The BCS shuffle

Nighttrain987's comment from the ESPN messageboards:

For those just joining the conversation, I'll recap:
OSU-fan: "We're THE Ohio State University. Clearly we're entitled"
UGA-fan: "We're playing better than anyone right now, we deserve to go". (i.e. a 6-game winning streak trumps everything else, incl. overall wins-losses and especially SOS)
VT-fan: "Please forget about the first couple weeks of the season, they shouldn't count. Let us in!"
OU-fan: "Hey, anybody remember us from the 1980's??? Anybody???" {crickets chirping}
Hawaii-fan: "Let us please play for a NC before we're demoted to D-III. We're undefeated, like a few other D-II and D-III FB programs"
LSU-fan: "Dropping from #1 to #7 after the final regular season game was unjust. Make it right."

I am sitting here with a bottle of Brut in hand waiting waiting waiting to see what the BCS will bring come 8pm EST. I am praying praying praying that Santa comes a few weeks early this year and makes an incredible gift to Bulldogs everywhere and those fucks with their polls and their computers get it right and let us play for the national championship.

What a weekend. #1 and #2 both lost for the second straight week and the best team in the SEC didn't get a chance to play for its conference -- a game that I have no doubt in my mind that we would have won. At very worst this nation will not have to suffer through a completely bogus game in Mizzou v. WVU. Both teams were exposed badly and rightly so. There is a reason they are seen as 2nd-tier programs. They are 2nd-tier programs.

I'm not going to puff up and proclaim that Georgia is the best team in the country hands down and that we are entitled to the game. But I sure as hell know -- with no shred of doubt in my mind or heart -- that we deserve the right to play, and to show to the entire country who we are. Yes we have two losses, but our losses are no worse than LSU's or Va Tech's and they are certainly much better than USC's or Oklahoma's. There is no other team than UGA that is hotter, more explosive, or scares the beejesus out of Ohio State more than us.

Do the right thing you BCS dorks, you handlers of fate, you dolers of dollars...name LSU and UGA the rightful #1 and #2 and let Richt, Stafford, and Knowshon show the land that Georgia is the state for college football and that Bulldog Nation finishes the drill!

"Rounding third and heading for home"...for the last time

Friday was a real sad day for me and all Reds fans everywhere. I logged onto my computer at work only to find out that Joe Nuxhall had died in the night from complications due to his lymphoma. I sat there in a state of shock trying to hold in the tears and unsuccessfully imagine a world without the Ol' Lefthander. He had been sick so many times over these past years, but he never showed it or let it come through in his voice on the radio. He always bounced right back and was back at the ballpark before you knew it that it's unbelievable that he didn't do the same this time.

Not surprisingly, Joe's passing didn't get much press outside of the Tri-State area and the little blurb on ESPN's front page was quickly lost to trival news of Bonds and A-Rod. How sad that one of the games's all-time great individuals had to take a back seat to a cheat and a prima donna.

Most people knew Joe as baseball's youngest player to ever appear in a game, but for fans of the Reds he was so much more. After appearing in a blowout game in relief to face Stan Musial at the age of 15, he spent the next 63 years of his life in service to the Cincinnati Reds organization and the Greater Cincinnati area. He was part of baseball's greatest radio tandem with Marty Brennaman. Joe was perhaps the greatest homer in all of baseball's history -- born and raised in nearby Hamilton, Ohio. Joe wasn't just a player for the Reds or an announcer for the Reds -- Joe was a true blue fan to his core. Joe was the Reds.

I regret that I wasn't around for the glory days of Joe Nuxhall on the radio. I can't make the claim that I spent summer nights with an old radio listening to games like my dad can. I only started listening to Reds games on the radio recently after Joe had retired. But I'm glad I did get to hear him call the few games that I did during this past season and Spring Training. I will say that I would always flip the TV broadcast over to the radio if I knew that Joe was back in the booth with Marty or whomever. He had a great way of calling games and an unmatched enthusiam when some Reds player whacked the ball a good hard one.

I know most people won't understand our loss. I know that for most people he is just another LHP with a 135-117 record and a 3.90 career ERA who happened to make baseball history one summer night in 1944 -- if they know him at all. The only (pale) comparison I can make is to imagine that Ernie Banks and Harry Caray died on the same day and that they were the same person. That's what Reds Nation has lost and it still doesn't even come close to describing what Joe was to us as the heart of the Reds franchise. Chris Welsh probably said it best the other day.

