Thursday, June 18, 2009
Weighing In On Raul Ibanez
So there's been quite a bit of controversy lately about a blog post that was written featuring both the name Raul Ibanez (Left fielder for the Philadelphia Phillies) and the word steroids (If you'd like a thorough review of the issue, you can find one here). Being the most notable blogger in the history of the internet, I feel compelled to put my two cents in on this less-timely-than-it-was-last-week topic. So, just to help clear the issue up, I have heard from my sources that Raul Ibanez has never bought steroids, as he prefers to manufacture his own.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Prisoner's Dilemma
The year is 1951 and Senator Joseph McCarthy (R-Inferior Cheese State*) is leading a witchhunt for Communists via the media, who, for though I feel they are failing us almost completely these days, evidently weren't much better back then. He brings two Senators into his office and sits them down in front of his desk. He then informs them that he knows they're both Reds and has enough evidence to indict each of them, but not enough to get the sentence he believes they deserve. Therefore, he proposes that he will generously let whoever comes forth with the goods on the other first go free. If both squeal, they both get longer sentences than they would if they both stay quiet, but less than if they stay silent and the other volunteers information. He then puts them in separate rooms to interrogate each individually. What do they do?
*Okay, I've been taking cheap shots at Wisconsin's cheese pretty much whenever the internet in these parts works for over 3 consecutive minutes, which was not much until Friday when we got our own and stopped having to steal from our neighbors (Or neighbours, if you prefer. Blogger's spell-check does not). But in fairness to Wisconsin, while I was generally unimpressed with their cheeses, I did have what is possibly the best cinnamon roll I've ever eaten there, at Denny's (Not the Chain) Diner in the Wisconsin Dells. Awesome. Also, this footnote format is blatantly thieved from Posnanski. Since the internet is now legal, I wanted to at least steal something. It's a rush.
That is the question posed over breakfast by Eddie Hobson Sr. to his brood of youngsters, 75% of whom have already moved out and are back visiting at the same time solely because their father's undiagnosed illness has worsened. The lack of a diagnosis has nothing to do with the failings of modern medical science, but rather Eddie Sr.'s avoidance of such, a situation that is likely to change only when the trained coroner is required by the authorities to confirm he is deceased. Such a morning puzzle is a Hobson tradition, as Eddie continually keeps everyone on their toes, so to speak, refusing to let their minds rest, even when it sets the family's collective nerves on edge. But he does not rest either. In his free time, he constructs Hobstown, the world as it should be, and one that will cure the planet we live on, despite the fact that he doesn't even allow his family to view any results of the project. In it World War II, himself and Walt Disney intertwine, in a captivating subplot so well-done that I actually researched the (non-fictional) subjects to see if any of it was true. Alas, it is not. At the beginning of this novel, the two seperate parts of it lie far apart. But as the book goes on, they begin to merge more, until the two almost bleed into one another. This is a captivating novel that picks up speed from one of the best living novelists, and a great bit of fun with the traditional screwed-up family. And what of our prisoners, who we briefly visited back at the beginning of this post? Well, that depends. What do you consider to be a prison?
Edit - Wow, I forgot to write the author's name. His name is Richard Powers. And I feel very smart right now, though evidently I have no clue how to proofread.
*Okay, I've been taking cheap shots at Wisconsin's cheese pretty much whenever the internet in these parts works for over 3 consecutive minutes, which was not much until Friday when we got our own and stopped having to steal from our neighbors (Or neighbours, if you prefer. Blogger's spell-check does not). But in fairness to Wisconsin, while I was generally unimpressed with their cheeses, I did have what is possibly the best cinnamon roll I've ever eaten there, at Denny's (Not the Chain) Diner in the Wisconsin Dells. Awesome. Also, this footnote format is blatantly thieved from Posnanski. Since the internet is now legal, I wanted to at least steal something. It's a rush.
