Bloggin' fool.

So, I just finished The Great File Reorganization of 2005 at the day job. It's been a two-day project in which I have lovingly indulged my OCD (though admittedly I did not get all reverse-chronological on top of my alphabetical, much as it pained me... didn't want to hunch over the drawer for weeks). A few things I learned:

1. Both of my Editorial Assistant predescessors have a feeble grip on the alphabet. Therefore, by comparison, I rock. I hope to bring this up in my annual review.

2. There is not much to do when you get that long-term project off your back and you're in the doldrums of your editorial cycle.

My solution to Friday boredom? McSweeney's Internet Tendency! This particular list caught my eye:

Things You Would Say
if You Had a Time Machine
and Lots of Financial Problems

BY LYNETTE CAIN

- - - -

Now my check won't bounce!

That generic cat food caused my future cat to have future explosive diarrhea.

I left my wallet in 1488, but I might have some ducats in my other pair of pants.

We start having sex unless you promise to pay me $63,248.71 in child support later.

I've got to stop myself from majoring in Brit Lit.

My stupid HMO doesn't cover post-existing conditions.

Oh crap, I forgot there are debtors' prisons in 1736.

Thank God President Oprah is going to raise the minimum wage.

When did I leave that secured-credit-card application?

I'd go back and invest money in the past if only I could afford gas for my time machine in the present.

- - -

I would also add: I shouldn't buy these shoes. Yes, they're on sale, but they'll pinch my toes later and it's not worth the credit card debt.

I heart Judd Apatow. You should too.

He (and a few other brilliant, brilliant people) brought us The 40-Year-Old Virgin in a summer that was rife with crap masquerading as movies. Claire and I have recently found ourselves fully addicted to Freaks and Geeks, which will have Undeclared hot on its heels on the Netflix queue.

Anyway, this week Mr. Apatow has a diary in Slate. The Slate diaries can be a mixed bag, but I highly recommend this one. Especially Wednesday's entry, in which he relates meeting the Rolling Stones and watching them rehearse.

Hey ho let's go!

Dear 2005 Boston Red Sox,

Ok guys. This is it. I know I've been hard on you for the past few weeks. I have ranted and raved. I have cursed and hissed and spat.

The truth of the matter is, you guys are the loves of my life. I know it's hard for me to show it sometimes, but I'm from New England. I am taciturn. It's difficult these days, because I live in New York. I can't watch the progression of the season. I can only see the dramatic games, the ones that really count. It makes it difficult to have perspective, to give you my love when you need it most.

But I'm trying. I know you can do it. I will be watching this weekend from Brooklyn. And if the whole thing falls apart, I will be sad and I may get a little angry. But for now, thank you for a great season and making the fall extra-exciting. And regardless of what happens, I will still love you, though the winter may be cold and opening day distant. It's in my blood. I can't help it.



image from boston.com

Perfect.

A movie about Islamic terrorists planning to attack New York? Sign me the fuck up. Because, you know, when not having nightmares about giant or colossal squid, I could just switch on over to the standard "some dude wants to blow me up" nightmare.

So far, Rotten Tomatoes deems it "rotten." Take that, terrorists!

Can he wiggle out of this one?

Well, Judy Miller has agreed to testify after being released from her confidentiality agreement by I. Lewis Libby. Nice of him to let her rot in jail for 12 weeks before getting around to telling her (Reuters story here).

While I'm not one to go tongue-kissing Judy "aluminum tubes" Miller for being a paradigm of journalistic integrity, I have to hand it to her. She stuck to her guns. I'm a little confused about Libby's timing (embattled as the White House is right now), but this could be good. She'll testify and then Fitzgerald can start holding some feet to the fire. We hope.

So, let's see. We have massive devastation in the Gulf and subsequent scandal re: administration incompetence. Tom DeLay indicted, and his ethics scandal. And now, the Plame Game is circling back to make some headlines. One would hope that this might be enough to push aside any PR circus the Bushies can concoct... like the weak energy conservation plea, or the smooth confirmation of Stepford Justice John Roberts. Or, we'll all just got back to our driving SUVs, eating fast food, and watching the Apprentice.

Either way, welcome back Judy. I will probably be hitting nexis in order to reacquaint myself with why your Iraq alarmism pissed me off, but until then, cheers to you.

photo from NYT

You make me wanna barf barf

So, Gothamist's Band Interview with Ashlee Simpson is good. Not because of what insightful things she says so much as what she doesn't understand about their questions, what canned answers she gives, and what a vapid sham she reveals herself to be. It's a lovely bit of interviewing work. From my only slightly schooled eye, I'll bet they got like 15 minutes, tops, on the phone with her. So, I commend them for a nice skewering with what little they were offered. When press reps hand you lemons, you let the lemons make asses of themselves. And then you print it.

It's a quickie interview. Read it and enjoy:

The Gothamist Band Interview: Ashlee Simpson


photo from boston.com

I am the Queen of Nice.

New York Yankee About Whom I Will Write Something Nice:

Mike Mussina



You usually dominate.
Bizarre that you were lit up by the O's last night.
I hope you're not too bummed out.

Still playing nice.

Another New York Yankee About Whom I Will Write Something Nice:

Robinson Cano: a haiku



You are young, like me.
You don't make many errors.
You also hit well.

You've got the silver, savvy?

I don't know how close to true this is, but according to contactmusic:

The Rolling Stones rocker KEITH RICHARDS has thrilled co-star ORLANDO BLOOM by finally agreeing to star as JOHNNY DEPP's father in the Pirates of the Caribbean sequels.

Bloom, who plays WILL TURNER in the movies, has let slip that the wrinkly rocker will cameo, despite claims the Stones tour would keep him from the set.

He says, "We're going to have an appearance by the great Keith Richards."

What with the Stones's tour schedule, it seems unlikely, but oh man. Keith Richards and Johnny Depp trying to out-weird each other in pirate outfits.

If you can't say something nice...

(Contrary to how it appears, today is not Breast Day. Just in case anyone was confused... two breast-related posts just happened to occur in rapid succession, is all.)

In an effort to stack my karmic deck this week, I am going to say something nice about a New York Yankee as often as I can. Seems counterintuitive, but I can't keep spitting bile at the Sox... it's taking its toll on my mood. I also can't start attacking the Yankees, because that hasn't been working (they're firing on all cylinders with no end in sight).

If you know me, you know this is going to be difficult. But it's an approach that hadn't occurred to me, so here goes.

Today's Yankee About Whom I Will Write Something Nice:

Randy Johnson



The short hair is a good look for you.
Boy. You sure are one helluva pitcher.
I hope your knee cartillage doesn't continue to deplete.
41 is a nice number.

Ok. That wasn't so bad.

And while I'm at it, a little something for the Blue Jays:

I hear Toronto's a nice city. I would like to visit it someday.
I once accidentally hit a blue jay with my dad's car and it got stuck behind the license plate. I felt really bad about it.

You know that permanent marker isn't permanent, right?