"It's like losing the biggest oak tree in your yard that's been there a century longer than any other tree. Now, all of a sudden, you have this barren spot. You fill it with memories of his voice."

I hope that the team next season will be so much more dedicated and focused, playing their hearts out everyday, every game for the Ol' Lefthander's memory. I can't think of a better way to honor him than to go out and produce our first divison title this century. And I'm so glad that the Hamilton All-Stars represented his hometown this year in the Little League World Series. I'm sure he was so proud of that fact and it turned out to be a nice treat in what proved to be the last few months of his life.

Rest easy Nuxie. We'll miss you.

Musings from (after) the storm

This past Saturday we were hit by the remnants of Hurricane Noel. Lot of rain, lot of wind. But even with all the destruction and mayhem and heartbreak this storm caused elsewhere in the hemisphere all I can think about is what a crappy name for a killer storm. Honestly, who's working at the National Storm Registry (if there is such a thing) and naming these things. Noel? When one hears that name, one pictures a baby in a manger with a donkey. The Christmas carol is one of my most hummed tunes, whether it's in season or not.

Hugo was a great hurricane name. Ivan was even better, one for the ages. That storm tore up the Panhandle, stormed in Atlanta so bad we didn't have to sell papers that day, then went up through the Northeast and back to the Gulf again for a second go around. I was actually rooting for that storm to continue by the end of it. Crazy Ivan, Ivan the Terrible indeed.

Noel is shorthand for peace on Earth and everlasting goodwill amongst mankind -- not raging, murderous winds of doom and promised grief. Try better next time guys.

I want to commit crimes against the elderly

I have been reading books almost all of my life, from The Poky Little Puppy to Crime and Punishment and everything in between. In all of those thousands of books I had never read anything by Cormac McCarthy. I finished No Country For Old Men not an hour ago and I have never been more unsatisfied and unsettled by a novel than by this one.

I saw the trailer for the new Coen Brothers' adaptation and I thought, "whoa, this looks bad-ass." I couldn't wait to see the movie so I picked the short novel up at the library. I could not and would not recommend this book to anyone. As much as I love the Coens I have serious doubts about paying to see the film. If this book is not an aberration and the rest of his catalog bears any similarity, then Cormac McCarthy is the worst sort of hack. The sort who writes His Way, even though His Way sucks dick, and manufactures a work so full of holes and errors and yet still manages to pass it off to his editors and reviewers as high-minded literature that is immune to such things as comprehension and understanding.

The book was good, even great, for 236 pages. Bad grammar but good premise and good characters. Lots of bloody violence. And it then just stopped. The action, the chase, the suspense all just stopped. And what picked up for the next 60 odd pages was an old man visiting his uncle to tell him about a bad day he had in WWII and remiminiscing to himself about how America is nothing like it used to be and wishing he knew his father better. Huh!? Imagine the movie Jaws where the shark is towing the Orca out to sea and Hooper and Brody are struggling to untie the lines. The cleats pop off and then....we jump cut to see the two of them standing on the beach giving each other high-fives. It was like that.

For 236 pages I forgave McCarthy for numerous plot holes, comma splices, and anachronisms. I ignored McCarthy playing fast and loose with his timelines and confusing narrative structure. These things were forgivable because I had a great, simple, taut thriller in my hands. But he threw all that away on page 237 and hit me in the teeth with a lead pipe. The only thing I can think to compare it too is Grapes of Wrath where everything that came before simply deflates and you're left with an old geezer sucking on some chick's tit in a rainstorm. That is how I felt.

Save yourself the feeling of wanting to simultaneously throw up, jump out of your skin, and crack a beer bottle over someone's head and avoid this book and its shitty author.

Do you want other people's morals on your popcorn?

It seems the theme of the night is questionable parenting.

I went out to the movies tonight. The theater that I usually go to is right in downtown Salem; three screens, small, local, very community-driven. To get into the seasonal frenzy that is going on currently they have been dedicating most of their shows to old horror movies -- Hitchcock, Kubrick, Carpenter, and the ilk. I was going to see A Clockwork Orange cuz I've never seen it, but Evan gave Gone Baby Gone a glowing review the other day so I decided to see it instead.

