One thing not mentioned in the post last week about road trips is the weird conversations that can take place. Extremely bizarre trains of thought explored for no reason other than shared boredom in a confined space. To wit.
At some point as we left Pittsburgh hungover and sleepy someone suggested that they should put their phone on the vibrate setting, shove it up their ass, and call it. Obviously this was hilarious. In any setting outside of a car trip, it would just lay there to die, like an AIDS-ridden homeless man. But in this case the idea festered, and it became imperative that it was given a suitable name.
It took the better part of an hour. Eventually it was decided that someone would have to get two phones, if they were really dedicated to the idea of shoving one up their ass. After all, who would want to use a phone that had been up an ass. Gross. And so the "Pittsburgh Family Plan" was born. Cleveland and Cincinnati have their own disgusting sex acts, why not Pittsburgh? It's a shitty town.
Pitchfork top 500 tracks of the decade. I agree with enough of these, including number one, which I have loved since (spoiler) Stankonia came out. I'm still upset, but not surprised that CD got destroyed at NUKE.
If our Congress can be measured on a scale of feces (and it should), Senator Byron Leslie Dorgan is closer to adorable rabbit droppings than, say, the diseased swine diarrhea that is Michele Bachmann (R-MN). A three-time senator, Dorgan is the author of Take This Job and Ship It: How Corporate Greed and Brain-Dead Politics Are Selling Out America. One of only eight senators to vote “No” on 1999’s financial deregulation, he is now famous for saying: "I think we will look back in 10 years and say we should not have done this, but we did because we forgot the lessons of the past.”
We're road tripping out to Pittsburgh tomorrow to watch the Phillies-Pirates, which means nothing here for the rest of the week. Although I guess you all could continue to discuss health care in the comments of the post from yesterday. Which was unexpected.
But on the subject of road trips -- one of my favorite things to brag about is the long drives I've done. It's kind of odd, I guess, to be proud of driving through numerous states consecutively. Crossing the great plains while the sun comes up is an ethereal experience, something that makes you feel alive and real until a McDonalds breakfast destroys it.
I try to boast about my transportation endurance at family gatherings, because the subject of travel is ever present thanks to our geographic all over the placeness. But the Pater familias always brings up "driving to Alaska" or "traveling around the lower 48 on a Greyhound Bus with a broken foot" which on the surface are more impressive. No one denies this. But that shit happened back in the 70s, so whatever, meaningless.
Here are my all-time drives. Only two are included from the post-grad Road Trip in which myself and two others put 7500 miles on a Hyundai in just over 3 weeks. That was pretty intense, one of the guys was named "Ved."
Chicago to Big Sky Montana - 18 hours (?) I don't remember how long this actually took, because of the drugs. Being high can be helpful on long drives. But don't ever go through North Dakota, its terribleness cannot be underestimated, or described even.
Glacier National Park to Redwood National Park - 20 hours Anyone who has something against the interstate highway system should try this one. There is no direct route. But Portland is beautiful when passed fast at dusk.
Denver to Chicago - 15 hours One way to get out of a speeding ticket is pop out of your rental car with the wild-eyed mania and stiff, stumbly gait that only comes from 15 straight hours driving solo with all your worldly possessions stuffed into the back seat. (Another is to be holding a cat with a urinary infection on a leash next to you in the passenger seat). The ability to instill pity in cops is a great asset.
Las Vegas to Chicago - 26 hours You really haven't lived until you have to decide who has to drive at 3 a.m. (local Utah time) when everyone is so exhausted they can hardly stand thanks to the 3 previous nights spent in Vegas, gambling away remaining gas money. And there are still 4 state borders to cross. I eventually did it, because fuck sleeping in the car in a gas station parking lot.
Madison to Philadelphia - 15 hours driving, 30 on road This one is only notable because it occurred during a brutal snowstorm. So bad in fact that I slept in my car in a rest area, only to find an early-bird trucker had gotten stuck on the ice-covered on-ramp, thus blocking the exit for everyone. Being trapped for hours in Ohio is a harrowing ordeal, I barely escaped with my sanity.
