for capuchins). When this is the case, as it is with another group we have right now, the alpha usually runs away as fast as possible when other monkeys are around because they have no other males to back
them up and will get their asses kicked because they have all these females as resources. But not Power. He goes around looking for fights. And even during intergroups with groups that have up to 7 males, he still wins. He's just that bad ass.

So, Power shows up and all the monkeys go fucking nuts for 45 minutes. Screaming, intense vocal threats, wheezes, brays, branch breaking, etc. You know. The whole 9 yards. I actually got it on video. This was the first intergroup I have witnessed that actually got physical. But of course, Oden chased Power off on the ground at the end and by the time I caught up, Power was gone and Oden's face was all bloody. I don't know if Power got injured, so it will be interesting to see him when we find his group next. But I think Power may have actually lost an intergroup.

Sorry if you find all this stuff boring. I find it awesome.

So for the rest of the day, Oden and the adult females were very much on edge. There was actually brief encounter with another alpha, Gandalf, but he ran away almost immediately. He had just recently left Oden's group to become alpha of The Musketeers, so he peaced out as soon as he saw Oden. But with all this tension, Oden was NOT happy, and even though I was laughed at for it, I was pretty afraid to be too close to Oden for the rest of the day. He was threatening us pretty frequently, and piloerect all day (all their fur stands up when they are really pissed to make them look bigger and more intimidating...and it works). I feel like we all get a little too comfortable with the monkeys sometimes. Yes, they
are used to us, and no one has ever been injured by one of them, but we can't forget that they are still very much wild animals. We can follow them all day every day only because they allow us to. And with Oden being uber stressed - he just became alpha and has all this new responsibility - he just had TWO intergroups, and just got
all cut up, AND his old alpha's reign was likely ended by a human, he had
every reason to not want us there and following two feet behind him. So I hung back from him for a few hours, so he could simmer.

The following days Oden and his group stayed in the same general location all day long; Oden just licking his wounds. It's like he regrets becoming alpha. The group stays really quiet and high up in the trees, making it hard to follow them. Yesterday they moved actually; silently, so we lost them. Who knows where the hell they are now. Aaaaand.....4 other males from the group have disappeared. They didn't like Oden, so they are probably trying to immigrate to a new group, which can be a touchy business. So things will be interesting the next few weeks.

PS......saw a HUUUUUGE coyote the other day. It was awesome.

Prague

Mussolini recently went to Prague. She was treated amicably. This is to be expected. Italians and Czechs cross paths all the time in their corner of the world. This is not, however, what I’m talking about.

I don’t know many King Crimson fans. Beyond myself, only my father and brother fall into this category. I know they have a following out there, I’m just saying we don’t cross paths often in my little corner of the world. I do also know that I often bump heads with friends I think would like them, if only they would take the time to listen.

When King Crimson opened up for Tool, Maynard James Keenan was quoted as saying he felt honored, was humbled, and couldn’t help but feel Tool should have been opening up for King Crimson. I rarely bow my head to institutions, antiquity, or to seniority. To the contrary, I’m contemptuous of those who unquestioningly do so. I suspect Keenan is the same way based upon the irreverent nature of his songwriting. This, however, is not what he was doing. Keenan, who has said his band name implies fans are to use them and their music as a tool for however and for whatever they find prudent, readily acknowledges King Crimson as a major influence. Tangibly, you can hear this on their latest studio effort, 10,000 Days, in time signature changes, their sonic approach to music writing for the guitar, rhythmically, and in the total absence of any element of the blues. Les Claypool is also a big Crimson fan, though only from the Discipline carnation on. Tool’s sound and Claypool’s taste, however, are not the point. The grandeur of King Crimson is.

I own In The Court of The Crimson King, Red, Beat, The Nightwatch, The Construction of Light, Absent Lovers, Discipline, and The Power to Believe. The common thread, at least as far as I can tell, in the King Crimson sound that has spanned it’s many years of existence and all if its lineups, of which the only common thread is Robert Fripp, has been the absence of any blues’ elements so prevalent in the vast majority of rock and roll music. Where typical bands draw upon the blues, King Crimson has drawn from classical music. This is most apparent in their earlier work circa The Court of the Crimson King. Despite notables like “21st Century Schizoid Man”, “In the Court of the Crimson King, and “In the Wake of Poseidon”, my favorite Crimson phase began with the addition of Adrian Belew. Rich man’s Talking Heads, as I’ve characterized Absent Lovers in the past, is no coincidence or insight on my part, as Belew played with the Talking Heads (for a taste check out The Name of this Band is Talking Heads. Where the Talking Heads sound is paired down and modest by comparison, King Crimson is big and virtuosic, delves deeper into sounds, and is incomparable rhythmically.

Check them out.

Glitch in My Matrix

Ryan,

I fully intend to pontificate til I am blue in the face about any and all things that come to mind. Unfortunately I haven't been afforded anything remotely resembling breathing room at work, and Best Buy's Geek Squad set up our wireless network incorrectly. As such, this blog has experienced delays in its planned expansion.

Geek coming back to my apartment this Saturday. Hopefully this will all be sorted out then.


-SEAMUS

I'll Be Back

Light at the End of the Tunnel

FYI, I am having internet installed at home Thursday. As such, there will be more extensive blogging in the near future.

Also, courtesy of Craig Haubert, Scouts, Inc. over at ESPN:

A season like Notre Dame's often turns much attention toward recruiting and usually sees two emotions arise, that of hope and fear. Fans will turn to recruiting with the hope that the future will be better, and despite the horrendous 1-7 record, the Irish are still assembling a top-five recruiting class. While a national championship is not going to happen, Notre Dame could pull in the nation's No. 1 class when it is all said and done. And not only is Notre Dame landing talent, but it is also filling needs.