I get to the ticket counter and this old couple -- with the wife taking point -- is giving the girl behind the counter a hard time. Turns out some mope brought his young children, 7 or 8-abouts in age from the hearsay, with him as he took in some filmic literature for the evening. Apparently there is a graphic rape scene in the movie so this parenting decision is clearly one of the great affronts to the decency of Western civ. The woman is a school principal -- who better for a strong moral compass? -- so of course she should be encouraged and allowed to berate the man in front of the audience and his children. Make of big show of getting your money back and walking out in a huff and listen as the queued-up masses applaud your virtue and demand you be pinned with ribbons.

She says how dare he? I say how dare her? It's his kids; he can raise them as he sees fit. I would imagine I would be a bit more selective in children's viewing fare, but it's not my problem. Mind your own business and don't get self-righteous about a film that you probably praised as "ground-breaking" when you were the age Malcolm McDowell was when he filmed it.

All of this dove-tailed nicely into Ben Affleck's directorial debut. The movie turned to the audience and asked, "who better to guide a young innocent into adulthood: some caring, well-meaning strangers with some skewed perspective or a coked-up, abusive single mother from Dorchester Heights? The movie was good, Casey Affleck was a badass, Michelle Monaghan was cute, and the ending did not take the typical route down Mulholland Drive. In the end I identified with Patrick and sided with his decision and walked home thinking concerned strangers need to keep their thoughts on parenting to themselves.

Day of infamy

I am pained. Today marks the first of a long next three years. An hour ago I was happily watching episodes of Rome. Now I am crying into my beer. I checked ESPN for an update on the Sox-Indians game to find the game still tied 6-6 in the 10th inning. I also gained ugly, unwanted insight into the Reds new managerial hire. I shudder at the mention of...

...Dusty Baker being our new manager.

I don't keep a liquor cabinet at home. I find that it can be too much of a distraction. I may have to reverse that decision because I find myself awake at 1:11 on a Sunday morning with a serious need for a serious drink. I need a miracle to stretch my remaining beer into a dozen.

Dusty Baker is a disaster for my baseball team. He is one of my most hated managers. He is awful. He will ruin Homer's arm and waste our young talent and drive me crazy with his toothpicks. We might as well bring in Barry fucking Bonds and some other old-ass wash-ups to complete this moronic hire. Dusty Baker will kill me as surely as he killed Mark Prior and Kerry Wood and the Cubs.

Who hires a manager off of a league-worst record? What was Krivsky and/or Castinellini thinking? Can anyone be in charge of the Reds without dooming them to failure for the forseeable future? I don't know if Harang, Brandon, and Josh can dig us out of this hole. This has been some of the worst news I've ever had. Worse even than the fact that I just finished that last beer.

My thoughts are thus: yes, we wanted a "big name" hire, but how do you hose Pete Mackanin like that after the job he did for us? Why not at least wait until after the playoffs to see if Joe Torre is available? Did we even ever contact Joe Girardi? Cuz it sure seems we didn't. The only thing worse than this hire would have been Tony La Russa. I will gladly suffer through 3 or 1 and a half years of this dumbass to avoid the very real possibility of living with La Russa. I would have completed unholy acts to keep La Russa as far away from this franchise as possible. So Dusty Baker is a small -- extremely fucking microbial -- comfort.

I feel so so bad for Pete Mackanin. I am so sorry I'm out of beer. We better win the World Series for the next 3 years running.

The Dragon Reborn

"Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain" -- The Great Hunt

I, along with many others of the sci-fi/fantasy fiction community, was greatly saddened to hear of the death of James Oliver Rigney Jr. aka Robert Jordan yesterday. Surprising as it may seem, I am not a fan of his work and magnum opus, the Wheel of Time series. Over the years the books were repeatedly suggested and thrust upon me until I finally caved and read the first two. I was not impressed.

However, in the past year and a half since learning of his tragic illness I have been impressed with the man over and over again. He maintained a semi-regular presence on his website, keeping his fans and well-wishers updated and informed about his illness and his determined goal to survive and beat the odds. How anyone, in the face of terminal sickness and a drawn-out almost certain death, could find the time and energy to devote to a community of readers is beyond me. He had huge demands with his health, frequent travel, and family and yet he still kept plucking along with his last book and offering his thoughts and prayers to those fans who shared their own stories of disease and despair. Goodness gracious, the man seemed so UPBEAT(!) about it all. I enjoyed his stories of time served in Vietnam, the information about his disease, and his Ali vs. Liston metaphors. I admired his struggle and awed at his courage in the midst of the inevitable.

