My internet/cable is broken, probably forever. I'm currently posting this at the library, and it's not clear when I will be able to put something more up this week. Til then, turn every link on this page grey. It's not worthwhile.
I was actually watching this live last night. Caught the last 30 seconds or so after the latest Heroes, aka Lost for dumb people. Not going to get into that. For those unaware, the Sixers dropped a game to the Nets when Devin Harris hit an absurd half-court heave, while being harried by Iguodala.
Watching the Sixers in close games has been agonizing at best. Last night was the fourth (4th) loss from a buzzer-beater this season by my count. So as the clock ran down, each missed free throw inspired feelings of -- the opposite of faith? And those feelings were justified by the most ridiculous of shots, by a Wisconsinite.
Also, the clock didn't start on time, because New Jersey cheats.
Four years ago today Hunter S. Thompson killed himself. And it should be made a holiday, at least for the Freaks (god save them). But how to celebrate? Grapefruit and mescaline would be involved somehow, but what else? Running for sheriff?
Perhaps a good way to get in the right mood would be with a viewing of documentary Gonzo, followed by some Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas. Then renting a huge American convertible which could be driven at terrible speeds while shouting "Tell me about the fucking golf shoes!" Hmmm. The documentary film is certainly worthwhile, focusing on the good doctor's prime years, before he became so well-recognized and found himself berating british journalists. Not sure about the rest of it.
Or what about some sort of gonzo comparison between the presidential campaigns of George McGovern and Barack Obama, through the use of rhythm logic. This would require the consumption of large amounts of wild turkey. Or taking some high-powered hallucinogens and listening to the Gonzo Tapes at high volume, while shooting guns. Not really sure what results one could expect from that, probably the fear.
This isn't going anywhere, so straight from the theater of the absurd, here's video of Thompson's appearance on Late Night with Conan O'Brien, in which the host "met him on a farm in upstate New York to shoot guns and drink hard liquor."
Against my better judgment, I read a column today by John "Free Market Uber Alles" Stossel. It compares Obama's stimulus package to the building of the pyramids in Egypt, then goes on to say we should outlaw machines, and later insinuates that the draft may be reinstated. It's like some sort of bizarre trifecta of socialism, only with its own web site, and lacking grounds in reality. The goats like to keep the discourse friendly and mature, but Stossel should go suck John Galt's dick.
Moving on, here are two outrageous time sinks that have been killing productivity of late.
a) Sporcle.com is trivial but gives your brain a workout, and your wrists carpal tunnel. Apparently I know 14 of the 20 richest football clubs in the world.
b) Kongregate.com is far worse in that the brain doesn't have to do much to play flash games like Superstacker 2.
Just gotta dig out an innappropriate pic and that's a post.
If you have access to HBO, highly recommend checking out the new show from the McBride-Hill-Best combo, Eastbound and Down. Danny McBride plays the main character, a washed up baseball player forced to become a teacher in his hometown, you may remember him from small roles in Pineapple Express and Tropic Thunder.
For anyone familiar with Foot Fist Way, McBride plays Randy Powers like Fred Simmons with a mullet. A man who listens to his own audio book: You're Fucking Out, I'm Fucking In (narrated by himself, of course).
Undaunted I knew the game was mine to win. Just like in life all of my success depend on me. I'm the man who has the ball, and I'm the man who can throw it faster than fuck. So that is why I'm better than everyone in the world. Kiss my ass and suck my dick, everyone.
Presidents Day is lamer than a bucket of stale carrots baby owls, or perhaps the people who dedicated hours of their lives to making this.
Don't know how many of you watched the NBA "extravaganza" Saturday night. If you didn't consider yourself lucky. Disappointing, truly. No blowing out cupcakes. Just straight corn, and Barkley wasn't there to eat it. The biggest news was Lebron saying he will be in the dunk contest next year.