That is the question posed over breakfast by Eddie Hobson Sr. to his brood of youngsters, 75% of whom have already moved out and are back visiting at the same time solely because their father's undiagnosed illness has worsened. The lack of a diagnosis has nothing to do with the failings of modern medical science, but rather Eddie Sr.'s avoidance of such, a situation that is likely to change only when the trained coroner is required by the authorities to confirm he is deceased. Such a morning puzzle is a Hobson tradition, as Eddie continually keeps everyone on their toes, so to speak, refusing to let their minds rest, even when it sets the family's collective nerves on edge. But he does not rest either. In his free time, he constructs Hobstown, the world as it should be, and one that will cure the planet we live on, despite the fact that he doesn't even allow his family to view any results of the project. In it World War II, himself and Walt Disney intertwine, in a captivating subplot so well-done that I actually researched the (non-fictional) subjects to see if any of it was true. Alas, it is not. At the beginning of this novel, the two seperate parts of it lie far apart. But as the book goes on, they begin to merge more, until the two almost bleed into one another. This is a captivating novel that picks up speed from one of the best living novelists, and a great bit of fun with the traditional screwed-up family. And what of our prisoners, who we briefly visited back at the beginning of this post? Well, that depends. What do you consider to be a prison?
Edit - Wow, I forgot to write the author's name. His name is Richard Powers. And I feel very smart right now, though evidently I have no clue how to proofread.
Sunday Morning is Biscuits and Gravy Time!
So no, I'm not dead yet. Though based on breakfast, I'm evidently working on it (Literally. It's time to add the buttermilk to the biscuit dough). On the upside, I do have internet once again. Book review coming later.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
What's Going On
Finally, things are starting to get a bit less hectic. Over the last month or so I've moved out of New York and into a hotel for a while, took two 9 hour train rides, gone to Wisconsin for a week and now moved into a new apartment. That was fun. So, as a way of apologizing for all the dead air that's been going on in these parts, let's talk about my golf game. Because that will make up for everything.
While in the Land of Inferior Cheese (Yeah, that's right), I had the pleasure of playing nine holes with the father of the Official Girlfriend (All while wearing a Cabot Cheese t-shirt proclaiming it to be the world's best cheddar. As he said, there's no dress code at the course, but that was still pushing it a bit). And despite the fact that I have not golfed in three years or so and was not technically good at the game the last time I played, I actually stepped into the tee box and found that I could still at the least hit the ball, which was a bit of a relief since the first hole is always right next to the clubhouse, and I didn't want the guys sitting around drinking to start calling strikes. Fortunately, after a few practice swings I stepped up and absolutely clubbed it. Early on I'd estimate that my average drive went about 250 yards, which is better raw distance than Phil Mickelson has. Unfortunately, only 150 yards of that goes straight, and the other 100 is dead right. This was not a problem early on, as there were other fairways to the right of the holes, making it easy to find my ball, and there were few casualties. But once we got to the ninth hole and there were houses of that side of the fairway, I became a bit nervous. Fortunately, I have a wonderful conditioning program consisting of spending a lot of time on the internet, which is why I seemed to be tiring by this point. So rather than breaking windows, I hit grounders through the rough for the majority of the hole, and in the end the round of golf itself was more expensive than my property damage, primarily because they don't charge for divots.
You may have noticed that short irons and putting have not been mentioned here. That is intentional. I did beat the par for 18 holes, at least.
While in the Land of Inferior Cheese (Yeah, that's right), I had the pleasure of playing nine holes with the father of the Official Girlfriend (All while wearing a Cabot Cheese t-shirt proclaiming it to be the world's best cheddar. As he said, there's no dress code at the course, but that was still pushing it a bit). And despite the fact that I have not golfed in three years or so and was not technically good at the game the last time I played, I actually stepped into the tee box and found that I could still at the least hit the ball, which was a bit of a relief since the first hole is always right next to the clubhouse, and I didn't want the guys sitting around drinking to start calling strikes. Fortunately, after a few practice swings I stepped up and absolutely clubbed it. Early on I'd estimate that my average drive went about 250 yards, which is better raw distance than Phil Mickelson has. Unfortunately, only 150 yards of that goes straight, and the other 100 is dead right. This was not a problem early on, as there were other fairways to the right of the holes, making it easy to find my ball, and there were few casualties. But once we got to the ninth hole and there were houses of that side of the fairway, I became a bit nervous. Fortunately, I have a wonderful conditioning program consisting of spending a lot of time on the internet, which is why I seemed to be tiring by this point. So rather than breaking windows, I hit grounders through the rough for the majority of the hole, and in the end the round of golf itself was more expensive than my property damage, primarily because they don't charge for divots.