So now my heart and thoughts go out to his widow, his family, his friends, and to all admirers worldwide of the author and his work. And I promise that someday down the road I will read all of those books.

Why so serious?

"I knew the mob wouldn't go down without a fight, but this is different. They crossed a line."

"You crossed a line first sir. You hammered them; and in their desperation they turned to a man they didn't fully understand. Some men aren't looking for anything logical; they can't be bought, bullied, reasoned, or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn."

The Boy of Summer

It's a hot summer evening. It's magic time; the sun is setting and the fireflies are just beginning to celebrate. It's July of 2007. I am 11 years old. There is no school to worry about. There are no real commitments; every day now belongs to me. What will I do tomorrow?

I read all the time. I sit in the warm grass during the day and read. I stay up until the early morning hours at night reading in bed. I check out fifteen books at a time at the library, so many that I'll never have a chance to read them all. I read books about dinosaurs, books about medieval knights and battles throughout history, books about great military victories, books about sailing ships and pirates of the Spanish Main, books about wizards and mythical creatures and magical quests. I scour the supermarket for comic books and magazines. I devour X-Men, Amazing Spider-Man, Outdoor Life, and Sports Illustrated.

I spend hours listening to music on my portable CD player that I carry everywhere. I listen to Pearl Jam and Smashing Pumpkins and Guns 'n Roses. I listen to Johnny Cash and Alan Jackson and Tom T. Hall. I listen to whatever my dad has in his music cabinet. I think about taking up a musical instrument, maybe the banjo or guitar, but I know it will never happen.

I save up my money for weeks and weeks and finally when I have enough I buy the bike I've coveted for seemingly my whole life. It's blue and silver with nice shocks and fat tires. It's out of a dream. I ride to what I think are the ends of the Earth, pedaling my heart out to go as fast as possible, pedaling until my lungs and legs burn with equal measure. I take jumps and twisty trails and do stupid stunts so long that my body becomes a walking bruise. My shins are a collection of scratches, gashes, bumps, and scabs. I never wear a helmet.

I play too many video games.

I stay up late watching scary movies and Arnold Schwarzenegger actioners. I spend weekends at a time watching and thinking about and obsessing over Jurassic Park. I cannot get Velociraptors off my mind. I hear they are making a new Indiana Jones movie. I can't sit still I'm so excited. I still remember every detail of seeing the last one in the theater. Except for the parts I closed my eyes because I was too scared. I listen to the theme song for two and a half hours straight. I wish it was out already.

I ride my bike to the beach. I sit in the sun and watch all the boats off in the distance, wishing I could have my own to sail as I search for high adventure. They are all so white and sparkling set against the blue-green of the sea. I don't go swimming much because the water is cold and I'm a chicken. And for fear of sharks. I never wear enough sunscreen. And I don't tan well.

I eat WAY too much ice cream and sweets.

I listen to baseball games on the radio and pore over early morning box scores from the night before. I follow my favorite players and rifle through all my worthless baseball cards that are no less priceless to me. I wear my cap backwards like Ken Griffey Jr. and practice the home run stroke that I know will never materialize. Football season is just around the corner.

The summer nights are hot. I lie awake in bed many nights, my mind racing and the pillow soaked with sweat. After all these years of life I still don't like being alone in the dark. I am afraid of vampires, girls, and of dying. But I also dream. I dream of what I will be, what I will become. Will I be an artist? An animator, a comic strip writer, a novelist? Will I follow cold science and fact? A paleontologist, a herpetologist, an achaeologist, an astronomer? Or possibly a public servant? A police detective, a FBI forensics expert, a firefighter, or a United States Marine? Only time can tell.

It's a hot summer morning. The sunlight is too bright. It's still July of 2007. I am 24 years old. I'm hungover but I have to get up for work. I look in the mirror. My hair is thinner, my belly is rounder, and I need a shave. I'm caught in a maelstrom of living hard and hardly living. What will I do today?