The most impressive thing about this Irish class is the defensive help they have landed. The Irish have struggled to stop the run, but also lack the ideal personnel and depth to run the 3-4 scheme defensive coordinator Corwin Brown would like to run.

First off, to run the 3-4, you need to a nose tackle, and Notre Dame does not have that. Pat Kuntz has played admirably, but he is not the right fit there. Omar Hunter (Buford, Ga.) and Brandon Newman (Louisville, Ky./Pleasure Ridge) could come in and give Notre Dame a quick pick-me up at a key position.

Hunter, the nation's No. 3 rated defensive tackle, will be bring size to position to occupy blocks and also features an excellent get-off to allow him to cause disruption. Two more defensive tackle in Sean Cwynar (McHenry, Ill./ Marian Central Catholic) and Hafis Williams (Elizabeth, NJ /) could act as swing guys and play at the nose or more likely at the end position in Brown's system.

In addition to the four defensive tackles, defensive ends Ethan Johnson (Portland, Ore./Lincoln) and Darius Fleming (Chicago/Saint Rita) could add depth and turn that position into a strength when added with current freshman Kerry Neal (Bunn, N.C.). Fleming could also provide flexibility as an outside linebacker. The defense needs help, but it looks like it is coming, and some prospects -- most likely Hunter and Johnson -- could contribute right away.

The offense has major issues as they rank dead last in total offense, rushing offense and sacks allowed in the nation and second to last in scoring offense. Protection of the quarterback has been a major issue, and a couple of talented interior offensive line prospects can help provide depth and shore up some holes. Under Armour All-American center Braxston Cave (Granger, Ind./ Penn) could see the field quickly. The rushing attack has been ineffective, but good news came last week in the form of Jonas Gray (Pontiac, Mich./Detroit Country Day). He is a north-south runner who can wear defenses down.Gray could provide some tough running and, along with James Aldridge, could provide needed depth and ability at the tailback position.


There is some promise being shown at the wide receiver position in the forms of Golden Tate and Duval Kamara, and a third possible weapon was just added last week inMike Floyd (Saint Paul, Minn./Cretin-Derham). Floyd is a big receiver who can make plays downfield and also has a knack for turning short passes into big gains. With Kamara's size, Tate's flare for the big play and the arrival of Floyd next fall, the Fighting Irish will have an imposing group of receivers.


Who will throw them the ball? The likely scenario is that Jimmy Clausen will get another shot to lead this team before it is all said and done, but Charlie Weis is taking nothing for granted and has added another California quarterback prospect who could be the future in Dayne Crist (Canoga Park, Calif./Notre Dame). Clausen will know the system better, but I would not at all be surprised if there is another drawn-out battle for the starting spot between those two and Evan Sharpley.


Every class deals with some defections along the way, as the recruiting process can be a long and bumpy road. That being said, I know you and many other Irish fans' concern is not if one or two leave, but if the losses will equal mass decommitments. I think the Irish will be just fine. For one thing, I believe the Irish have suffered through the worst part of the schedule and things will not get worse. Coming off the bye, they face some very winnable opponents. Also in a warped way, the losing could be helping some. Some prospects will see the Irish's struggles as an opportunity to play right away, and in some cases, the prospects may be right.

Who is This and What'd You Do with My Sister?

We have to move fast in order to stay with the monkeys. We can't wait around for anyone because the monkeys are lacking in social graces (ie. won't wait around for us). When we lose someone it's constant radio calls and whoops (we make this loud whoop; animal-like call to locate each other in the forest because we more often than not have no radio contact). Last week, I was out in the jungle when the monkeys went bounding up the side of an extremely steep mountain. We plodded along behind them trying to keep them in sight but got to a point where it was just completely sheer cliff.....no way up. So this one guy goes one way, and the other two of us traipse along below the ridge to find feasible way up. I find a not so generous crack in the face of a cliff and decide to try it. Granted, it's ugly and doesn't look safe by any stretch of the imagination, but this is just the sort of shit we have to do day in day out...so I head up. While I'm climbing, my partner clams up, mumbles a bunch of shit about how she doesn't think it's safe, about how she can't do it, etc.

"Sorry, but I don't see any other options. You can look for another way up if you want." I was in no mood to lose these fucking asshole monkeys. We were observing a group that lives in treacherous territory that's either dangerously steep everywhere or full of extremely dense undergrowth.....and they're IMPOSSIBLE to find once you've lost them. So while I do acknowledge how bad an idea it was for me to climb up where I did.....as the ''rock'' on one side was actually just thick mud that looked like rock, and it crumbled under my weight half way up, leaving me clinging to little fucking roots and spiky plants that were impaling my hands, but instead of a) doing her best to follow or b) sucking it up and finding her own way up, she stood there stuttering and wasting precious time, then begged me not to leave her once I climbed up.

If you waste time you lose the monkeys, and therefore are not collecting data, and then, when you get home for the night, you have to explain to everyone why you have no monkeys and that they will have to search tomorrow. This is no good. I thought people were harsh when I first arrived, but after a few months I understand. It's necessary.

I have a terrible cold. One of the many common health issues prevalent here because of constant dehydration and being soaked to the bone for 14 hours a day during rainy season.

On the lighter side of things...... One of my favorite monkeys migrated and instantly became alpha male of the aforementioned clan. That's pretty unique. Usually migrating males have a long and difficult time getting a new group to tolerate their presence, let alone welcome them as alpha male right away. He must have either killed or beat the shit out of the previous alpha male because he's not been seen at all. All the females are grooming him and the babies twittering at him as though he's been alpha forever. So that's interesting to watch. Two females are heavily pregnant though. Which means they are obviously not his babies.... Which means he'll slaughter them once they are born. I have not witnessed infanticide yet, and I'm not looking forward to it.. They usually wait a little while, until after we have named the babies, they've been around a few weeks, and we've fallen in love with them..... Then the killing begins. The mothers will try and stay away from the alpha protect their babies, but if a male is infanticidal, he won't quit until they're dead. Every now and then an alpha won't kill another male's baby, but that's rare. Wow, this paragraph started light. Ended heavy though.