The highlight of the evening may have been the first event, the terribleness of which is made apparent by the sponsor, Haier, a company know one has heard of (but that's all changing thanks to their "Shooting Stars" sponsorship!). The other events have known brands paying more money than you'll make in your life to have their name associated with them. Haier makes washing machines.
Anyway, dunk contest. The problem is the competitors. Dwight Howard, obviously, puts on a show. His dunking on a 12 foot rim was pretty entertaining. But really ... The cape again? How about something new. The power of Christ compels you to channel your God-love into some sort of crucifix slam. Too soon?
But what about Nate "Kryptonite" Robinson you ask? He's relatively short, yet can still dunk! Ugh. I feel safe in saying that Nate is the most unappealing player in the NBA, and that's not just because of his running feud with Lou Williams. And the inclusion of Rudy Fernandez by fan vote is inexplicable, and proof of stupidity.
That's it, the blood is up. Gotta watch some AI to calm down, or Skeets.
So robbed.
Or not? Line up seems impressive so far. The Phish reunition aspect is a bit discouraging because Phishheads will outnumber everyone else, but still, a good scene. I'm convinced by the consecutive listing of The Mars Volta, TV on the Radio and Yeah Yeah Yeahs. So much good music in one place Bob Geldof is spinning in his grave.
The goats would enjoy getting to a festival, especially cause they haven't been to one since Rock the Bells in NYC a couple years back. Who doesn't enjoy dozens of bands and fires, a la Woodstock. Or some Ozzfest or Feztival or Live 8 or some other thing I can't remember because I got a concussion in the mosh pit? Stupid Korn.
There have been serious discussions about Bonnaroo with Sinclair, in which the conclusion of "going" has been reached. The lack of cars means we are looking at flying to Nashville and thumbing it. Or going Greyhound. Options are unlimited at this point, and I'm dreaming of the Greenbriar. Not to mention, any Midwestern folks out there could probably make it a trip somehow.
Bottom line -- days of entertainment for the price of a Wii. Any takers HMMMMMM?
So that there is the the video for The Giraffes song "Wage Earner." Low budget, yes, but not lacking merit. And by merit I mean T&A. Seriously, this band rocks, Queens of the Stone Age-style except harder. Call it surfer metal if you are inclined. Just ordered their relatively new CD "Prime Motivator" off the tubes. With random record label schwag!
Three minor points here:
1) This band is worth a listen, and I don't care if they are making fun of this blogger. Just read the ridiculous backstory. In fact, it seems the gunshots and heart attacks may have hardened up the lyrics a bit. In other news, stonerrock.com is something that exists.
2) The Brooklyn music scene has been blowing up over the past couple years, with bands like The National, MGMT, Grizzly Bear, Vampire Weekend, etc. gaining popularity if not cash. Its good to see something a little harder come out of there, even if hipsters don't like it with their high bikes. Note: If anyone has a current day picture of someone riding one of those old timey bikes with a big front wheel and small back wheel please send it to me.
3) A great thing about the web is how it has democratized music consumption. No longer are you confined to what they have at the local record store or venue. Supporting local music is a good thing, of course, but now one can seek out tunes beyond their normal everyday sphere. It's clear iTunes and Myspace are in the mainstream. And there is all types of niche sites and blogs that cater to every possible taste, Pitchfork be damned.
Gotta say, this new season of Heroes has picked up its game after the last two lackluster installments. As the gravelly voiced announcer guy says: They're on the run ... from the U.S. Government. Plus Sylar's new sidekick Microwave Boy, fairly major characters dying, and Peter Petrelli's ham-fisted plot exposition dialogue.
Sure, the whole show is about as subtle as a 2x4 to the ribs. It's not "smart" or "deep" but sometimes its nice when every thing is spelled out, and it makes sense (unlike last season). Even the oh so ambiguous HRG hits the audience over the head with his moral grayness. Oh really, you had the shot but didn't take it? What's next, arguing with his daughter about something. Speaking of which, does anyone else want to see a My Two Dads type spin-off with HRG, the cheerleader and Nathan?