Can't Buy Me Love

AKA BEATLES DIVORCE COURT
What a Beatles night this turned out to be (lada's fault). I had a craving, so I started watching some old music videos from their early days while I popped over to Yahoo to check my mail. Ironically enough, there is a news update on Paul and Hag McCartney's disaster divorce. Typically I try to stay away from celebrity divorce news; it's their fucking private business -- not Star's or US Weekly's, and certainly not mine -- and they live in such a different world than me. Why bother? However, when it has to do with Paul and Hosebag I take notice.

This cheery lady reportedly wants 50 million pounds (!) -- I don't swear by my math but I think that's $105 mil -- to legally call it quits with Sir Paul McCartney. For what!? Because she seduced the guy and got pregnant with his kid? Fuck it...I'm biased as hell and maybe I should be more understanding of her plight (?), but she is a money-grubbing whore. What does she do? She is a...umm...model...and...err...celebrity dancer? And don't say charity work, because while that is admirable, that is also what rich people who don't have real jobs do for work to make themselves look good. Mother Theresa she ain't.

This woman says, "I am no gold digger", but she dumps her fiancé five days before the wedding for one of the richest guys in Britain? Hmm....I call bullshit on that. Congratulations on taking advantage of a lonely man probably still in mourning for the love of his life, so take the $40 million he's offering you and get your hands off my Beatle. Bitch.

My poor poor Reds

Well, the Reds are beating the A's right now, but this has been a real tough stretch. I live and die with this team every night and I currently have one foot in the grave. Maybe I'm a baseball optimist or just in deep denial but I do believe that we can battle back in the bad Central and make it a race. Unfortunately, we are running out of time to turn it around because the rumor mill is turning and it sounds like Wayne Krivsky is in a selling mood. Dunn is almost a certainty to be gone, which makes me sad because I really like him a lot and the team hasn't lost a player I've loved for a long time -- since Barry Larkin was forced into retirement to be exact. He can be a mess on defense and the Ks kill, but I get a kick watching him hit and lumber around the bases. For God's sake, the guy hit a baseball into Kentucky! But if the deal's right and we get some good stuff in return from a Cali team then I can live with it.

But what would destroy me is if Griffey gets traded. Hopefully nothing works out that way and he doesn't agree to a trade. I have to think it would be hard to get rid of him, because he's having a good year and if he and Dunn both go then nobody is going to the park to watch the games. Junior has a very realistic chance to hit #600 this season; why miss out on the memories (and the ticket money) of him doing it in a Cincinnati uniform? If he does it for the Braves or someone else instead that's a whole lot of regret and bad feelings around town. But if it happens...I'd be devastated.

And all of this with me all set to buy one of the new replica jerseys and go to a couple of games this summer. And the numbers I was eyeing? #3 and #44...fucking shit.

Nation To Ken Griffey Jr.: 'We Wish It Were You Hitting 756 Home Runs'

CINCINNATI—Overcome with a mixture of distaste at the almost certain future and a wistful sense at the way things could and should have been, baseball fans across America took time to address veteran Reds superstar Ken Griffey Jr. yesterday...

So true...so true...fuck off Bonds.

Something can be done about extreme poverty

Today I noticed a thoughtful commentary from Roger about poverty and aid in Africa hidden on CNN amongst all the Paris Hilton nonsense. It was of course almost immediately shunted off the front page and into backlog obscurity, so I figured I would give Rog a hand and post it here so people can actually read it. I believe it originated in the NY Times and can be found there as well. And here's more information on the Millennium Promise project. Rock on, Roger.

By Roger Waters

One dollar. It's the cost of a New York Times, less than half a cup of coffee at Starbucks. These days it's a paltry sum. Even less when you consider that right now, a billion people are struggling to survive on less than one dollar a day. This is what defines "extreme poverty."

What is life like on a dollar a day? Miserable, for the most part. It's living so close to the edge that any bad break -- an illness, a drought, a drink of dirty water -- can be fatal. Each day, 20,000 people in this condition die simply because they're too poor to live.

In Africa, extreme poverty means farmers hoping that their dusty patch of land will produce enough food to feed their families -- knowing that it won't. Extreme poverty means stunted children trudging miles every day to fetch drinking water that will probably make them sick. It means parents worrying constantly that their kids will die from something as simple as a mosquito bite because the local clinic (if there is one) lacks the medicine to cure malaria.