My espanol, that's Spanish for Spanish, is improving lately.

Write me back.

One Hit Wonders

I haven't taken the plunge and purchased an ipod yet. By now it's not really even a plunge it's an everyday accessory. To some, it's a vital organ. An organ I've somehow managed to survive without like some circus freak. Recently, having grown incredibly frustrated at not having in my possession a means for listening to Radiohead's In Rainbows because of a faulty home computer, I got to thinking about all the music I don't have. Which led me eventually to one hit wonders; individual songs I'd definitely put on an ipod from artists I have no real interest in. The two songs of which I'm about to pontificate typically don't fall into this category. Both bands, in fact, have acclaimed catalogues spanning numerous decades and albums. This is my soapbox, however, and they're one hit wonders in accordance with my musical pallet as it exists at this moment.

The Eagles suck. Total fuckin pussies. By extension, Don Henley sucks and is also a pussy. "End of the Innocence", however, is a fantastic song. A guilty pleasure. An extremely guilty pleasure, as I'm somewhat hesitant to admit even to myself how much I like it. A dissonance created by my distaste for The Eagles and Don Henley likely plays a role in this. The lyrics are sentimental, nostalgic and cheesy. And they're gently delivered by the wispy singing voice of a man with a pony tail befitting an aging rock star who, in the twilight of his career, was catering, whether consciously or subconsciously, to an aging fan base of pussies who'd long since lost their innocence. Be that as it may, I love this song. This fact was recently brought back to light when I stumbled upon a solely instrumental version while on vacation in Florida with Mussolini as we drove along in our neon yellow Pontiac G5 rental car. As Mussolini will attest, I needed no help with the words.

Genesis doesn't elicit as strong of a reaction out of me. Often characterized as a seminal prog rock band, a genre for which I have a taste and respect (specifically King Crimson, Liquid Tension Experiment-a short-lived Dream Theatre side project, Gentle Giant and Tool), I'd be hard pressed to criticize Genesis' work with any requisite authority. And though I'll openly admit to being a big fan of Peter Gabriel, I'm only reluctantly familiar with Phil Collins' ensuing pussyfest post-Genesis. (Odd coincidence the drummers from Genesis and The Eagles went on to become huge pussies in solo efforts). I'm all for well-intentioned exploration of rock's sonic fringes, varied time signatures, and the incorporation of seemingly disparate genres. I am also, however, completely unfamiliar with most of Genesis' output that falls into this category for one reason or another. I can say for certain, however, that "Land of Confusion" is a fantastic song (and perhaps an even better video...check it out on YouTube).

Personally, both songs take me back to simpler times, despite contradictory lyrical content signifying the end of simpler times and the lamenting of current world affairs, respectively. Perhaps the dynamic of this paradox explains their resonance to some degree.

Regardless, strap on your vagina and check them out. These will be amongst my first few itune purchases once I wake up.

Ask and You Shall Receive

A couple weeks ago I had been kind enough to drop in on my family in New Jersey, having spent the bulk of Columbus Day weekend in the Poconos for a glorious wedding I'll likely detail at a later time. Having dropped in unannounced, my mother already had plans to have dinner with out neighbors across the street while my father was at the Giants' game. Knowing full well of the Mrs.' culinary prowess sure to be on display, I happily accompanied her.

Children scattered about the neighborhood, doing what children do, candid pre-dinner conversation brought us to discussion of the birds & the bees. Despite some initial trepidation given the presence of my mother, comedy soon put me at ease. Mr., who is not prone to crude stories or subject matter, quite the contrary actually, gently explained how his son, 10, had recently forced his hand by inquiring of his mother, "Do you take those pills to make sure you don't have any more babies?" While on the subject, albeit somewhere in the periphery, Mr. figured he may as well explain the mystery of procreation in its entirety. In explaining the process of intercourse and male ejaculation, words no doubt greeted by a look of disgust on the part of his son, Mr. smiled as he recounted a specific turn, "...and it will feel really really good." For good measure adding, "Really good!" We all shared a laugh.

We were joined at the dinner table by their 3 and 9 year old girls, and the 10 year old son who had recently walked face first into one of the many approaching losses of innocence.

Somewhere between dinner and dessert, in an apparent lapse in conversation, Jack earnestly offered, "My dad recently told me about the birds and the bees."

"Ooooh. Wow," I offered cautiously in response.

"And what did you learn, Jack?"

"It feels really really good. Really good!" he studiously responded in a raspy voice as a grin swiftly spread across his face, bearing all of his newly sovereign permanent teeth.

Having looked over to Mr. and Mrs. for some sort of cue as to where the conversation was to be subsequently corralled, Jack interjected, pardon the pun, little personal flavor to this potentially abject dinner conversation topic.

"I've done it myself, but I haven't been able to get any of the white stuff to come out."

"Give it time Jack. Give it time," I offered, seemingly in unison with Mr., as the adults seated around the table erupted into uncontrollable laughter, the 9 year old shot everyone looks of confusion, and the 3 year old rubbed her little hands in the marinara sauce on her plate.

"When it does, we'll never see you again," Mr. offered as he caught his breath. Thankfully, the implications contained therein seemed to float just inches over young Jack's head. A bridge over a chapter now steadily approaching

Great food. Great people. Great conversation.