"That's what old people do. They die." -Bernard "Beanie" Campbell
Much ado has been made over the past weeks and months about health care reform. Loudest have been the time-testedly effective town halls, in which "Real" American citizens change the laws of the country by angrily berating their elected leaders, and brandishing guns in front of television cameras. One big "talking point" is how health care reform (or Obamacare, if you're trendy) will take the medical decisions away from cost-cutting bureaucrats in the private sector, and give them to cost-raising spendocrats with the federal government, in the hopes of somehow creating some magical system where everyone can go to the doctor.
This whole thing struck me as a terrible idea, something straight out of the land of make believe. If more people go to the doctor, it will cost more. Fact. Nevermind preventative medicine -- if there is anything I've learned from my years of schooling and working for soulless corporations, its that nothing is more effective than waiting until the last possible second to do something about a problem, and then hastily rushing through whatever solution happens to be handy. The worse it gets, the more painless treatment and recovery will be. So if there needs to be some changes in the system, it's always better to take a wait and see approach.
But then I heard about these so-called "death panels" that would order the elderly and infirm killed if their medical costs exceeded some predetermined level. Perhaps they would even kill them right there, I couldn't be bothered to read any more deeply on the subject. The bottom line is executing the ill is change I can believe in! Moose-torturer Sarah Palin even said that they would kill her down-syndrome grandbaby. That would be kind of a shame, but honestly there are two many retards in the world already, using up all our non-renewable fingerpaints. How are my un-conceived, yet sure to be healthy kids supposed to express their creativity if a bunch of Corkys are hogging all the good art supplies? They aren't, that's how.
Off track once again -- the point is death panel legislation would effect old people more than any other group, because of their sickly nature. "They are going to kill Grandma!" Glenn Beck told me the other night, and every night. Which would be a loss, no doubt. Everyone loves their particular grandparents, if they are still alive. But let's be honest, they don't do a whole lot. Many of our elderly are even terrible bigots and racists. Sure, maybe "your" grandparents are kindly, and always give you candy when you visit or some other Hallmark shit, but sacrifices must be made to ensure the future of this great nation.
Finally, the post you have all been clamoring for -- a look at the recently started Barclay's Premier League season. But seriously, I would much prefer some random english soccer game than a middling NFL contest featuring, hmm, lets say the Chicago Bears and Washington Redskins. That is a boring pile of shit game, terrible to watch. Somewhere south of the late Buick Open.
A reason for this to exist is that ESPN shows english footie matches this year, so you might actually come across one on a Saturday morning or monday afternoon, if you are unemployed. So: Servicey, with a bit of information on each team, and maybe even perspective. All that follows has been gleaned through several years of paying attention. Read it, that way if you do find yourself unexpectedly looking at fast-kicking action, it won't be as disorienting or nauseating. Also hopefully this post will be neither of those either, no promises.
One thing to understand from the outset: The bottom three teams are sent down to a lower division every year, replaced with the top three teams from there. Its like if the Kansas City Royals were in Double A. It as very real effects on the clubs, because getting sent down means losing out on the big TV money. No revenue sharing or "Socialism" for the shitty teams here. Onwards.
Manchester United - After winning the league the past two seasons, lost millionaire playboy and hooker-aficionado Cristiano Ronaldo, who went to Spain. Boo-Fucking-Hoo. They do still have Wayne Rooney, who often looks like he is cursing with a cockney accent. Arsenal - These french fucks. Anecdotal evidence says Arsenal are a popular choice as a team to support here in the states. The "Gunners" are known for their intricate play, ie if you want to see 20 passes strung together without a shot, this might be the team to watch. Disclaimer: Have scored 10 goals in their two games this year.
Chelsea - A machine, whether or not they are well-oiled is the question. Notable players include the two sulkiest forwards who ever sulked -- Frenchman Nicolas Anelka and Ivory Coastian(?) Didier Drogba. Also midfielder "Fat" Frank Lampard is a beast who rarely makes a bad touch. They are the favorites to win the league this year.
Liverpool - Their fans are called "Scousers" which has no meaning as far as I am concerned and I am not looking it up. One of the "Big 4" also including Chelsea, ManU, and Arsenal. This is because these teams always win. The "King of the Scousers" is Steven Gerrard, because he is arguably Englands best individual player and is from Liverpool.