That's neither here nor there. This season shows how much better socio-political commentary works in television as compared to time travel. I read somewhere that they picked up a writer from Battlestar, and it shows in that they are going with more a topical narrative. Orange jumpsuits! Black-clad gunmen! Hoods! So much better than rolling out new characters with random-ass powers every week. Black hole Bubbles comes to mind. Terrible.
Anyway, the Sylar torture scene was probably the highlight of the episode, even if I laughed at Microwave Boy's frying the coffee cup to stop his slutty mom from getting choked out (Must ... help!). Also, Sylar had two of the best lines I can remember from this show -- the ones comparing himself to a force of nature, and about letting the kid live being a big deal. Almost enough to make up for Peter's consistent terribleness.
Coming next week? Fingers crossed for Japanese people in India!
Since posts remain elusive this week, I dug this half-done guy out of the archive and tried to wrap it up.
Meant to post this last week in November, but then bad things happened.
Remember when I started this blog, more than two years ago? I don't. Reason being one of the "founding principles" was the posting of drunken stories. There was a good run of those -- involving baseball bats, condiments or fake blood. But drinking and memory are not two great tastes that go great together, it seems, and the telling of the belligerence petered out. But hey, its never too late to resurrect a classic. So here's one man's experience from the Phillies Championship Parade two weeks ago to the day. History.
The original plan was to take SEPTA into the city. No car, hey. But the worst public transit system ever had different ideas. Those ideas being to run fewer trains on a day with their highest ridership ever. The local station was packed with people. Some shitfaced patrons were entertaining themselves by setting their empties on the tracks and then throwing rocks at them. Broken bottles are fun to cheer at 10 a.m.
But standing around with 800 drunks and children got old after about 20 minutes and my friend, lets call him Justin, decided to drive into the city. Glorious internal combustion got us there in no time at all. Seems all the dumb saps were waiting for the train, leaving the highways relatively congestion-free.
ed note: Up to this point this was all written back in November, let's see what the old memory can provide without notes. May contain false information.
The closest I could get was at the very start of the parade. Close enough to snap that photo of my hero and yours at least. Close enough to shout "Bulldogs!" and get a wave in response. After seeing them off, Justin and I decided to make our way down to Broad Street to "see" the rest of the parade. And by the rest of the parade I mean Greenman. Not really sure what is going on behind that parking meter. 
The parade went by, and the street was opened. We went to McGlinchey's, a bar right in the heart of Philadelphia that maintains what I like to call a "blue-collar asthetic." Meaning dirty as all hell, bathrooms don't work, reeks of cigarette smoke despite a citywide ban, etc. The kind of place where a nearby group of reprobates in stylish caps asks for your empties, to fill with Keystone Light from a backpack. Don't want to raise suspicions.
An indeterminate amount of time passed, several hours at least. Eventually Justin called it day and I walked out to West Philly to meet some relatives who were in town. Not much for the goats there, except for a hipster I saw holding his own dance party on the street. He was certainly more amusing than the homeless man Sinclair and I encountered a month later outside a Hard Rock Cafe. He was letting out blood-curding screams every minute or two. Terrifying.
Indeed. Where was I? There were drinks at some place called the Raven Lounge. And finally met up with some others at Oscar's, a Rittenhouse dive known for its $3 23-ounce domestic drafts. There I chatted up a couple Obama volunteers, and received a sticker. Unfortunately the mood was ruined by some over-educated white girl who insisted on dropping the n-bomb in an attempt to seem with it. Even a McCain-supporting friend of mine was confused by the situation.
I think there may have been more, like the journey home, but that's just about all I care to remember at this point.
Never underestimate the popularity of canned meat. Spam-maker Hormel saw net growth in 2008, with published reports saying that manufacturing of the meat product is “pretty busy.” Better than most, I suppose.[DLN column]