What is wrong with this picture (other than Jason Giambi looking as if he's about to eat this girl whole)?

This young woman's priorities are all out of whack. The primary objective here appears to be a groping from Mr. Giambi. While I'm sure getting felt up by a famous (if occasionally embattled) Yankee DH is very exciting, I imagine having an autograph on a thing that doesn't get washed or exfoliated (and therefore appreciates in value) is even better. Call me a pragmatist or not a true lover of the game. Having never had the urge to ask someone to sign my body, I guess I plain ol' don't get it. What I do get, though, is that sports memorabilia is worth quite a bit of money under optimum conditions.

Next time, missy, present a baseball or cocktail napkin or even your idiotic hat for the signing. Once the valuable signature is secured, if you really need to, ask him to palm the breast. I'm sure he'd be happy to oblige. And look! Now you have a potentially lucrative investment to sell on eBay when you simply must have another matching tube top and plaid baseball-cum-trucker cap from A&F.


Note: photo is via the BRILLIANT baseball gossip blog On The DL. Try it. You'll like it.

Earned derision.

Fear it. Love it. Most of all, respect it.

People, a little bit of cleavage is a powerful thing (as I learned in the last episode of 'Kitchen Confidential,' or you know, a hundred years ago in that episode of Seinfeld). A lot of cleavage is a dangerous thing. You can incite violent ardor with it. And you can lose things like beer nuts or Tokyo in it.

I was witness to the awesome terror of too much cleavage on Saturday night. We were celebrating Josh's 25th. Toby was in town. There were army men on the cake, a High Life in my hand, and a killer game of Bullshit on the table. All was well with the world (cue up ominous don't-go-in-the-basement music here)... and then....

A complete (lady) stranger sidled up to us, with the better part of her generous bosom spilling out of her tube dress. It was a perfectly lovely dress, except the bodice was barely staving off a breach of areolae. I had spotted this while she was at the bar for a beverage, but I thought we were safe (after all, why would you sidle up to people you don't know with your breasts on the verge of escape?), but just like that, there they were... PLACED ON A LEDGE IN MY FACE. The breasts, with divine intervention, stayed put in their flowered trussing. She chatted with us amiably, but we were powerless, hopelessly confused - unconcerned with her reasons for striking up a conversation with us in the first place. How does one converse with a stranger who's about demonstrate her worthiness of Mardi Gras beads without being asked and without it being Mardi Gras?

Claire and I couldn't blink. We feared that if we disturbed the seismic equilibrium of the room in any way, they would come screaming out of their prison to crush us. Seth was rendered speechless, Josh hid himself behind a phalanx of army men and readied his helicopter for takeoff. Will forged bravely on and put down 8 kings. None of us knew why she'd chosen us to be her new friends, but confronted with a woman with a yard of cleavage, it didn't seem to matter. We just wanted to get out of it alive. Was she hiding an alien in there?

Then, just as quickly as she arrived, she departed and took the ladies with her. It was as if it never happened. My eyes remoistened, we moved on with our lives. But important questions linger: Why why why? Why would you leave home with seemingly imminent danger of breast escape?

Girl I Don't Know, you register a mere 4 on my Deride-ometer. It was not the most offensive thing I've ever encountered. I could hardly muster the ability to lift my drink nevermind the withering scorn I reserve for an elite few.

I thank whatever force was holding them in, and I thank you, Girl I Don't Know, for teaching us all a lesson in the terrifying power of the cleavage. Next time, I think I can speak for all of us when I say: Please refrain from showing us quite so much of your tits. Thanks and God Bless.



Relatedly, a Google image search for "cleavage" is a funny* thing. I felt this image of "cytokinesis in animals" most inspires the special kind of revulsion that I experienced Saturday night.**

* by "funny," I mean "upsetting."
**I also felt that the results of a Google image search for "yard-long cleavage" might burn my retinas.

Prost!

Wheat beers (or Weissebiers) are an excellent accompaniment to hot summer days spent grilling with friends, playing bocce, or cheering your favorite international teams in the World Cup. Here are a few of my favorites, two Hefeweizens, and one Weizen, all for less than $10 for a six pack.

First, a primer on Weissbiers (though if you want a full rundown, be sure to check out wikipedia).

Weissebier is brewed using a quantity of malted wheat, which gives it its pale color (though it's not "weisse," or "white" as the name implies). Hefeweizen is left unfiltered, so the beer appears cloudy from the yeast proteins left in, whereas Weizen beers are filtered. It's traditional to add a wedge of lemon to a Weisse, which adds another dimension of flavor to the beer itself.

Hefeweizens, like those brewed by Widmer Brothers ($10 for a six pack) and Hofbräu München ($8), offer a pleasant freshness with a slightly bitter finish. Depending on the malts used to make the beer, they can have smoky or spicy notes that go well with many foods, from Indian and Thai to your grilled BBQ chicken to a nice piece of fish. Smuttynose Brewing Company's Summer Weizen Ale ($8.50) is an interesting hybrid of wheat beer and ale. It's filtered, so it lacks the cloudy look and soft foamy head of traditional Weissebiers, but it has a great balance of smooth start with a slight bite to finish. Wheat beers are eternally sippable and cooling. So, pick up a few and don't forget the lemon!

Also recommended: Brooklyner Weisse, Hoegaarden, Blue Moon Belgian White.

Store Review: Eagle Provisions Company

Though it's easy to believe that South Slope in Brooklyn drops off after Prospect Avenue, those who live in the neighborhood know to venture just a bit farther along 5th Avenue, for the "epicurian delights" of Eagle Provisions Co. may be found at the corner of 18th Street in Brooklyn.

It may not be as inexpensive as the C-Town on 9th Street, but Eagle Provisions boasts a selection rarely found in New York grocery stores without big crowds or markups worthy of Union Square real estate. The shelves are filled with hard-to-find European snacks, candies, and spreads. The deli counter offers homemade keilbasa by the pound, bacon sliced while you wait, fresh sauerkraut, and pierogi.

Originally intended to serve the Polish community in that part of Brooklyn, Eagle Provisions is by far the best place to go in Park Slope if you want to get creative with your summer barbeque. The meat section and deli counter are just the beginning, because the store offers an unparalleled beer selection. They have all the standard sixers, from Brooklyn to Red Hook to Magic Hat, but you would do well to get adventurous and take home a few bottles of some of the rarer Polish or Czech brews to accompany your pierogi.

I would avoid the high prices and inconsistent quality of the produce, and visit some 5th Ave's greengrocers instead.

Eagle Provisions Co.

628 5th Ave, Brooklyn, NY

(718) 499-0026

Best bets: Beer, Polish specialties like kielbasa and pierogi, sauerkraut, deli meats, chocolate and snacks.
Pricing: Reasonable (good six packs of beer for $9-10, 6 pierogi for $2.99, top round cuts of beef for $4.49, etc.), but it can be more expensive than chains in the area when it comes to produce and other basics.
Getting There: Convenient to the R train at Prospect Avenue and the B63 bus.