Everton - They've got Tim Howard, American, in goal. He is one of the best in the world according to some. Also this is the other team from Liverpool. When two teams from the same city play each other in soccer, its called a derby (pronounced darby). Thus, when Liverpool plays Everton, its called the "Mersyside Darby." Riveting stuff.
Aston Villa - I followed this team last year a bit as they got off to a good start and then completely fell apart down the stretch. They are young and talented but not very deep. Every year a storyline is whatever non big four team has a chance to finish in the top four and thus qualify for the European champions league.
West Ham United - This is kind of a middle ground team, not bad but not particularly good either. Based somewhere in London, which has 5 of the league's 20 teams, the "Hammers" are a good example of the ingenuity of the various nicknames these teams get. Or not.
Burnley - They were just promoted to the top league and already beat Manchester United, which will in all likelyhood be the high point of their season.
Wolverhampton - Another team that was promoted this year and who the fuck knows who they are. I vaguely remember something about the team being offensive minded, which means they will be losing a lot of games probably. They go by "wolves" shockingly.
Tottenham - London-based squad that never seems to reach its potential. Fortunately they signed forward Peter Crouch (pictured up top) to come off the bench. Undoubtedly because of Crouch's presence, they have gotten off to a strong start.
Portsmouth - Probably the worst team in the league.
Wigan Athletic - This is another "meh" team. Not really much to say about them. Got curb-stomped by Manchester United over the weekend, which is about par for the course.
Stoke City - All I know is that they have a "good defense" highlighted by this guy who is on my fantasy team. Yeah, I'm in a fantasy English Premier League, uh, league, want to fight about it?
Sunderland - This is in Northern England. Can you tell I am getting bored with this? Speaking of which ...
Birmingham City - Meh. All these teams are boring, instead go read Tom Oatmeal.
Blackburn - This is the last team to win a league title outside of the big four, which happened in 1994.
Hull City - Against all odds they survived in the top league last year, and are back for more despite the fact that they no longer employ Dean Windass (This is an actual player). Nicknamed the Tigers presumably because of their yellow and black striped uniforms, but I like to think it is because of some Tiger related joke I can't think of right now about mauling. Also they have American forward Jozy Altidore, who got an assist on his first touch.
Bolton - They got this one guy, Matty Taylor, who scored from like 50 yards out a few times. See here and here.
Fulham - They have the best American field player in the league, ie Clint Dempsey. He scores goals, and raps.
Manchester City - Got bought by some billionaire Shiekhs who are trying buy their way to a title. I get the feeling they are the Daniel Snyder of english football. Paid off Arsenal, Aston Villa, Manchester United, Blackburn, and Chelsea for a shitload of talent, who I will not name. It will be interesting to see how it all fits together but even money says this team will scare people by season's end, which is in May.
Second chances: Everybody gets them these days! Murder dogs? Defraud the American people? It doesn't matter. If your talents or notoriety can make rich people even richer, you will get your chance at redemption. Throwing or running or dancing, it doesn't matter what form it takes, as long as these select activities are televised and broadcast to Real Americans. If two isolated cases involving famous people do not indicate a trend, then what does?
I wrote words for that picture sporadically this week, the rest just got spiked. Look for a rare "Saturday post" this weekend if I don't get it done tommorrow. Probably. It's about soccer.
Tattoos, skinny jeans and garbage bag dresses worn with boots. Some guy carves the wrong way up Bedford Avenue on a human powered trike. A girl walks by in 12-inch platforms and short shorts that show about 2 miles of leg. An overweight redhead in a turn-of-the-century nurse uniform dyed light magenta. Strange mullet-mohawks on androgynous people, uncombed. One guy has a digital camera, which seems like a good idea, but he's taking pictures of buildings.
A flyer haphazardly attached to a light pole, seemingly within the past hour, indicates a free party starts at 6 some 10 blocks away. It is 6:30, despite the promise of an "art show" with "new friends" I decide to continue heading north. There is a bar that serves 32 ounces of beer in Styrofoam cups. The bar has been around longer than most of its patrons have been alive. Bikes are everywhere, and its difficult to find a free place to lock mine. Fortunately my dirty white shoes and stripped-down single-speed bike allow me to pass through undisturbed, as if I belong there. Maybe I do.