You may have noticed that short irons and putting have not been mentioned here. That is intentional. I did beat the par for 18 holes, at least.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Important Things I've Learned From Airlines
To get to Milwaukee from Vermont, you need to go through Georgia. Should be a fun day.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Important Site News
As you may have guessed (Or at least had a suspicion of, if you've ever read anything from the WAY BACK MACHINE that is the archives (If you haven't, you should. I'm brilliant)), when I started this blog I didn't really know what I wanted to do with it (Still not overly sure, but that's beside the point). This has led to some changes along the way, the primary one being the fact that new posts, in stark contrast to those from the beginning stages, no longer contain foul language. I have debated cleaning up the old posts in this regard for a while, but wasn't sure how I felt like going about it. Well, I figured it out. Any word I did not want posted anymore has been removed and replaced within brackets (They look like this, for those of you who are really smart: [ ]) by a random word or string of words of my choosing. For example, two sentences that previously were prime offenders now read as follows:
[Samantha Who] you, CC Sabathia and AJ Burnett. [Bananaphone] you both.I think we can all agree that this is much better.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
BBBBenny And The Jets
So here's the thing: I know this looks like a video, and has video. It's not a video. It's a song with a static shot of the album cover as the video. So feel free to not stare at that. But still listen to it. Because it is a brilliant pairing of The Beastie Boys (Handling the music) and Biz Markie (Vocals) covering Benny and the Jets by Elton John. You're welcome.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Pickwick Papers
Ah, 876 pages of Victorian English, the language so dense that only royalty could love it. And yet somehow, far from being the imposing linguistic nightmare that the tome's sheer bulk suggests, The Pickwick Papers is a lighthearted romp through Dickens' England. Who knew that the man who wrote Bleak House (If you are not a fan of completely uncalled-for jabs at that atrocious novel, you probably shouldn't read anything I write) had it in him?
Anyway, The Pickwick Papers chronicles the adventures of the Pickwick Club as it's members traipse around England (Though almost always by carriage (And, in one memorable incident, wheelbarrow), as they are well-to-do), generally making complete fools of themselves. The group's head is the illustrious Samuel Pickwick, a man who can be described in no other way than to say that he is (To use the Pickwickian sense of the word) a bit of an ass. This man has no idea of how he appears to others, or what he is actually doing, quite frequently (Though he does always seem to know when he is within reach of rum punch). With him are three members of his club, Misters Snodgrass, Tupman and Winkle (Dickens here, as always, never fails to give his characters names that are anything short of spectacular), to be joined partway through by the absolutely scene-stealing character Samuel Weller, Mr. Pickwick's servant, who is always happiest when antagonizing a real or imagined foe of his master using either words or his fists. The novel encapsulates a variety of settings, from the pleasant retreat of Dingley Dell (What, you thought he was only good at naming characters?) to the horrific debtors prison, an institution that Dickens was intent on attacking any chance he got throughout his literary career. The supporting cast is just as large, with five pages before the start of the novel set aside just to list the participatory parties. And a varied cast it is, giving Dickens room to satirize nearly every part of English society, from the outright conmen Jingle and Trotter to the lawyers Dodson and Fogg (Okay, these are kind of the same thing). Even the more poetic elements of society are sent up through Mrs. Leo Hunter, authoress of the noted 'Ode to an Expiring Frog'. All of this is set forth in the name of good clean fun, and is a ball to read, something I never expected to say about Dickens. This was his first work, so perhaps he didn't make the move towards inaccessibility until a bit later (Though the fact that the miserable Oliver Twist was the novel to follow this may blow that theory straight out of the water. Oh well. Too bad my delete key is broken. What?).