Recipe: The Mohan Family's Blueberry Cake

Nothing tastes like summer quite as much as fresh blueberries. They're delicious on your morning cereal or by the handful, straight off the bush. Where I grew up in New England, blueberry picking was a popular summertime activity for families with children, and once the freezer was stocked with enough berries for a whole winter of pancakes, blueberry pies and crumbles abounded.

I've never particularly enjoyed the texture of blueberry pies or cobblers, and to me, this blueberry cake—a family favorite passed from my grandmother to my father to me—is a perfect use of summer's best fruit. This cake is at its very best when you use wild blueberries, straight off the bush. For those of us who live in cities, as I now do, those are nearly impossible to come by, so any fresh blueberries will do. Don't bother with frozen, however... they're too fragile and you could well end up with just a gray cake!



The Mohan Family's Blueberry Cake
For the cake:
1 3/4 cups all-purpose unbleached flour
2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla
1/2 cup milk (whole is best)
1 stick of unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup sugar
1 large egg
1 1/2 cups blueberries (preferably wild, if available; rinsed, dried, and tossed with 4 tsp. of the flour)
For the topping:
1 Tbs. sugar
1 tsp. cinnamon (or to taste... I like lots of cinnamon)

- Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Grease and flour a parchment-lined 8x8x2 pan (though a 9x5x3 loaf pan works well and makes the cake highly portable for brunches and barbeques!).
- In a medium bowl, mix flour, baking powder and salt together. Set aside.
- In a large bowl, with your mixer's paddle attachment, cream together butter and sugar in. Add egg and vanilla and beat on high until the mixture is light and creamy.
- With the mixer set on low, gradually add the flour mixture a third at a time, alternating with the milk until combined. You may need to scrape down the sides of the bowl at this stage to make sure the flour is well combined. The batter will be quite thick.
- With a rubber spatula, gently fold in the blueberries until evenly distributed in the batter.
- Pour the batter into the prepared pan and smooth out the top. Sprinkle the top with cinnamon-sugar mixture.
- Bake in preheated oven for 50 minutes, or until a skewer inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean. Cool on a wire rack before slicing.

This cake is great with coffee for an indulgent breakfast, and I also recommend it in the afternoon with a cold glass of lemonade.

But will they do a fabulous fan dance?

This seems like a worthwhile pursuit.

Battle Robots Could Join Dogs on S. Korea Border

SEOUL (Reuters) - Armed, six-legged robots may one day work alongside man's best friend on the southern side of the Korean DMZ.

South Korea will spend 33.4 billion won over the next five years to develop the robots for the heavily fortified demilitarised zone that divides the peninsula, the Communications Ministry said in a statement Friday.

South Korea envisages the robots performing roles on the battlefield now done by dogs, such as sniffing for explosives and catching intruders, the ministry said.

The robots will stand knee-high to the average adult, mounted on wheels for road missions or on as many as eight legs to get them over uneven terrain, it said. Equipped with firearms, they will be able to carry out combat missions via remote control.

South Korea's Defense Ministry announced plans this month to reduce the number of its troops in uniform by about 25 percent over 15 years and develop more high-tech weapons systems.

North Korea maintains most of its 1.2-million-strong army near its border with the South. The two Koreas are technically still at war because the 1950-1953 Korean War ended in an armistice and not a peace treaty.

DMZ-trolling robots? Terrifying and expensive. And on the whole, Odd Enough. Thank you Reuters.

Viacom killed the video star, and pretty much everything else

I don't mean to turn today into "Rock Day," mostly because it is already Toby Day.

However, Mark Morford of the San Francisco Chronicle has posted a great column about the dueling mediocrity of MTV and Fashion Week as heralding the death rattle of the mainstream Sex 'n' Rock culture (find the column here, and be sure to check out the slide show, with commentary). A snippet:

When you've nowhere to turn and all seems bleak and desperate and warlike and Bush, it has been the all-American maxim lo this past multitude of years to exclaim, perhaps quietly, perhaps over a long, slow Martini, perhaps during a long tongue bath from a needful lover or whilst you sit in the tub sipping laudanum, feeling as though the world is trying to maul your spirit like the GOP molests joy, well, at least we still have rock 'n' roll.

And models. At least we still have rock 'n' roll and hot fashion models. And porn. And dim sum. And iPods and dogs and yoga and fine artisanal cheeses. But for our purposes here let's focus on the first two because rock and models, they seem to collude and interact and inbreed like happy Republican frat boys, and they are true cornerstones of our gloriously excessive and materialistic culture, and as such we've been able to exclaim, well, at least we have those to provide comfort and juicy, sweaty balm.

Unless we don't. Do we? Oh holy crap. Do we anymore?

It would appear we don't. Look here. I have just witnessed, via the wonderfully distancing and icily cold medium of television, two of the largest and most significant avatars of these twin forces of culture, the MTV Video Music Awards and Fashion Week in New York. And I am here nursing a glass of Oban 15 and pining for the lost days of Guns N' Roses and a coked-up Steven Tyler to tell you, oh holy hell, the center cannot hold. Rock is dead. Models are threadbare and nasty. We are doomed.

The premise here, while not entirely new, resonates with me. Yeah, we know MTV hasn't meant anything to music or culture for a decade, maybe more. We know this, because we who are in our twenties or older saw it rot. Imagine, though, the implications for the children. By which I mean teenagers, who frighten me, but about whom I worry. Because they may not know that Hilary Duff would not have a "Greatest Hits" album in a world that made sense.

I'll never claim to be in the know in matters of music. I'm not hip or indie, I'm mostly just grouchy. There are things on my iPod that earn derisive snorts from people I know (Dammit, Justified is a good album! Shuddup!). And, for the most part, I believe you should listen to what you like, I mean - it's your money and your ears... But there was a time when what was on MTV wasn't so offensive and humiliating, wasn't there? Am I taking crazy pills?

And the kids, they don't know any better.




Serendipitously enough, Josh is also pissed off about MTV today.



(image from cityofthornton.net)

Clap Your Hands Say I Love "Your Body Is A Wonderland"

The summer concert season has wound down. CMJ is now a faint hangover. CBGB is on the verge (or not, I can’t keep track…) of closing forever. What’s a punk/indie/emo-core/rock/alt-something fan to do? Prepare yourself for colder weather and closer venues and remember these handy tips when you’re heading out to a concert (or “show,” if you’d prefer) this Fall.

My concert-going advice (in ascending order of importance), have been anecdotally compiled by me and a few music-loving friends over many concert experiences (and post-concert postmortems) here in beautiful New York City:

10. Dress the part. Fitted t-shirts are a must-wear in the dark clubs and lounges of Gotham, as any NYC concertgoer worth his salt knows. Extra points if it’s the concert t-shirt for the band you have paid to see. That way, everyone knows you’re there for the music, maaan, and not because of some band review you read in Time Out. Extra extra points if you wear the t-shirt of the opening band. This makes you edgy and with-it. Also, you heard it here first: Trucker hats are circling back to ironic. Serious.