Later at The Trash Bar we watch a questionably talented band make up for their questionable talent with an array of costumes and wigs. One band member informs us that we should come to their show next week because "they will have dancing girls." Sinclair is there in his natural state, which is drunk and weird. He dances for the entirety of the set. It is like jumping jacks by an epileptic. Later his friend tries to make out with a shelving unit stacked with books in the corner. After the set, we retire to the many seats that appear to have been removed from late-model minivans and SUVs.
Over cigarettes outside we are "invited" to an after party at the band's apartment/warehouse. It is a huge room with other small rooms constructed therein. The large room could have housed manufacturing equipment, which it probably did in some earlier incarnation. Now it contains the smaller rooms, most of which are raised above the floor -- high enough for anyone who is not freakishly tall to walk underneath comfortably. The rooms are constructed of plywood and two-by-fours, but seem sturdy anyway. There is a white cat that is willing to be petted for a time by strange hands, but eventually jumps and claws, like it has an internal timer.
At one point a bearded man takes a saxophone off the wall and attempts to play it. The valves do not work correctly and no one seems to know how long it has been hanging there. Sinclair takes over the DJ station to our chagrin. He doesn't see the world like a normal person, at least partially because he is colorblind. His drunk has worsened to the point where he can only make sense of music if he plays two songs at the same time. After several minutes or hours of this, we force him to leave with us. He is abandoned when we are sure he cannot find his way back to the party.
I haven't posted here in a really long time, which is probably fine as thope's more entertaining anyway. Lack of time derailed my own attempt to maintain a blog, however I am now free of the shackles of medical school clinical rotations for 10 months. I've got 6 weeks of studying for step 2 of the boards and then I'm moving to Kampala, Uganda (Oct. 1st). Some time will be spent in Amsterdam as well. I imagine I'll see some interesting things, so I'll keep people updated periodically through the goats. But I'll have another blog for the boring stuff. Gotta keep the family happy...
So for my return, a video...
From the makers of Napolean Dynamite, although this looks much better in my opinion.
A few meta-ish house-cleaning type items to wrap up the week ...
Firstly, that rant I wrote last week about commenters and Cracker Barrel got quoted and linked on Philebrity, which meant more people looked at that than a normal post, like 20 times more. Which is good, even if was under the false pretense that I am a philly.com comment moderator. I'm not.
As much as I enjoyed that huge traffic spike I still will not pimp this thing, ever. Not in my nature to self-promote, unfortunately for my career I guess. Although it was suggested I get an "agent," which I have no idea how to do but sounds appealing. That is my way of saying I will never pursue it.
I finished Anathem, and there may be something about that in the future, but maybe only in a different worldtrack where I am actually paid a living wage. A man can dream. Up next is "Jesus Son" by Denis Johnson, and "White Noise" by Don DeLillo because Jesus Son is really short and I will probably finish it on the Chinatown bus this weekend. Yes TMoney, I do occasionally listen to your suggestions.
And finally, this blog turns 3 today. Holy shit, I can't believe I've been doing this since 2006. This blog was started right after I logged off MySpace while wearing Crocs. Over 750 posts on everything from presidentialprimaries to whales. And filler, with lots and lots of videos. I went back through the archives and tried to find a post that could sum it all up. It was a brutal failure, but this one about making up sins gave me a chuckle.
Well this happened some 12 hours ago, so if you are like me and spend your mornings on the Internet, its already old hat. In case you don't, some guy threw a beer on Victorino yesterday at Wrigley Field. There are predicable responses from the peanut gallery: All cubs fans are dicks; Not all Cubs fans are dicks just cause this one guy is; Phillies fans are worse cause they beat people to death; or some joke about Bartman. We've heard it all before, sometimes twice. I say fuck you and your cliche comments. Take your righteous indignation and shove it up your ass. Or better yet, put it in a cup and throw it at an all-star centerfielder. Real all-stars make the catch.
Maybe its "classless" or whatever, but I think more fans should throw beers on players while they are trying to make catches against the fence. It adds an air of unpredictability and uncertainty to what is already one of the more exciting parts of baseball (Will the ball go out for a home run? Will the player injure himself running into the wall? Is there something I can flip to on another channel?) The fact is baseball can be boring to watch on television to the average layperson. There just isn't a lot of action; I say more, not less, flying beverages are a possible solution.