And what of it all? Well, there is a bit more than just the capers of four buffoons at work here, as Dickens subtly tweaks the characters throughout the course of the novel, showing that while eveyone certainly has their bad points, there is good to be found in everyone outside the legal profession as well. The reader gets closer to the titular character as the book goes on and finds that, while he's still a bit of a buffoon with a fondness for punch, he's at the least a well-intentioned punch-loving buffoon, and that's certainly better than many people are (Insert joke about royal family here). I've tried not to give away the adventures partaken in by the fictional multitudes, but instead recommend that you personally pick up a copy at your local independent bookseller and join in the merriment. Just make sure you have a free month or so for the undertaking.
Anyway, The Pickwick Papers chronicles the adventures of the Pickwick Club as it's members traipse around England (Though almost always by carriage (And, in one memorable incident, wheelbarrow), as they are well-to-do), generally making complete fools of themselves. The group's head is the illustrious Samuel Pickwick, a man who can be described in no other way than to say that he is (To use the Pickwickian sense of the word) a bit of an ass. This man has no idea of how he appears to others, or what he is actually doing, quite frequently (Though he does always seem to know when he is within reach of rum punch). With him are three members of his club, Misters Snodgrass, Tupman and Winkle (Dickens here, as always, never fails to give his characters names that are anything short of spectacular), to be joined partway through by the absolutely scene-stealing character Samuel Weller, Mr. Pickwick's servant, who is always happiest when antagonizing a real or imagined foe of his master using either words or his fists. The novel encapsulates a variety of settings, from the pleasant retreat of Dingley Dell (What, you thought he was only good at naming characters?) to the horrific debtors prison, an institution that Dickens was intent on attacking any chance he got throughout his literary career. The supporting cast is just as large, with five pages before the start of the novel set aside just to list the participatory parties. And a varied cast it is, giving Dickens room to satirize nearly every part of English society, from the outright conmen Jingle and Trotter to the lawyers Dodson and Fogg (Okay, these are kind of the same thing). Even the more poetic elements of society are sent up through Mrs. Leo Hunter, authoress of the noted 'Ode to an Expiring Frog'. All of this is set forth in the name of good clean fun, and is a ball to read, something I never expected to say about Dickens. This was his first work, so perhaps he didn't make the move towards inaccessibility until a bit later (Though the fact that the miserable Oliver Twist was the novel to follow this may blow that theory straight out of the water. Oh well. Too bad my delete key is broken. What?).
And what of it all? Well, there is a bit more than just the capers of four buffoons at work here, as Dickens subtly tweaks the characters throughout the course of the novel, showing that while eveyone certainly has their bad points, there is good to be found in everyone outside the legal profession as well. The reader gets closer to the titular character as the book goes on and finds that, while he's still a bit of a buffoon with a fondness for punch, he's at the least a well-intentioned punch-loving buffoon, and that's certainly better than many people are (Insert joke about royal family here). I've tried not to give away the adventures partaken in by the fictional multitudes, but instead recommend that you personally pick up a copy at your local independent bookseller and join in the merriment. Just make sure you have a free month or so for the undertaking.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Smart Things
"They're a veteran team. That's why they're the defending world champs."
-Vinny Del Negro, Chicago Bulls coach speaking of the Boston Celtics after the Celtics beat the Bulls in Game 7 of their first-round playoff series.
Now, I know that this was said in a press conference, and Vinny was on the spot. But still. Vinny, the Celtics are not the defending champs because they have older players. They are the defending champions because they won the championship last year. There is a difference, and I would hope that, as a professional basketball coach, you can understand what it is.
-Vinny Del Negro, Chicago Bulls coach speaking of the Boston Celtics after the Celtics beat the Bulls in Game 7 of their first-round playoff series.
Now, I know that this was said in a press conference, and Vinny was on the spot. But still. Vinny, the Celtics are not the defending champs because they have older players. They are the defending champions because they won the championship last year. There is a difference, and I would hope that, as a professional basketball coach, you can understand what it is.
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