9. Sing along. You and the people around you have spent a goodly amount of that assistant/paralegal/intern salary to see this show, so it’s very important that you drown out the singer/band with your own voice (lifted in harmony with your compatriots-in-rock). This will recreate the singing-along-with-your-iPod-Shuffle-in-your-bedroom experience for all of us.

8. Dance, dance, dance! This includes, but is not limited to: jumping up and down with your arms firmly at your sides, waving your arms in a helicopter motion above your head, leaping about as if electrocuted, punching the air in time to the music, and pouring full beers onto the floor at a critical moment in the song.

7. Make requests. Loudly. This shows your vast knowledge of the band’s catalogue. Extra points if you request songs that members wrote and performed while in a different band many years ago (for instance, request a Modern Lovers’ tune at a Jonathan Richman show. He seems to like that.). And it’s always OK to want to hear "Freebird."

6. Display your affection publicly in a confined space. If you are attending a concert with your boy/girlfriend, it is imperative that you spend the duration of the performance making out with and groping (Over the panties, no bra!) him/her. If you don’t make it absolutely clear that you will be leaving the venue to have hot, sweaty, ears-ringing sex in your Williamsburg loft when the show’s over, the rest of us will be confused as to your dating status. And we can’t have that.

5. Throw your empty $4 Rheingold cans on the floor after you’ve dumped the warm dregs on the shoes of the person next to you. Step on and kick the can. Kick other cans that may be in the vicinity.

4. Opine. Take heed, this is different from making requests or singing. When you opine to the band between songs or while they tune, it’s important to let them know, as loudly as you can (and hopefully into the ear canal of the person next to you) just where you think they fit into the Rock Pantheon. Are they “Better than Dylan?” “A LEGEND?” Perhaps you’d prefer to express more intimate feelings, such as “I love yoouuuuu!” All of these are acceptable, as long as you punctuate with a fist in the air and a “Wooooo!”

3. Prolong the rock for as long as you can. When it’s all over, when the encore has been rocked and the last Springsteen cover strummed, you should absolutely continue the applause. Who would want to end this feeling, this rockin’ euphoria? Not me. But when the house lights come up and it’s clear that you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here, you should file out of the doors of the venue as slowly as possible.

2. Opine to your friends on the walk to the subway. This is different from opining during the show. When it’s all over, you might begin to return to yourself and feel self-conscious about your dancing, screeching, groping, or inappropriate-song-requesting. Fortunately, you have the train ride home to recover your aloofness. You should offer a stolid critique of the show – from opener to roadie-stage-change-music to headliner. What went right? What went wrong? What did Pitchfork tell you to expect? Did the experience live up to your expectations? Was it better than Death Cab at Siren that time? Better than Modest Mouse in Prospect Park? Or are you let down? Have you determined to never see anything that isn’t CMJ again?

1. Wear your venue wristband – the one that the bouncer put on haphazardly and is therefore pulling at your armhair and collecting fibers from your vintage t-shirt when you cross your arms – all the way home, to bed, and to work the following morning.

image from gktgazette.com

I just called to say "up yours."

Busy at the day job today, so I don't know that I'll be posting much. However, I do want to issue my official statement to the Boston Red Sox:

Screw you.

That is all.

Something to Read in the Late Afternoon If You're Bored: Mocking the married.

According to Sex and the City, "The New York Times' Sunday wedding announcements page is like the Sports section for women."

According to me, the Sports page is the Sports page (though the Times' sports coverage is dicey, which is a different post for a different day) and the wedding announcements are terrifying. Sometimes I peruse them - out of morbid curiousity. How many MBAs are "tying the knot" this weekend? How many wealthy people are gearing up for divorce 36 months after a really opulent party at the Waldorf? So exciting! Really makes you believe in the power of love. And, you know, a good portfolio.

Well, Zach of Veiled Conceit takes it further and takes them (bride, groom, writer, bystanders) down. And it is hilarious.

I've linked to a favored post of mine, about a couple comprising a divorced former teacher who now works at Southeby's and his much younger former student (whom he met when she was 17). Fan-friggin-tastic.

I apologize for mining my blogs list for STRITLAIYB, but the dayjob has been busy, so I haven't been foraging too far away from the Web haunts lately.

Lookee Maw, I'm the prezdent!

Photoshop is sometimes the best therapy.


(With many thanks to my dad and his hip-and-with-it Swiss colleague Guido for bringing the photo to my attention.)

Something to Read in the Late Afternoon If You're Bored: Fossil Fuels, Bull Semen

From Brian Sack, the proprietor of Banterist (which is brilliant, by the by), here is a list of things that cost more by the gallon than gasoline, published in Radar Magazine online:

Black Gold vs. Black Angus

Who feels better about gas? Or worse about buying lattes?

(image from arb.ca.gov)

For serious.

Cut it out, you dicks. You're killing me over here.

Tampa Bay? Really? Are any of you paying attention? Who the hell are you people?

Yeah, that's right. This is the part of the year when we the faithful turn on you like a pack of hungry dingoes. You disgust us. And it has to stop. Those nice men are paying you a lot of money. We are giving you our time and we have given you our patience. We liked the four game lead when it wasn't important, but would you please, for the love of all that is holy, hold on to a damned 1 1/2 game lead when you're playing Tampa Frickin' Bay? What are you, the Yankees circa a month ago? Catch the fly and, you know, hold onto it. Get a hit. Stop stranding runners. You're driving me insane.

Many thanks to Hansen for pulling his weight. Welcome to the hell that is late season Red Sox baseball, Craig. I hope you have a strong stomach.

[B]y night's end, Craig Hansen was the best thing the Red Sox had going for them, the 97-mile-per-hour fastball he displayed in a scoreless fifth inning a testament to youth and energy, two characteristics that the weary Sox seem to be lacking at the most vital time.

Wells, only slightly more effective than Matt Clement a day earlier, lasted a mere 2 2/3 innings, surrendering four runs on 10 hits in a crushing 8-7 loss to the Devil Rays last night. The issue? An inflamed right knee that is likely to be injected with cortisone between now and Wells's next start, Sunday at Baltimore.

Tony Graffanino, meanwhile, exited in the third inning, after straining his left groin. Trot Nixon fell ill before the game and needed two bags of IV fluid. Terry Francona promptly wiped Nixon's name off the white lineup card, which Francona said his right fielder ''looked the color of." That landed Adam Hyzdu in the starting lineup in Game No. 150 of the season. (Chris Snow, boston.com)

They're all sick and weak and tired. Me too. My back is knotted, my knees tremble, I can't focus, I find myself filled with unspeakable ire. And I'm not even playing. Why am I held together with bailing twine and Aleve, propelled, sleep-deprived, by rage? You know what would make us all feel better? A win! Maybe a couple in a row? We have a half-game lead in the East and if it all goes to hell over the next few days, well, it seems unlikely that we'll get the wild card.