Some "baseball purists" might say that fan interference ruins the sport, that the players on the field should determine the result. Pffft, gay. The real problem with this idea is that some might hesitate to part with their $7 beers. But in reality, isn't $7 a small price to pay for the respect of your peers and the broadcast television audience? If there's any genuine truth in this world, it's that everyone loves someone who disrupts a sporting event. Also if you drink half the beer first it mitigates some of the cost, without significant lessening of the projectiles soaking ability.
On TV, conflict builds ratings. "Balance" often means equating reasonable views with fantastical lies. Ordinary viewers too often can't tell the difference. Short of an opportunity to chronicle the exploits of the risen Michael Jackson, that's not going to stop.
This could just be the "beer can slipperooni" technology could just be the development needed to finally put a dent the brown paper bag monopoly. Which has been a goal of mine for some time. Up next? Something encouraging the use of lunch boxes.
These days I am much more selective with my movie-going dollar. Tough economic times and all that mean that if a picture doesn't get above 80% on Rotten Tomatoes, I'm waiting for the DVD. But if a film does catch my eye, I will go to great lengths, traveling as long as two hours by bus to see it at one of the Ritz theaters in Philadelphia. A example of this was The Wrestler, which I saw the day after I got mugged. Going to see it with a broken nose is also an example of a participatory viewing experience, somewhat like wearing a gorilla suit to the remake of Planet of The Apes.
The nut is that I saw The Hurt Locker over the weekend. It was the most intense thrill-ride of the weekend until getting caught in some sort of thunder-typhoon on my bike yesterday. It was avoidable when I checked the radar before leaving for the supermarket and the enormous purple blotches seemed to be a safe distance away. I realized my "highly scientific" calculations may have been wrong when I exited the store with my cargo of blueberries and lunchmeat and there were pitch-dark clouds nearly overhead. So I just cold started hauling ass on the single speed. About a half-mile from home it opened up, Cats and Dogs living together, the whole bit. I imagine that some porch monkeys probably got a kick out of the dude going full tilt on a bicycle screaming FUUUUCK with a huge backpack on. But the cursing kept the lightning bolts away.
Jesus, completely off track. This was supposed to be about The Hurt Locker, best movie you've seen this year. Focus on that you jackass. It was directed by Kathryn Bigelow, who previously helmed Point Break. Surprising or not, The Hurt Locker is way better. It is about a bomb disposal unit in Iraq in 2004. The story unfolds through a series of set pieces, where they try to diffuse improvised bombs that look like trash, or bodies. Some work out better than others. There's also a sniper shootout involving Ralph Fiennes and a kind of weird segment where the main character goes out into the city to track down some kid and the guy he finds starts babbling about the CIA.
Most of the conflict, besides the obvious Man v. Bomb and Soldier v. Iraqi, is between the by-the-book Sergeant Sanborne (played by Anthony Mackie, who you may remember as Papa Doc, Eminem's rival in 8 mile) and his adrenaline junkie, fly by the seat of his pants commanding officer, Staff Sergeant William James (played by Jeremy Renner). James is a bit of an echo of Patrick Swayze's character from Point Break, minus the surfing and mysticism. He is addicted to war, and is the most obvious target of the opening card which states "war is a drug." Although you could argue that the other characters just react to the "war as drug" theme differently, i.e. not embracing it, or freaking the fuck out.
You ever have one of those days where everything seems stupid and wrongheaded, on the Internet? It seems to be happening more and more. Maybe it's because the drinking, and thus the hangovers, are getting heavy. Damn you $5 six-packs of Miller High Life pounders! Why can't I resist you?
First lets take a minor example: the first two sentences from this boilerplate monthly economy story from the Associated Press. I quote it despite potential ramifications.
WASHINGTON (AP) — Consumers opened their wallets and pocketbooks a bit more in June, increasing their spending for the second straight month while saving less, even as incomes fell sharply. Consumer spending is closely watched because it accounts for about 70 percent of total economic activity.
Spending more, while saving less and making less money? That's a recipe for sustainable economic recovery if I've ever heard one. Also a cornerstone (or keystone?) of Freedom.