New CD's

Yeah, yeah, I still buy CD's. Without a functioning computer, I'm left with little choice. Last week I went to Wilson's Market in Lexington, MA with Mussolini and her buddy, Stalin. They told me in the car that we could stop at Newbury Comics on the way home if I was good... So, obviously, I was great. Mussolini even sent me on a few errands on the other side of the market for me to prove my worth. Worth, proven.

I was given two minutes in the store. Naturally, I blanked on most of the tens of thousands of CD's I've been compiling on my Must Have List in the Saturday column of my desktop calendar at work.

My Morning Jacket: Z

I've heard this baby quite a bit in hanging out with my brother. It's a great goddamn CD. Thanks to the Federal Government and their stupid laws, it cannot be burned. That's ok though. I'll make up the difference on my tax returns this year. Wink wink.

My Morning Jacket: Okonos

Live album. Very Tight. What was very much apparent to me throughout my first listen is their ability to keep intact much of the sublety that rock bands tend to lose in the translating their studio stuff to the stage. They don't gloss over anything. Excellent attention to detail.

Eddie Vedder: Into the Wild (Soundtrack for the movie of the same name)

Still working on this one. It's a brisk album. Most songs don't eclipse 3 and a half minutes. It's paired down in sound as compared to Pearl Jam. This is to be expected, especially given the subject matter of the film that served as inspiration.

Prius or Civic?

For armchair activists like myself, these are really the only two choices. It's just a matter of which one? I'm leaning towards the Prius.

My Bad

My boys E. Marty and R. Queeds have brought to my attention the fact that a recent posting neglected to credit Jimmy Rollins for his having earned a spot in the ultra-elite quadruple 20 club.

Here's to Jimmy!

And here's to a Yanks v. Phillies World Series!

See What I Deal With?

Official Statistic of the Day

Curtis Granderson is the first player since Willie Mays to hit 20 doubles, 20 home runs, and to leg out 20 stolen bases and 20 triples in a season. That's amazing.

Stranger than Fiction

I cried this past weekend when I stumbled upon Home Alone II, Lost in New York, on HBO. It was the end when the Mrs. McAlister finds Kevin in front of the tree on Christmas Eve. Gets me every time. I cried again a few minutes later when Buzz said something nice about Kevin before they opened presents.

So I may have been overcompensating when I flipped out at some random diabetic shortly thereafter. I had gone for a bike ride along the Charles, just as I have countless times before. Only this time I encountered thousands of people walking to raise money for diabetes. Judging by the quanitity of buses lining Storrow Drive, most of these people had filled their fanny packs with snacks, congregated in parking lots of their local middle schools buses in the early morning light, and "the wheels on the bus go round and round"-ed their way into the big city. Fucking idiots.

Having realized there were too many of them to get a decent bike ride in, at least on this path, I turned around and headed upstream, having given up. I had to go extremely slow, giving oblivious suburbanites headed in the opposite direction, and taking up all of the path, a "head's up" every other breath. Frustration was already mounting when, all of the sudden, some dude points at me and says to all the other selfless christians around him, "Look at this genius!" His tone was one of disgust and holier than thou-ness. So much so that it sent me reeling over the edge of frustration into full blown rage. "Fat fuck!" I said with conviction. "I hope you get diabetes!" I vaguely remember hearing people from amongst the crowd gasping in amazement, but no one hit me or beat me about the head with anything....so I guess I got away with one here. When my attention returned to the path ahead of me, I was too angry to appreciate the people immediately in front of me who had hurried off the path to make way; to avoid a spandex'd cyclist quite possibly infected with rabies. I'm probably more accurately just bipolar:(. But those are walks for another time and another weekend :).

This Article is Phenomenal

Arctic Heat Wave

10 Most Polluted Cities

Paradox

Admittedly, I know very little about Burma. But....

These protests were triggered by soaring oil prices. An oppressive regime reacted with violence. British pressure is said to have curbed the extent of the violence.

The EU will supposedly consider a broad range of sanctions against military leaders, according to the British Prime Minister.

Sactions, I am assuming, will only exacerbate the hardships these people are already enduring and protesting.

Well done.

Little Updates (From Costa Rica)

Our next vacation is coming up in about 5 or 6 days, and I have to leave the country to renew my Visa. Going to Granada, Nicaragua with two people I live with. Supposed to be a cool place to go. Some super cheap shopping, museums, and a nice lake. I'm saving my beach vacations for when the rainy season is over.

Things are still going great here. The rain is getting pretty brutal though. The groups of monkeys we have right now like to cross back and forth over rivers that we cannot cross during heavy rain because they flood and are too dangerous. Yesterday, it started pouring and the river already was near capacity, so I was sent back to cross the river and get the car so we would not be stranded on the wrong side. I guess I hurried a little too much, and ended up falling into the river face down. Got nice and wet, busted my legs and hand up a bit on some rocks, but managed to rescue my handheld computer! Thank god. The whole thing would have been much funnier if someone was there to laugh at me, but I was alone.

Lets see.....have seen some more cool snakes, including a boa that was in the kitchen window while I did dishes. Almost stepped on a rattlesanke the other day. That was scary. Also saw a tayra, which is a cool looking animal. Look it up.

The monkeys shit on me alot. That's always a treat.

I don't know if I ever relayed this story. It happened last month..... My friend Isaac was a little lost in the forest after dark because the monkeys slept in an unfamiliar spot. He was trying to get to the road where he could here our car waiting for him, but did not know he was approaching a 25-30ft cliff. He slipped, caught a small root, hung on for about a minute, but then the root broke and he plummeted down. Unbelievable. He got up right away and started running aroundand screaming nonsensical bullshit. His adrenaline was pumping so hard he didn't know what the hell was going on. Not sure how he got away without severe injuries. His back hurt for a few days, he bit a big chunk out of his lip, and busted his knee open, but that was it. Luckily. It was a crazy night. I have now taken major mental notes of all cliffs around our monkey's territiories.