I'm sure I'll be saying it again, but I'm beggin' ya: Stop screwing the pooch. I can't take it. I cannot continue pacing my apartment from computer to television (from Sox scores online to Yankees game on TV) like a caged animal. It's undignified. Would you just give a girl a little peace of mind? If I start losing my hair, and having Aaron Boone nightmares as October approaches, so help me....

Also: Found a great Sox blog via Deadspin. He also calls them names, which I appreciate right now: The Joy of Sox.

(image of "Boomer, the pooch-screwer" from boston.com)

Something to Read in the Late Afternoon If You're Bored: I'm All Right Jack Keep Your Hands Off of My Stack

Apparently, New York Magazine does their annual salary survey every year (since 1972), but I just haven't been paying attention. Though, when it comes to learning what other denizens of New York make yearly or pay in rent, 9 times out of 10 I'd rather not know. There's no need to go looking for reasons to feel insecure.

Some highlights: John Lennon and Andy Warhol raked in $20 and $16 million, respectively. And Page Six gossip columnist Richard Johnson makes the same as Tom Friedman ($300,000). Also, the editorial director of Conde Nast makes half of what Anna Wintour makes.

Ah New York. Inflated salaries at the top, shriveled ones at the bottom, and absurd cost of living for everyone. I suppose it keeps us hungry. In the non-metaphorical sense as well (a Chinese food delivery man makes a scant four figures... so tip well!). And yet... and yet I love it here. Deeply and desperately. Nope. I can't explain it either.

So read the New York salary guide. They've got everyone from Pedro Martinez to 50 cent (who made more than [P.] Diddy).

So. Freakin'. Cool.

Jack Shafer (my very favorite media critic) has a great column in Slate today about how newpaper layouts used to be in the time of Joseph Pulitzer. Full color, with images telling a story and whetting your appetite for text, rather than the scattered images in today's layouts.

This one of a submarine encountering a whale is, frankly, kickass, so I thought I'd share.

Indeed, the article itself is great, so check it out.

"Pay out, Mother. Pay out! There she sounds through the window!"

Gil, if you happen to read this, I expect this full scene to be tattooed on your back once you're done with the bison.

Erratum

In my last post, I mentioned that Switzerland would never allow its cities to languish under water. Yesterday, my very hip and with-it expatriate mother informed me that Bern and a few other Swiss cities were in fact under water for a spell in August, after the torrential rains ("like a cow pissing on a flat rock," was, I believe my parents' choice of simile at the time) that hit central Europe. According to an AP report from 8/25:

Across the Alps, military helicopters were ferrying in supplies to valleys cut off by flooding and evacuating stranded tourists -- and even cows -- isolated in mountain pastures by the rising waters.

The total number of fatalities, according to Swissinfo on 8/25, were 5 (in the Bern area, which was one of the hardest hit), and damages were estimated at 1 billion CHF. But dammit, they saved some cows. Pretty snappy-looking choppers, right?

Anyway, I regret the error. Though I stand by the idea that a Swiss logistician in New Orleans would not come amiss.

Helvetica uber alles

My very hip and with-it expatriate mother sent me some links so that I may keep up with the news in our adopted country of Switzerland. Which means, as I get more and more excited about my distant holiday in Zurich, I'll be posting all about such important things as Gruyere, watches, and digging tunnels through mountains.

Anyway, the point of this particular post is that the Swiss, upon hearing of the Katrina disaster, began preparing a shipment of 50 tons of medical supplies, blankets, tarpaulins, tents, and hygiene kits to ship to Louisiana. They also planned to send 8 Swiss experts in logistics, medicine, and water.

Switzerland was informed, along with 121 other countries who offered aid, that while their offer was generous, it would not be needed (this is of course after initially accepting the offer and having them prepare the shipment. charming, no?).

Full article on Swissinfo.

Now, call me crazy, but letting Swiss logistics experts help out with the recovery effort seems to be the best idea ever, especially when all the people in charge for a good chunk of time were complete fuck-ups. For those who have never been to Switzerland, know that it's a tiny country that is organized perfectly. Their rivers run straight, Alpine runoff is potable, and no city of theirs would likely find itself under water. Granted, they're way, waaaaay above sea level, but still. These are people that check the floors of their train stations DAILY for cracks in the tile. You won't catch them using 50-100 year-old water pumps. They repave the roads in Adliswil, where Fam T. Mohan currently resides, literally every summer.

I have said for years that we need a couple of Swiss to come on over here and fix up our trains and show us how to run an effective recycling program (not to mention teach us how to play a kickass game of tennis). They offer to come over and help fix New Orleans for FREE, and we turn them down?

Look at them, packing everything in neat little crates. Who can argue with that?

Why are we such swaggering cowboy jerkfaces?

Something to Read in the Late Afternoon If You're Bored: Science is fun!

BoingBoing posted a list of their "greatest hits" today, and this one is fantastic. The Periodic Table of Haiku. My personal favorite:

56 Barium

the bitter cocktail
of a colonoscopy --
grin and barium

(image from the hilarious site Phoons from Around the World, which you should also check out if you're feeling sassy)

That's about right.

I spoke too soon last week. Schill spit the bit again last night against the A's. Now, I have to say, if we're losing to anyone, I like that it's the A's. Those guys are scrappy and talented and if the Sox manage to hang on to the AL East with their fingernails (which isn't looking all that good, I'll admit), I would like for the A's to come out on top of the Wild Card. They deserve it. Billy Beane deserves it. They are a worthy adversary and I salute them.

However, it's late in the season and the Red Sox have got to frickin' buck up. Don't go getting our hopes up with a 4 game lead and then squander it.

Tonight, it's Wakefield (who does not enjoy having his neck waxed) on the mound. He is the most consistent, and most consistently overlooked member of the pitching staff. Here's hoping he can stop the bleeding.

(image from boston.com)

Something to Read in the Late Afternoon If You're Bored: Beverages, Vicarious Nostalgia

The 7-Eleven never achieved ubiquity in my growing up. In my area of southern NH, it was all about Cumberland Farms, which we high-schoolers called "Cumbie's." So, while I don't have the nostalgia going full tilt here (I have never had a Slurpee in my life...), I greatly enjoyed this piece in Slate about the 40th birthday of the Slurpee by David Amsden. It's part nostalgia, part outrage at 7-Eleven's attempt at becoming more middlebrow.

Still, 7-Eleven makes me think of loiterers and Winona Ryder's attachment to the Big Gulp in Reality Bites, even if they are trying to pull a Dunkin' Donuts.

The muggy weather, though, has me thinking that a Slurpee wouldn't be entirely out of order. 7-Eleven anyone?

Oh Sweet Merciful Ted Williams.

You may remember yesterday morning's obligatory Red Sox-related post about Johnny Damon's encouraging prognosis regarding his shoulder. I wrote that I was pleased and relieved to have Gabe Kapler back from Japan (since July, but he hasn't played all that much... why play him with Damon on a wicked tear?) with Damon ailing.

