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