Bit the Bullet

I've been meaning to get a tatoo for a long time now. Well, the wait is over. Originally, I was thinking of getting my family seal inked on my shoulder....but in the end I found something better.

Miles Away

Dependent upon a dizzying array of variables, I'll spend anywhere from 7 to 20 hours a week listening to music. Much too often, this is confined to the commutes to and from work. And not only am I unable to consistently focus on the music when I'm at the wheel, but my car's also undeniably lacking in quality audio equipment. So, depending on what I'm listening to, this can and does sometimes have a substantial impact on the experience.

Last night, after dinner, I had the itch to jump into bed and listen to some tunes. I had intended to watch the DVD that came with Wilco's latest output, Sky Blue Sky, only, as the DVD player was making strange noises, I was forced to surf my CD selection for an alternative.

All too often I forget how great my headphones are. I have a pair of Sennheiser PX-100's which, according to my father the audiophile, are the best phones out there for under $50. While they probably don't hold a candle to his Sennheiser 550’s, I'll make no apologies here. These bad boys are far too underutilized. And they're still superior to any of the other systems in my apartment and car.

So I grabbed Bitches' Brew, and I swear to you, my head almost exploded. I've listened to it before. Countless times actually. But I've never heard it like this. Found myself laying there in the dark mouthing, "holy shit", over and over again, between bouts of goose bumps.

Morons

Nick Cafardo of the Boston Globe, 5/11/07

Too early to call the American League East race over? Too early to say this team could run away with it? After they won five of six against the Twins and Blue Jays, how far-fetched is it to say the Red Sox are well on their way to winning this in a landslide? There is no competition.

Kevin Hench of Fox Sports, 5/31/07

The Yankees will not erase a 14-game deficit and reel in the Red Sox, nor will they catch the runner-up in the A.L. Central for the wild card. In what seems certain to be his last season as manager in New York, Joe Torre will miss the playoffs for the first time.

Chris Russell of Sporting News, 5/20/07

That is why the Yankees are done. It's early, but go ahead and pin this up. Take it to the bank.

Eric Wilbur of Boston.com, 8/7/07

They’re just a half-game out of the wild card lead, but let’s not overlook the competition they’ve abused to get into this position. That’s about to change, as it is for the Red Sox in a completely opposite manner. Before Boston heads to the Bronx on Aug. 28, it will face teams that it is a combined 17-5 against this season.

The Yankees have gone 19-7 against similar competition. But that’s coming to an end. As is any lingering alarm that they might make a run at the division. Call it obnoxious, call it foolhardy, call it a certain counting of fowl, whatever. Six games might be as close as they get from here on out. In just over a week, it might even be eight.

Check These Guys Out

I particularly like "Barrfight".

Click on and Read This

Fistball

I used to play on a fistball team at a German club we used to belong growing up. From time to time this comes up over the course of conversation and, consistently, no one has any idea what I'm talking about. If you click on the title of this blog you can check out a fistball YouTube clip. Worth seeing. It's a good game.

Tight Spandex

Last night, as I got out of work early, I had my head set on going for as long of a bike ride as possible. I was rushing around cause it gets dark pretty early this time of year and riding around Boston at dusk has brought granted me a couple near death experiences. As such, this is now avoided as much as possible. In my haste, I went through my pre-ride routine (filling water bottle, bring bike downstairs, bring shoes downstairs, check tire pressure, etc.) a little out of order. This apparently threw me off completely because I ended up forgetting I hadn't brought the bike downstairs.

Having come to this realization as I looked down at my cycling shoes, I shuddered to the sound of the door slamming shut behind me. My cell phone and apartment keys were in a pouch on the bike on the other side of the door.

Immediately I started freaking out. In one fell swoop the bike ride was no longer on my mind. With no phone I couldn't call Mussolini, or anyone else for that matter. So, in my cycling spandex, I put on my Timberland work boots, the only shoes in the hallway without carbon soles, and walked down to a friend's apartment to see if anyone was available to let me use their phone or just for a little QT. No dice. I'm sure I was a spectacle for all passersby. I looked like a huge asshole.

Furious, I walked back to my apartment and sat on the stairs for approximately 45 minutes, twiddling thumbs and brainstorming for ways to break into a second floor apartment. I noticed a ladder at a neighbors place but thought better of it. If a neighbor called the police, thinking I was a burglar, and the police actually came, I may have created bigger problems for myself, given the fish whistle left out on the table in the living room.

After trying to pick the lock with a clothes hanger, I gave up. I'd also taken note of the paradoxical panic and resignation reigning over me. Completely pissed off and frustrated beyond belief, I moved not an inch. I just sat there. Approximately 45 minutes after that, I noticed a black Ford Explorer parallel parking behind me. Recognizing the car for the same make as my landlord's I remember thinking how I never catch breaks. Only this time I actually did. She was in the neighborhood to sign a lease.

"Kerri!" I called out as I walked toward her.

"Seamus!?"

"How are yah?" I asked with a forced smile.

"I'm good, you?"

"I've been better," I said while motioning toward the sartorial curiosity that was me. "I locked myself out. I was about to go for a bike ride...."

Her uncontrollable laughter cut me off. As I don't know her very well, her reaction made me uncomfortable. Instinctively, I covered my groin with my hands while awkwardly shifting my weight from side to side, scrambling to come up with something clever to say. Eventually, as I crept ever so close to a nervous breakdown, she agreed to let me in.

Fantasy

Leading up to each and every fantasy season I struggle to decide whether or not to participate. Fantasy sports are becoming, if they have not already, an institution for American twenty-somethings. As they revolve around my two favorite sports, baseball and football, I pretty much need a reason not to participate rather than the other way around. However, there are causes for trepidation on my part. Ultimately, I guess it's a bit of a paradox.