But, as I recently discovered, it doesn't have to be this way.

In 2005, I reunited with the other guys from Pink Floyd in London for the Live 8 concerts, which promoted debt relief, fair trade policies and increased foreign aid for poor countries. It was there I discovered a man named Dr. Jeffrey Sachs who has the bold notion that something can be done about extreme poverty. Even bolder, he's actually doing it -- and we can all help.

Dr. Sachs is a passionate advocate for the poor who also happens to be a renowned economist and adviser to world leaders. In 2005, he launched something called the Millennium Villages project, a joint effort between Millennium Promise, the Earth Institute at Columbia University, and the United Nations Development Program that is now operating in 79 of the poorest communities in sub-Saharan Africa (and, for that matter, the world).

Last year, I began supporting a Millennium Village in Potou, Senegal, a farming and fishing community near the west coast of Africa. I developed an interest in the country after a dear friend of mine, Phillip Constantine, married a Senegalese woman. Senegal, like many sub-Saharan African countries, is a malaria hot zone, where the disease accounts for 25 percent of hospital deaths. Tragically, Phillip died from malaria.

Potou is an especially inhospitable place to try to eke out a living. Sand dunes are creeping in and swallowing what little arable land there is. The crops that do grow are constantly threatened by drought and pests. There is hope, however: Millennium Villages are proving that -- even in places like this -- things can be done to improve people's lives and livelihoods.

The basic idea is to tackle all the things that cause extreme poverty at once in simple, cost-effective ways. Inexpensive seed and fertilizer are enabling farmers to double and triple their crops. Part of this surplus is being used for school feeding programs. For the first time, many of the students now get a free meal for lunch, and attendance rates and test scores are skyrocketing as a result.

Another reason students can go to school is that now, there's clean water in the villages -- no more trudging to get it -- the result of newly protected water sources or freshly dug borehole wells. We're tackling malaria as well: Free bed nets and medicines are reducing malaria infection rates by as much as 90 percent.

Success stories like these are inspiring people from all walks of life to join the fight against extreme poverty. For my part, I've been asking fans on my current tour to donate and get involved with Millennium Promise, an organization founded by Dr. Sachs to fight extreme poverty. In memory of my friend Phillip, I recently auctioned off a bass guitar, which raised more than $120,000 for bed nets for the organization.

I'm hardly alone. This month, the National Dance Institute in New York City is working with 25,000 inner-city youths to raise awareness about extreme poverty with Senegalese-inspired dance performances. Through their "Pennies for Potou" initiative, the kids are raising money for their peers in Senegal and trading letters with them.

People I talk to are shocked to find how relatively inexpensive the solutions to extreme poverty are -- 2 cents buys a de-worming pill, $1 provides a child school meals for a week, $10 buys a bed net that will protect two people from malaria for five years. At those rates, we can all play a part on the global stage and make a lasting change in the lives of people surviving on less than $1 a day. Think about that over your next New York Times and Starbucks coffee.

The Fanboy Express: making stops at Gotham, Eternia, Hogwarts, and the Seven Kingdoms

After the air was let out of the Spidey 3* bag, I've been more than a little reserved about upcoming fanboy-oriented projects like Indy 4 and the Fantastic Four sequel aka Stormclouds of Cosmic Destruction (Do you hear Johnny shouting FLAME-OUT yet?). So to keep it simple and sweet here's a cheery list of things I'm looking forward to in the somewhat near future.

The Dark Knight Surprise, surprise. Wow, this movie just keeps on getting better and better. I read an article in USA Today yesterday about how Nolan is filming four select action scenes with IMAX cameras, including the Joker's big introduction. Can you believe I've never seen a commercial feature on of the big screens? How much are IMAX tickets? Everything from the Joker viral campaign to these evil clown stills has me looking into cryogenic chambers for the next year.
Psychometer reading: 5 out of 5 batarangs

A Dance with Dragons George R. R. Martin needs to finish this book already. I read today that he is doing a virtual reading at a virtual bookstore (?) on Second Life. How can you give a reading of a book that isn't published yet, let alone completed? And couldn't that time be better spent writing? So says the kid who shirks his own projects to write nerdy blogs. I guess an author with his success and following does deserve a little leeway fans, but I'm very anxious to find out whose asses Jon and Arya are going to kick in Vol. #5.
Psychometer reading: 4 out of 5 direwolves