Oh the hubris. The hubris got me. Last night, Kapler, who plays baseball like it's a contact sport (bless him), ruptured his Achilles' tendon. Whilst running the bases on Graffanino's homer, he collapsed, feeling as if he'd been struck in the heel with a baseball. Everyone thought he'd tripped, but as it turned out, he couldn't walk unassisted. He did, however, want to complete the play and run home, but Francona nixed that and they put in Machado to pinch run. Recovery time for such an injury? 12 to 18 months. Number of good back-up centerfielders left? 0. They're calling up Hydzu from the PawSox, but I'm not optimistic. His last big club stint was hitless. Johnny - pull yourself together. Stat.

Frickin' late season drama.

Deadspin's post on the incident is good (with a bonus link regarding Kapler's status as much-loved pin up boy for the gays AND the Jews). Have a gander.

(image from giants.jp)

Something to Read in the Late Afternoon If You're Bored: U.S. Government

I got this little baby courtesy of the venerable Manhattan User's Guide....

An invaluable resource when arguing with some jackass about the Electoral College:

Things That Are Not In The U.S. Constitution

And, on the off-chance that you don't feel like reading anything, but do feel like enjoying a bit of a mindfuck, go to Zoomquilt, which I rediscovered via MUG while tracking down the link above.

"Then we had this wicked keggah, bra."

In an apparently unironic display of college-aged mischief and animal cruelty, a group of pranksters from Stonehill College stole a sheep and a chicken from a farm in Easton. The spray-painted the sheep, dressed it in a bra, and left it in a dorm.

"While the chicken is unharmed, Babineau said, the sheep seemed distraught from the experience."

The kicker? This is the SECOND time someone at Stonehill has stolen a sheep from the same farm and dressed it in a bra.

Come on, people. Why don't you just give up all pretense of michievious creativity and put a Volkswagon on the roof of the dining hall, or run a pair of boxers up the flagpole on the quad? That said, the article itself is hilarious... the somber quotes from Stonehill officials, the "distraught" sheep.

Read the full story on Boston.com (reg. required) and feel comfortably superior to these people.

As an afterthought, the NH farm girl in me is somewhat impressed. It is extremely difficult to get a sheep to do anything it doesn't want to do. They are wily, strong, and constantly shitting, which makes them a formidable opponent in any physical struggle.

Ok. Ok. Don't freak out.

Johnny Damon's MRI was negative for structural damage. Huzzah!

Of course, this is only the silver lining to the Red Sox news of the day - which is that they lost last night and the Yanks won, meaning we now have a 2.5 game lead. Which is not much. And, as we all know, there is just as much likelihood that things will go horribly wrong at the end of the season as they will go ecstatically well. I suppose, though, if we can keep our cutoff men from throwing balls at the ground, if the real Schilling shows up regularly, if Damon can fucking throw (who else is wicked relieved to have Kapler back?), and maybe Clement will stop, I don't know, giving up 5 runs in one inning?

Just my little wishlist.

(image via Google from newsweek.com)

Something to Read in the Late Afternoon If You're Bored: Slang

Apparently, someone (I'll bet it was someone snarky!) invented the term "jumping the couch" to describe someone who's gone off the deep end. It is, of course, a reference to Tom Cruise's psychotic display on Oprah. There is an extensive Wikipedia entry on this new addition to our lexicon. Check it out.

Also, an amusing catalogue of shark jumpers, which was my original intention with this post. Today's a twofer. How about that?

Why yes, my nephew is a monkey.

''To the extent the federal government didn't fully do its job right, I take responsibility,'' Bush said.

It's probably a trick of some kind, right?

If you have a look at the full article (AP story via NYT, reg. required), you'll see that the whole thing doesn't have the force of an apology or an admission that he and all of his handlers seriously effed up by staying on vacation while people were, you know, stranded and drowning, but still. The headline is alarming. "Bush Takes Responsibility..." I didn't think he ever, EVER did that publicly.

Granted, Halliburton has the contract for cleaning up the mess, so it's not like he has learned his lesson or mended his ways of cronyism and fuckingupism, which gets us into "the shit" in the first place.

I am, however, tentatively intrigued. I await Thursday night's address with interest, because if he sort of "takes responsibility" today, has he not sort of blown the proverbial newsmaking load? What is he going to say?

"Hain't we got the tekmology?"

The WWF has tagged a bunch of leatherback turtles in Central and South America (though the one in this photo was caught and tagged in Monterrey... still a handsome fella, though, right?) with satellite transmitters. This allows them to track their migratory patterns from nesting beaches to feeding grounds thousands of miles away.

In and of itself, scientists tracking turtles isn't exciting news. What IS exciting (in a "I'm a raging nerd" kind of way) is that you can track them, too.

The WWF has posted each tagged turtle's route on the Internet. It shows their position, how deep they dive and for how long. It's pretty friggin' cool.

As is the leatherback, the largest marine turtle, whose shell is not made of bony plates like other turtles, but soft tissue.

And for $10k to the WWF, you can sponsor one of the tagged turtles. I'm gonna get one and keep it in my bathtub, protect him from dangerous fishing nets and plastic bags. It'll be like Free Willy... he'll leap over the jetty and swim to freedom as I look tearily on.

But I digress. Here's the Reuters article about the project (Link).

And here's where you can track the turtles: WWF site.

They named one of them Shelldon.

Why yes, I did do a middle school project on the leatherback turtle... how did you guess?

Something to Read in the Late Afternoon If You're Bored: Red Sox History Lesson

I think I've mentioned that I'm in a fall baseball state of mind. The last 21 games of this season is shaping up to have command performances from some of the best players in the game, if the weekend's activities are any indication. There's a hot Wild Card race in the AL (go you A's!), and the Red Sox and Yankees are busy setting the stage for, we hope, a dramatic close to the season in three short weeks.

Anyway, in the spirit of the season, I give bored cube-dwellers the scent of the dirt behind home plate and the thrill of waving a hit fair. School yourselves on the life and times of my fellow New Hampshirite and the eminent Red Sox catcher, Carlton Fisk.

Wikipedia entry

Manchester Union Leader

ESPN Classic

The Artful Roger's done it again.

I can't help it. I luuuurve Roger Federer. Forget Agassi and Roddick (and his much ballyhooed mojo). Federer's damned near unbeatable. Also he's Swiss, which means his passport's way cooler than yours, and his public transportation back home is the best in the world. I admit, I have a soft spot in my heart for any athlete (or team) from my family's adopted home (see also Simon Ammann, the ski-jumping imp who looks like Harry Potter), but with Roger, you just have to bow down.

Unless you're a staff writer for Reuters, in which case, you have to write the following somewhat hysterical headline: Federer Wrecks Agassi's Dream.

Some nuggets from the article:

On the fourth anniversary of the September 11 attacks on New York, 35-year-old Agassi graced the city with a display that was in equal part stubborn and inspired before bowing to the superiority of the superlative Swiss.