As an adult, I most often deal in absolutes, albeit reluctantly. It's not so much the opinion that matters, it's how closely it conforms to the truth. If it's not well-informed then, quite frankly, it's stupid. Sports, to a degree, aren't like that. Being a fan provides a realm where we allow simple, somewhat arbitrary allegiances to color our interpretations of the truth. This is not only OK, it's part of the point. (One's taste for art is similarly objective but not remotely as arbitrary...perhaps a subject for another time). To fully embrace fantasy sports is to lose, or at least compromise, a big peice of that makes being a fan so great. No longer are we simply fans of teams because our fathers were or because we grew up in a certain suburb of a certain city. And no longer will this color the vast majority of the conversations/arguments we have about baseball and football. Now burdened, as a fantasy team owner, with the task of quantifying and predicting individual athletes in terms of prowess and performance in pursuit of putting together the most competitive team possible, we subsequently root for athletes as commodities. Fantasy encourages an objectivity we didn't know as kids. And this objectivity isn't what drew us to sports.

Conversely, I'm a pretty die hard fan. I take a certain level of pride in knowing what I'm talking about, and I get frustrated when people who don't know what they're talking about pretend to. Not that everyone has to follow sports at the same distance I do. I like talking shop with my delusional friends from Philly who think the Phillies and the Birds are going to reach the apex of their respective sports each and every year. I also like talking to the walking encyclopedia types that make me feel like a pussy. For me, however, before I'm a Giants and Yankees fan, I'm a fan of two games. And as someone who was never particularly good at either one, I genuinely enjoy watching and talking about athletes capable of playing them at their highest levels. Fantasy is a convenient tool for this.

.....So I took Shaun Alexander with my first pick. But when Seattle plays New York, if they do, I hope he gets the shit kicked out of him.

The Fighting Irish

People get ridiculous about Notre Dame Football. Casual fans, pundits and myself included. Either you love 'em or you hate 'em. Prior to Saturday's schilacking at the hands of the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets, you had Lou Holtz, who has not always been blindly pro-Notre dame since he gave up coaching for pricy speaking engagements and ESPN, boldly claiming the Irish would win 10 games, while conversely, as part of the very same broadcast, Mark May, who's always been anti-Notre Dame to the point of delusion, claiming they'd escape no more than 3 games this year with a win.

With the benefit of the clarity that has come with this adjacent work week, it appears the ladder will be at least more correct than the former. Be that as it may, proclaimations of permanent doom under the golden Dome or for Charlie Weis' tenure there, are not only unwarranted but they're downright blasphemous. Who do you think is God's favorite college football team is?

Don't get me wrong. Saturday's debacle turned my stomache, but a string of 4 blowouts at the hands of superior tallent, and most recently, at the hands of superior experience, is hardly indicative of major problems in South Bend.

To the contrary, the Irish enter this season a blank slate in some very major ways. A new defensive co-ordinator has brought with him a new scheme, the 3-4. An experienced offensive line, an all-world quarterback and two all-world wide receivers have to be replaced by inexperience. In fact, of the four return starters that immediately come to mind, two are skill position players, and one of them spent the entirety of last season on the other side of the ball.

Defensively, they weren't as bad as the score and the stat lines would have you believe. Handicapped by horrible field position the entire first half, courtesy of an atrocious offensive performance, initially the unite didn't break, holding Tech to three field goals. By the second half, however, disproportionate time spent on the field began to take its toll. In a major way. Take a look at the final score.... And the statistics.

The only way, unfortunately, to address the inexperience that permeates the offensive side of the ball at the present moment.....is experience. The offensive line has to learn how to play together and the skill position players have to develop a repoire with their starting quarterback, Jimmy Claussen (true freshman). These are all surmountable obstacles if you put stock in a coaching pedigree that includes 4 Superbowl rings and a tallent pool that's consistently ranked in the top 5 since Weis' arrival.

If Notre Dame is to return to prominence, as judged by national championships, this is the coach and these are the quality of players that can get them there.

And We're Back

What a difference a sweep of the Boston Red Sox makes. Whole new perspective. The big problem coming out of the series with Detroit seemed to be starting pitching; Mussina's ongoing futility in particular. Joba Chamberlain being inserted into the rotation amongst the potential remedies? Probably not. They won't use him on back to back nights, let alone throw him into the starting rotation during a playoff run.

A few days ago I actually wrote the following email:

"While their pitching looks like it will be great in the future, it's the same old story (since their last trip to the World Series) for the Yanks here in late August heading into the home stretch. Even if they make the postseason, do they have enough starting pitching to be competitive once there? I don't know. After a night like last night," Mussina's last start, "I'm inclined to say 'probably not'.

It's going to come down to Clemens' and Hughes' performances here down the stretch. Makes for an interesting dichotomy actually. On one hand we have a star in the twilight of his career trying to make one last run while raking in an obscene amount of cash. On the other hand we have a 21 year old phenom. Pettite and Wang have been dependable but we all know what's what with Mussina. There's no hiding it. You can pencil him in for a loss every time he starts from here on out. As such, margin of error for the rest of the staff: nil. Kind of like his margin of error when he steps to the rubber with an 88 mph fastball (92 mph if he's overthrowing). They got themselves into this mess, it'll be interesting to see if Torre can rally the troops enough to get them out of it and into the postseason. And what better test than the Red Sox?"

Well well well. Here we are. Three days later and I'm holding a broom. No, seriously.

We had a company wide meeting today. Everyone meets in this big room, sits around in a circle and someone from each department fills everyone else in on recent market developments and some procedural stuff. Blah blah blah. We eat donuts and bagels and then go about our slightly abbreviated days.