Darren Aronofsky I finally saw The Fountain when I broke down and bought it last week. Ummmm......fucking phenomenal are two words that spring to mind. Brad Pitt and I should be ashamed for doubting. Critics are morons; one moment they are bemoaning the sad state of American cinema and wondering where all the intelligent, thought-provoking filmmakers are, and the next they are lambasting a quality picture with depth and emotional resonance as sci-fi taking itself too seriously. Smart play guys. I'm an idiot as well. I mentioned to someone how I thought Aronofsky would be one of those bright stars who makes a handful of films that no one truly appreciates for decades and then disappears. How wrong was I. Last I checked he was scheduled to direct Damon and Wahlberg in a true life Boston Irish boxing movie and he's writing a rad-sounding picture about a post-Ark Noah laden with alcoholism and survivor's guilt.
Psychometer reading: 4 out of 5 magic trees

The Clone Wars Hey hey my my, Star Wars will never die. I'm always up for some new Clone War stories and this show looks outstanding. If it is anywhere close to the level of quality that the Genndy Tartakovsky cartoon was it should be good.

That lightsaber fight between Anakin and Asajj Ventress in the rain is one of my favorite duels -- even more so than many of the ones found in the actual movies. The shot in this trailer of Anakin leaping from STAP to STAP in mid-air looks to be one of my favorite Star Wars/Anakin moments as well.
Psychometer reading: 5 out of 5 astromech droids

Harry Potter and the Quest for Dollars All satire aside, this summer marks the first time that I have been über-excited about the release of a Harry Potter book/movie. Ironically enough both types of media are close to release and I'm chomping at the bit for both of them. The movies have always seemed a little blah for me but the previews for this one look good. And while I've always been anxious but not crazy to grab the next volume of Harry's adventures, I can tell you that I will be in line on a summer July night for the midnight release of the final book. I'm eager to see how Rowling finishes her saga and to complete a series of fanboy midnight line releases. I've sat in line for Star Wars, LOTR, DVDs, comic books, video cassettes, and numerous other things, but never for a book or for a Harry Potter-related property. Here goes...
Psychometer reading: 4 out of 5 horcruxes

He-Man and the Masters of the Universe Of all of the '80s cartoon movies that are coming out soon (Transformers) or in development (Smurfs, Thundercats, G.I. Joe) I am most looking forward to the He-Man movie. And by that I mean it is the only one I am looking forward to. I was crazy for He-Man and his adventures as a kid and had every action figure/playset offered in the United States, including the undeniably badass Moss Man (who was really furry and smelled like soap -- God, toys were so much cooler back then). I am safely assuming Orko will be involved and Dolph Lundgren won't. Until then: By the power of Greyskull!
Psychometer reading: 3 out of 5 Battlecats

Hulk/Iron Man The Incredible Hulk is a character written for toddlers (HULK ANGRY!!!...HULK SMASH!!!) and Tony Stark is a ripoff of Bruce Wayne. I couldn't care less about these upcoming projects other than the fact that Jon Favreau and Robert Downey Jr. are behind Iron Man and that Louis Leterrier (Luc Besson's protege!) and Ed Norton are responsible for the big green monster. And for that both deserve a modicum of my respect.
Psychometer reading: 2 out of 5 power suits

The Dark Tower comics #5 comes out in a few days and let me tell you...that was a long month of May. These books have continued to blow away my expectations month-by-month. The entire crew of Jae Lee, Rich Isanove, Peter David, and Robin Furth have done a thrilling job of serializing young Roland's adventures in Mejis. You know it's a good series when I'm just as excited about the stories I already know as I am the ones I don't.
Psychometer reading: 5 out of 5 sandalwood revolvers and roses

The Golden Compass Have you seen the latest trailer for The Golden Compass!? New Line is playing up the LOTR connection a little much, but this movie looks phenomenal. It has enough to blow any age group away with Pan and the daemons, the action and effects, and the adult and religious themes. All I can say is WOW. Lada and I have a movie date to see this in December. Can't wait.
Psychometer reading: 5 out of 5 alethiometers