Alliteration is fun! As is a very personal fixation on Agassi's "dream":

The world number one was almost apologetic at having deflated a raucous 24,797-strong crowd who had been living out their and Agassi's American dream when he led 4-2 in the third set.

I don't want to cast aspersions on this reporter, but I think the article is a little, well, weird - implying at times that Agassi (who I think took only one set of the match) was robbed. Roger's made out to be this Big Bad Swiss (is there such a thing?) who ruined everyone's Sunday. Then there's the refrain of the Sept. 11th anniversary and the American vs. the Swiss. I mean, the Swiss are pretty innocuous, and this is tennis we're talking about here. Dial it down.

In the fourth set and it was hard not to feel sorry for [Agassi] as he was passed repeatedly.

One final, mis-timed backhand put him out of his misery and allowed the Swiss to turn triumphantly to his supporters in almost the only part of the stadium that had wanted him to win.

Ok, fine. It's the U.S. Open after all and Agassi is an American "sentimental favorite." But Roger has lost only three of the 74 matches he's played this year. Want it or not, he's probably going to win.

Anyway, read the whole article. It's interesting in a weird "hey, did anyone read this before they published it?" kind of way: Federer Wrecks Agassi's Dream

One more thing about Roger and I'll stop. He's at the top of the heap, a star athlete and whatnot, but he has no agent or hard-core management team chasing down endorsements, no entourage, no one speaking for him to the press or telling him what to wear when he goes out. He could be raking in millions, but isn't. He appears to legitimately enjoy playing tennis. Strange, right?

Just sayin'. With all the BS these days with "juiced" athletes getting gentle wrist-pats for cheating, other megastars shilling for anyone and everyone (see Derek Jeter's recent Ford campaign, which makes me want to poke out my eyes... but that could be related to my anti-Jeter bias), not to mention the over-inflated egos and dramas of some of these people... it's nice to see a guy out there just playing some damned tennis. And he's Swiss to boot. What's cooler than that?

(image via BBC.co.uk)

Wait. Seriously?

I need to become a crony. It's a good racket.

At least two major corporate clients of lobbyist Joe Allbaugh, President George W. Bush's former campaign manager and a former head of the Federal Emergency Management Agency, have already been tapped to start recovery work along the battered Gulf Coast.

One is Shaw Group and the other is Halliburton subsidiary Kellogg Brown and Root. Vice President Dick Cheney is a former head of Halliburton.

Full article via Wired News. Read it and barf.

The Real Curt Schilling stood up.

Thank Gawd. After yesterday's horrid loss, this is exactly what we needed. A little reinvigoration of faith.

You were amazing, man. Not that I'm ready to stop worrying about you or anything, 'cause I will. I wouldn't be much of a Red Sox fan if I didn't.

All the same, welcome back. We missed you.

Introducing: Something to Read in the Late Afternoon if You're Bored

Dearest legions of loyal readers,

I have heard your plea. You, the coordinators, assistants, students, para-whatevers of The Blog's TK's (can I do that? two apostrophes, one contraction, one possessive... right after one another? why yes, I can! This is Internet self-publishing, baby!) constituency, are bored. In that is-it-five-yet sort of way. You could comb the vast reaches of the Internet(s) for entertainment, but why do that when you can mosey on over to my little corner of cyberspace to slake your lust for the amusing, the cerebral, the upsetting, or the bizarre.

Each weekday afternoon, I will endeavor to bring you something that will please or titillate. Because you're good people and you deserve it.

Today's morsel is from McSweeney's Internet Tendency, a particular favorite of mine. A contributor imagines the aristocrats joke as told by Bob Newhart. It is hilarious:

"The Aristocrats" As I Think Bob Newhart Would Perform It.

Hm. It occurs to me that you may not have seen the movie "The Aristocrats" or heard the joke. I suggest you remedy this immediately. See the movie. It is foul (but in a good way).

Otherwise, this is a good thing to read in the late afternoon if you're bored and don't know anything about the aristocrats joke (also from McSweeney's):

Totalitarian Institutions That Would Have Been More Fitting For George Orwell's 1984, Considering How That Year Turned Out

(image via Google from learnnc.org)

I love the smell of righteous indignation.

Everyone's probably seen all of these already, but Salon.com has a truly amazing "highlight reel" of various and sundry TV reporters taking various bullshit-spewers (from Chertoff to "Brownie" to Sean Hannity) to task.

It is an orgasmic display of journalistic cojones.

I'm posting the link here, though it's likely you'll have to watch the customary salon.com "intramercial," but stay with it. You'll also need Quicktime... But, by Jim Lehrer's deep brown eyes is it ever worth it.

Reporters Gone Wild

Laugh, then cry.

Sent 'round the office today. Thought I'd share.

Three cheers for Photoshop used to reveal a sad truth about the state of our White House!

Doing my paht.

There are 23 games left to play in the season, and my scarlet-stockinged heroes are coming to town. I have been looking forward to this series for weeks.

My refrigerator is stocked with Sam Adams Boston Lager and Ale, I have removed the cat hair from my "B"cap, and my little New England-loving head is full of late-season hype. I am ready.

We are holding steady at 4 games ahead in the East and Cleveland pulled ahead in the Wild Card. This is the most magical of seasons (fall baseball, two of my favorite things all at the same time). It's a season in which I burn things with the Yankees logo or pictures of Babe Ruth. No fooling. I feel I need to help the team, and since I'm not handy with a bat, why not put my lunacy and compulsive superstition to good use?

Last year I could burn things on my roof on the UES, and I believed that the ashes somehow floated uptown to curse the Death Star itself. Now, living in Brooklyn without easy roof access, I am feeling a bit adrift. What to do? I may well be arrested or beaten for an ablaze A-Rod effigy on the sidewalk in Brooklyn... So, I'm posting the above picture from last season instead. No need to Reverse the Curse. Today, I'm going to...

Invoke the Choke

May the baseball gods make it so.



And now, a little link fiesta in honor of the series:

The Soxaholix comic today is straight from my head, it would seem.

If you didn't love Big Papi Ortiz (and the fantastic Vladimir "Best Name in Baseball" Guerrero) already, now you will (reg. required).

Gawker Media does sports. I'm quite enjoying it.

Finally, get the 411 and get excited. It's time. (reg. required)

(image from boston.com)

This has to stop.

Apparently, Katie Holmes is considering a name change, to "Kate Cruise," both personally and professionally, once she is married to The Littlest Nutcase (link here - third item), because Tom calls her Kate and suggested she use it professionally. Groan.

The whole thing is quite possibly not true, as the source is unnamed in In Touch, which is not a bastion of good journalism, but still, what man goes ahead and names his future wife? An incredibly unhinged man... but usually unhinged men of his ilk don't have quite the same public forum, which is what makes this all so upsetting.