So I came in this morning and went to the meeting room to prop up a broom against a chair right in the middle of everything. Yeah, I know. This was premature but it was just a fucking joke. I figured people would come in and sit down one by one and have a little chuckle. The people who actually saw this did think it was funny. Everyone's always giving me a hard time so I figured it was only fair that I reciprocate. This was really my first opportunity to do so this season.

So this sales guy comes into the room, en route to the kitchen to get some coffee, and completely flips his lid when he sees the broom. Immediately, he takes the broom and puts it back in the closet and moves the chair back to the circle. Naturally, when he leaves the room moments later, I put the broom back on display. Then I leave the room once more to use the little boys room. When I come back, the broom's gone again. Co-workers who had already arrived for the meeting eagerly tell me how pissed this guy was to have to remove the broom for a second time.

Well, it's after-hours now. I'm sitting here in my cube writing this alongside the broom and a ratty old Yankee hat I coincidentally had in my desk drawer. They're going to be propped up against the Sox' biggest fan's chair, right in front of his computer when he arrives tomorrow morning.

Irishman of the Year

The Joyce clan, as I see it, began in Vailsburg, Newark, an upper middle class section of a now formerly upper middle class city.

My great-grandmother, whom I never had the pleasure of meeting, ruled her flock with an iron fist. Though Irish, the descriptions that have been passed down to me lend themselves better to the notion of a Victorian matriarch than a second generation mick. Difficult to say which came first; the upward mobility or assimilation. Chicken? Egg? I kid I kid. I am sure she was a wonderful woman. A wonderful woman who happened to dress like Queen Elizabeth I.

Bob, my grandfather, went to Notre Dame. His brother Jack went to Dartmouth. Upon graduation they set out to succeed their father in running the family business, a commercial contracting operation. For the purposes of the following anecdote, perhaps little else in terms of detail is warranted. Be that as it may, I am inclined to include also this generation's affinity for alcohol, canoodling, plaid pants, the United States of America, topsiders, and being Irish. For all of which was quite substantial.

Without further ado...

Though not sure what governing body resides over such ceremonious occasions, I can resolutely say that there is a certain organization in New Jersey that doles out an award for Irishman of the year. I can also say with confidence that my Uncle Jack, my grandfather's brother, from whom I seem to have inherited my unruly eyebrows and thick hair, has won the award at least once. And also that the ceremony had been attended with a religious fervor by all of the adult men in the family until the death of my grandfather in 1996, may he Rest In Peace.

On one of these occasions, as I'm sure was the case with all of them, an O'Connell, a Daly, an O'Brien, a Kerwin, and the Joyce brothers all overindulged. The Daly, a relation by marriage to my grandfather's sister, was an attorney with an affinity for golf and plaid pants that was without vice. This must have been one of the rare occasions he was able to extricate himself from the control of his domineering wife, my aunt. Normally, she told him when to jump and how high. Which was usually not often or not very high. Exceptionally vulnerable to the active ingredients in whisky, much like a child in a candy store to the ill-effects of a sugar buzz, he was an absolute mess by the ceremony's conclusion. Weekend at Bernie's style.

When all was said and done, my father, uncles, and grandfather (my father's father in-law) were reluctant delivery boys. And I can't help but laugh at the notion of my grandfather and my dad joining forces, as dew glistened on manicured suburban lawns and birds sang their morning songs, to prop up my uncle up against the screen door of his home only to ring the doorbell.....and sprint back to the car and speed away.

I can only imagine the inadvertant hilarity that ensued when my aunt found her true love that morning, drunk as a skunk, propped up against their front door as lawn sprinklers hummed away up and down the street and adjacent neighbors went for their morning papers, scratching their heads at what had befallen the Daly residence at its front entrance.

If you're interested in hearing my interpretation of the exchange, which includes impersonations, all you have to do is hand me a couple beers and ask. It's pretty good if I do say so myself. Just ask my mom.

The Trouble with Alpha Males

I'll have to preface this entry by letting you all know that my sister has never ever been characterized as "tough" or a "tomboy" in her entire life. To the contrary, the very notion makes me laugh out loud. I should also mention explicitly that the following is an email I received from my sister who is doing monkey research in Costa Rica. It was brought to my attention a few weeks ago that this was not always clear. A friend of mine thought I was in Costa Rica. I assured him I spend my days in a cubicle just like him. :(


Hey Dude.

So all is well here. Two new girls arrived. One, a Canadian who is 27 and the other a Brit who is I think my age. Both very nice. Both a little overwhelmed I think. They aren't quite as tough as me. Ha ha. But seriously, they aren't. They have only been going in the field one day, then a day off, then one day, and another day off. I went right into two days in a row, and was all bloody and messed up but never complained. These newbies are getting pampered. And they got tired yesterday and just sat in the car for a few hours. I certainly never did that!

I'm saying this with a little sarcasm....they are very nice girls and I hope they don't get too overwhelmed.

I was aggresively chased my a monkey the other day. He ' s a new alpha male who has become quite a dickhead. That does not happen often, that they act out towards us like that. He chased one of my co-workers and I away from the group twice while aggressive coughing, which they very rarely do, so he meant business. I think it may be because he is new as alpha male, and that group had not been observed on a month, so he was just a little out of sorts. He has been fine since then. And no one has ever been attacked (bitten) by a monkey in 17 years of this project. So no need to worry.

Oh! I thought this was pretty funny........ I was at a bar last night meeting some of the other gringos in town...some Canadians and Brits that work for a computer company. I overheard Isaac describing me to some girls as ''kind of a tomboy'', and I laughed and thought he was being sarcastic. He turned around, and was like, '' Oh, I dont mean it in a bad way. But you are definitely sort of a tomboy.'' He was SERIOUS. I am fairly certain that is a first for me....being called a tomboy. When I asked why he thought that, he said "I don't know you just are....and you love Pearl Jam; that's pretty tomboy. And you might be tougher than me.''