Or how about the ongoing annoyance that is "moderating" the comment section of a local newspaper Web site. And by moderating I mean deleting all comments that people report to me, and wrathfully banning people for little to no reason on Fridays. Hey, today's Friday! Well at least there's that. See ya guy, your particular brand of unhinged wingnuttery has worn thin. I can't wait to get a call from you telling me I am oppressing your first amendment rights, while doing abortions. Don't worry though, there are still plenty of places online where you can talk about fake birth certificates and how terms like "unhinged wingnuttery" are racist.
I would provide an example, but frankly we are all better off without it. In all seriousness: Comments on local newspaper sites are clear indicatives of how terrible most discourse is, in America. As recently as the 1990s these conversations were confined to people's private homes, and street corners. Maybe you would overhear something at a Cracker Barrel about "negroes" or "liberals" but you could always just move to another table, or chew your Country Dinner Plate louder. Not to mention you got what you deserved for going to a Cracker Barrel.
Well, that's about it ... for now. I have been hearing rumors about some shit rolling downhill from my corporate masters that's sure to incite rage when it lands on my head. So you can look forward to that rant. In the meantime, there's paintings of Obama naked with Unicorns (uhhh, NSFW?).
Don't let that video dissuade you though, because signing up for Phillies Fantasy Camp (or "Phantasy Camp" to use the parlance of our region) is still possible. Who wouldn't want to have the opportunity to participate in a "Bull Session" with Greg "The Bull" Luzenski, hit grounders to Mariano Duncan, or get tax tips from Lenny Dykstra. Besides complete losers of course.
Thousands of years ago, the work that people did had been broken down into jobs that were the same everyday, in organizations where people were interchangeable parts. All of the story had been written out of their lives. That was how it had to be; how you got a productive economy. But it would be easy to see a will at work behind this: not exactly an evil will, but a selfish will. The people who'd made the system thus were jealous, not of money and not of power but of story. If their employees came home at days end with interesting stories to tell, it meant that something had gone wrong: a blackout, a strike, a spree killing. The Powers That Be would not suffer others to be in stories of their own unless they were fake and had been made up to motivate them. People who couldn't live without story had been driven into the concents or into jobs like Yul's. All others had to look somewhere outside of work for a feeling that they were part of a story, which I guess was why they were so concerned with sports, and with religion. How else could you see yourself as part of an adventure? Something with a beginning, middle, and end in which you played a significant part?
Dan Deacon (pictured above) shows rate somewhere between a wedding reception and kicking out a car windshield, on the fun scale. I'm not super-huge into his music -- Crystal Cat and Wham City are great, no doubt, but the squirrel-vocoder can get grating or old depending on hipness. But his live shows are something to behold, especially when the crowd, primed by swimming in an airplane-shaped pool, is into his directions for making human boogie tunnels and interpretive dances led by a cromagnon-looking hipster with a homemade "sassy" T-shirt.
The show consisted of three separate set-ups for a round robin style concert, Deacon plus LA-based ultra-kinetic two-man noise-pop band No Age (highlight: guitarist crowd-surfing while playing, then getting tossed into the pool guitar and all), and weirdo indie faves Deerhunter to calm things down. Each played a couple songs, then sent it over to the next group who played a couple songs, and so on. Of course Dan Deacon had the tree house.
I submit that there are few things more enjoyably weird than dancing your face off in a mass of humanity, then looking to your left to see small airplanes take off and land. Overheard at one point, "I think I've touched half the people at this show."
Oh right, and the venue was fucking awesome, despite being in Jersey. The Flying W Airport and Resort. Lots of hipsters (obvs). The beard ratio was around 40%, including women.
Watching the lone Phillies victory against the Giants on Friday night, I decided to take the opportunity to taunt my one Giants fan friend and reader of this blog, via text message. It didn't go particularly well, because apparently I have the wrong number. Also the person obviously knows nothing about Jayson Werth. Here's a transcript, all times eastern:
Me (12:05 am): Haw Haw Person (12:07 am): Excuse me? Me (12:08 am): Don't make me repeat myself Person (12:10 am): Who is this? Me (12:11 am): is this [redacted]? Me (12:14 am): If not i apologize Person (12:22 am): No. Wrong number
There you have it. Not as good as the stuff on textsfromlastnight, but still indicative of communications problems in the information age. In conclusion, is it 5682 or 5862? Because for some reason both are saved in my phone.