Agreed, yes, she's an adult and can make her own decisions, and is willingly participating in the most amazing PR scam in recent memory. All the same, I'm begging In Touch, and all the rest, to STOP COVERING HIM. It's the only way he'll learn.

Mrs. Cruise? Is this fame blitz really worth it? Really?

To own the truth, I was sort of pulling for "Katherine Mapother." Yes, Mapother is his real surname.

Enter winged pigs.

Much as I hate to admit it, David Brooks' column today did not make me vomit or howl with rage and pull my hair. Crazy, I know. Usually, I go to the Op-Ed pages on Sundays and Thursdays and read D. Bro with one eye, wincing. Color slowly creeps into my cheeks and the one-eyed reading becomes two-eyed furious skimming. I throw down the paper (or less romantically click away) and screech "I fricking hate that guy." His breathy, nipple-stroking love letter to John Roberts a few weeks ago nearly killed me. It was days before I could hold down food.

But today, I say to him: "Toosh." Today, D. Bro, you win. Granted, the column is of the fairly toothless variety, but I agree with you. Post-Katrina New Orleans is an opportunity to strike a blow against poverty in the region and we shouldn't let it go by. Check him out, kids... he's rational and not fellating the Bushies today: Katrina's Silver Lining. (reg. required)

Admittedly, this is not a difficult sentiment to agree with, but it planted the seed that led me over to Slate, where I found a convincing case for NOT rebuilding the parts of New Orleans that are currently under water. These parts of New Orleans are the poorest, the schools are terrible, unemployment is high, etc. So why would we want to plonk down some new buildings and have these people live their desperate lives in the same manner when that part of the city clearly wants to be a lake?

The shocking thing, for me, was reading on in the piece and discovering that I am in agreement with Dennis Hastert. Whuuuuu? Kinda makes sense, though, right? Help the displaced rebuild their lives in better neighborhoods in other cities, as my buddy David Brooks suggests, and you can help halt the cycle of poverty that has plagued families in these neighborhoods for years. Not a bad idea. It's not about a once-great city coming back, as Bush has said by way of comfort, it's about calling the situation like we see it (shitty), and seeking to improve it. We could have spent money to improve the levees, which may or may not have withstood the storm. Now, we can spend money helping thousands of people get back onto new and improved feet. Think of it! Better homes, jobs, and schools in other communities = halting the cycles of poverty, crime, and recidivism. It's so crazy it just might work!

However, it seems more likely that the Shrub-in-Chief will give another tax cut to the wealthy and then sip lemonade on Trent Lott's new porch.

As for me - in tentative agreement with Dennis Hastert and David Brooks in the same day. Knock me over with a feather.

Here's the Shafer piece: Don't Refloat

This is what happens when the Yankees have the day off...

Redefining the phrase "slow news day," NYT's sports section has a strange story about Charles Carroll, a Red Sox part-time employee, putting "a curse" on the Sox for neglecting to give him a World Series Ring. They gave out 500 rings after winning the Series, but for some reason, Mr. Carroll only got some measly watch.

"Carroll feels the Red Sox had led him to believe he would get a ring, then didn't give it to him."

Was he also promised a weekend place in the country? Picket fences, two kids and a dog? If only he'd give it up that one time... Those BASTARDS! Cutting a broad swath of lies and broken hearts across New England.

Not to minimize this man's pain... but really? Really? The New York Times covers the story of a guy who is taking back his fanhood and cursing the Red Sox anew. Apparently we can forget the Curse of the Bambino.

Tempted as I am to copy the whole story here, I'm going to do some real work today. So, here's the link (reg. required): How Winning World Series Cost the Red Sox a Fan.

As for the Hose themselves, they had a tough game against the White Sox yesterday. Still 3 games ahead in the AL East, but I sure would like Schill to start holding it together for more than 5 innings. On the bright side: his pitch count is up and he wasn't completely cuffed around.

Welcome to The Blog's TK...no spitting please.

As I mentioned in my first post, there will indeed be a purpose to this blog. Soon I'll be linking to things I've written, and doing some original writing and reporting - all with the goal of getting additional writing and reporting work in the future. Bear with me, legions of readers, while I work out the kinks and focus my ambitions and realize my limitations. Cultural relevance and voice are, as you may have guessed, TK.

If I may begin by somewhat jumping a shark, though: I have been noticing an inordinate amount of Subway spitting lately. Usually young men, usually a compulsive launching of loogies from the platform to the tracks. I don't know if I just missed it before, but boy it sure gets my gorge up, and as you may imagine, has recently got my dander up.

While I was pondering the shape and focus of this little venture of mine, I began to define it in terms of what I did not want. The first thing into my head?

No spitting. I want there to be no spitting because that sure is a gross habit.

Yeah, I know it is pretty much impossible to spit in cyberspace, but that was the first thing in my mind. As if I were defining the rules of my own little utopian nation. Of all the things I can't stand, that was my limit. Not war, pestilence, or John Mayer.

So there you have it. Public drunkenness, the New York Yankees, nasty comments about my slow enfeebling or use of the serial comma? Fine, fine, yeah, no problem. Spitting, however? Not here, people. Nosirree.

Vanquishing the things the get my gorge up one at a time. Next on my list? War, pestilence, John Mayer, and the Yankees. Look the fuck out.

Don't worry. Public drunkenness is OK by this utopian nation.

When life gives you lemons...

...throw them at people. Then explain to them how it's God's will that you throw lemons at them. They'll like it.

It's good that there are people making proverbial hay of Katrina's destruction.

New Orlean's acceptance of gays (specifically, the official endorsement of the Southern Decadence event) is to blame for the tragedy. Yes, that's right. Makes sense. Wasn't it the gays' fault when New York was attacked by terrorists? The Lord, he worketh in mysterious (and mightily convenient, for some) ways.

Also, there are evangelists being airlifted into the area with no food or water to hand out, but they are offering bibles and comfort (Reuters).

How nice.

The horsepeople of the apocalypse ride again (or perhaps "still").

It's all so perfect. Just as Stepford Judge Roberts made his triumphant entrance during the Rove Fracas, so too does Rehnquist make his exit while New Orleans is alternately drowning, sniping, and burning. Not that it's all a big conspiracy, but damn. What luck. They can focus their Political Machine of Terror on a new nominee, rather than explain why they gave Louisiana $30M instead of $78M, to repair the NEW ORLEANS LEVEES. Damn good thing we have that bridge in Alaska to look forward to, though.

If you need me, I'll be in Switzerland eating my weight in chocolate and weeping.

(image from encarta.msn.com)

And now we nurture my misguided sense of relevance

I'm blogging now. Just like you, your mom, and your Aunt Phyllis. I have been using the serial comma a lot longer than I have been blogging. Just to give a pont of reference.

"Mission Statement" (likely something like "to entertain myself"), class syllabus, lists of turn-ons, pictures of pets, and my real thoughts on the serial comma to come (or, if you'd prefer, TK). I'm just test-driving this jalopy at the moment.

Strong start. Strong start.