I just thought that you might find that entertaining because I did. Ha ha. I'm a tomboy. ???????????

Vacation starts on the 26th or 27th. Going to Monteverde with some peeps. Supposed to be so amazingly beautiful. We're going to take a canopy tour of the rainforest. You get strapped into a harness and go on a zip line in the canopy. Supposed to be real cool. We'll see some active volcanoes too. You can see lava and everything. There is one active one very nearby me as well, that I can see on the way into and out of the field every day. Pretty cool, right?

Barry Bonds

Red Ball

I have this stressball on my desk. Today, as I worked, it suddenly began to roll accross my desk slower than I've ever seen anything role anywhere in my entire life, accross the length of my desk. Know how when you roll a ball really slowly it always ends up stopping pretty much immediately? Like once they deccelerate below a certain point, you know the end is near. Well, this ball was substantially below that point but just kept on going. And it rolled itself! Thank god none of my superiors walked by because I honestly spent a solid 2 minutes watching this red ball roll ever so slowly accross my desk like it was the most important/fascinating thing to ever transpire on god's green earth. Actually, come to think of it, it may have been.

Happy Friday.

Fade to Black...and Intermittent Vagaries

Nope. Not a Metallica reference. A James reference.

I figure I should get this down now before any and all memories thereof are lost and gone forever.

I am pretty sure I was in NYC for a bachelor party last weekend. This time it's James taking the plunge. I would like to preface everything I am about to spew into 0's and 1's by saying I could never live in NYC. Fun place to visit for a day or two but it's just too much....of everything. A city of excesses.

At 9:00, our first open bar commenced at 7:00, a buddy who never drinks (already married) ripped the sink out of the wall at the bar. Big sink too. He must have turned green and hulked out. Another buddy had to run into the bathroom and turn some valve off to keep the place from flooding. As if this weren't bad enough, he sat down at a table just outside the bathroom and ended up puking everywhere. Everyone I spoke to was pretty sure we were getting thrown out immediately... but they actually took the whole episode in stride. The staff was Irish so perhaps they're used to this sort of thing, yes?

Damage control entailed checking drunko into an expensive hotel while he was pretty much incapacitated. Some amongst us felt this was a dick move. I thought it was deserved. Only person allowed to put on a performance like this should be the one about to get married....and seventeen year-old girls. Apparently he woke up a few hours later and met us back out. By that point, however, I was no longer capable of making or holding onto memories. As such, I don't remember seeing him again.

During the aforementioned episode, Casey was conspicuously absent. All we knew was that he wasn't there. Honestly, knowing Casey, he could have been anywhere. Space, New Jersey, a penthouse apartment with Paris Hilton, backstage with a notorious reggae musician, the Caribbean, anywhere. Only after someone had made the trip downstairs to use the bathroom not decorated in vomit did we discover he had mistakenly put a $50 bill into the jukebox. So for about 45 minutes, while no one knew where he was, he was downstairs amongst strangers, flipping out, trying to set up the jukebox with $50 worth of music. He was found panic stricken, trying to use the last $20 worth. I'm pretty sure the bar is still playing his selections now.

The subsequent jaunt to the strip joint was uneventful. Obviously I did not pay for, nor did I receive, nor did I see anyone else receive for that matter, any lap dances. I speak only for myself when I say I wanted one very badly but for fear of retribution World War II dictator style, I respectfully declined. I assume my compatriots had similar rationales.

Later on, after we were done ignoring naked women for fear of varying degrees of retribution from girlfriends, spouses, and soon-to-be spouses, we went to another bar. En route, Timmy decided it'd be funny to lift up his shirt and press his chest and gut against the windows of various swanky Manhattan restaurants brimming with yuppies who had formerly served as inspiration for Sex and the City writers. This wasn't funny. IT WAS HILARIOUS!

Upon our arrival at the next bar, I was apparently singing Ween tunes loudly enough for everyone in Manhattan to be overcome by the majesty of Boog Nish, Ween's god. As drawing attention to myself is very uncharacteristic, I'm tempted to cast this memory aside as a implant, a fake, a phony. But Kev adamantly maintains the very same memory and his part in it. Afraid we'd get tossed for excessive belligerence, he had tried to make nice with the bartender on our behalf. "Do you like Ween?" he offered.

Apparently, the bartender loved Ween. Loved 'em so much, in fact, he went to Bonnaroo this year expressly to see them. Quasi-crisis averted. (It's funny when you bump into random people who like Ween. Doesn't happen often.) So the bartender told us there were tons of Ween tunes on the jukebox. Kev and the bartender urged me to put some on. I turned and walked toward the thing but must have been sidetracked by something shiny because I never quite made it. This is the part of the episode I remember best; walking toward the jukebox intent on picking out tons of Ween tunes. Only in a New York City bar would you find a jukebox stocked with Ween's catalogue. Ironically, the shiny object that diverted me from the task at hand brought with it the darkness that had only moments before been lifted. My inability to focus on anything was apparently amusing to watch though, because Kev couldn't stop laughing when recounted the episode for me the following day.

I can't say with any amount of certainty what happened between that moment and the following morning. The next thing I knew I was waking up in an apartment. Could have been anywhere. As luck would have it, when I looked to my left, on the other side of the couch: Kenyon. After a bout of nausea, I went to the bathroom where I discovered a uni-brow had been drawn in on my face. Kenyon confirmed I'd fallen asleep with my shoes on. I was unaware those rules still applied. At bachelor parties....they apparently still do.

Best of luck James!