Terminator 4? Let's get one thing straight: the Terminator franchise is one that shouldn't have continued after the second movie. For me, those first two movies represent the best of Jim Cameron's work and the best of American sci-fi cinema. T2 is one of my favorite movies of all time. And the great thing about the movies is that the story was wrapped up in two movies. They didn't need a trilogy; they didn't need a saga. It was a two-movie story and the sequel was arguably the best of the two. Then they had to absolutely ruin the story with a third movie, which introduced a retarded new terminator and killed any themes that the previous two had introduced/trumpeted. I won't go into detail because I could rant for days about the disruption 3 caused to my life and my way of thinking. And here we go again because some dickheads bought out Mario Kassar and Co. for the creative rights of the Terminator franchise. We now have a fourth non-Arnold (not that Arnold was good for the 3rd movie; how does a cybernetic organism age like 12 years between appearances?...I'm sorry, I digress) movie and a terrible network show about Sarah Connor and young John. Weak.
Psychometer reading: 0 out of 5 neural net processors

*worst movie ever. The anecdote about this is that several films recieve this title. You know how the Olympic coordinator guy always claims it it the best Olympics ever? Well this is a similar train of thought. Those Olympics weren't that good and neither are these movies. Previous "worst movie(s) ever" were the Tomb Raider movie and Jurassic Park 3. Spidey 3 may not be the worst movie of all time but it sure is the latest to capture that title. Thanks a lot Sam Raimi. Worst movie ever.

Salutation to the gull

Today after watching my baseball game I decided to take in the gorgeous day and go for a walk. It was the best sort of day one could hope for a Memorial Day; tempered by the threat of thunder and rain, but in the end showing its true face of clear sky, bright sunshine and cool breeze. There is something about the Damocles' Sword of forecast thunderstorms that makes the perfect day somehow more beautiful in its perfection.

My steps led me up the Salem Neck and over to the beach at Winter Island. I had not planned to visit the beach but was glad to find it my improvised destination. Before long I had stripped to my shorts and was scrambling over the rocks, bare feet finding their grip on pitted volcanic rock covered with barnacles and strewn-about black seaweed. Finally I set my station upon a singular boulder and sat and watched for the better part of two hours, absorbing the sun, the sights, the smells, and the sounds. I watched a group of men fishing on a nearby outpost of rocks. I watched the sea move and sway, so blue-green it was almost turquoise in some spots. I watched sailing ships and yachts of all forms come in and out of Salem Harbor, venturing out to dance between the waves. And I watched the gulls.

God, if you are listening and if reincarnation is an option I want to come back as a seagull. Is there a happier existence in all of Creation than that of a gull, circling and pinwheeling in the air, the sea wind tearing through your wings and holding you aloft? For all the years of my life I have looked down at gulls as filthy, annoying, base creatures and today for the first time I found myself wondering if I was simply jealous.

Oh, to live the life of a gull, sacrificing avian beauty for a raucous charm and vulgar grace. The gull forsakes the need to stand out in a crowd. He knows he is an independent and unique creature, but has no desire to be noticed or to be picked out as special from the rest of the flock. How he must pity the self-conscious peacock and swan who depend solely on their preening, shining feathers and serpentine necks. The gull shits where he sleeps, eats every kind of carrion and refuse, and looks every bit the ruffian he is, but he never shows that he is anything but content with who and what he is.

He is an oppurtunist, a showman, a rogue, a thief, and an adventurer. He is a skilled hunter, a clever scavenger, and an eager beggar. He is savvy and adaptable, equally at home in the bustle and noise of the city and the lonely seashore. He is both selfish and courageous, able to beat out all contention for a scrap of meat or work towards a common goal. I have watched gulls bully pipers and shorebirds only to turn around and divebomb a hawk to help a stricken brother.

And so I say to the gull, Brother of the Sea and Sky, I envy you and your life of free-spirited contentment. You have my respect to the end and never again shall an insult directed to you fall from my lips. I look forward to the day when I might join you, breathing in the salt air, seeking my sustenance from the sea, testing my feathered frame against the might of the sky and filling the world with noisy kee-aws.

I believe in Christopher Nolan

Allright, so I lied. I previously said that I wasn't going to look at any spoilers for the next Batman movie, but I just have not been able to hold out. Although, I think it has worked out in my favor; earlier I was hoping for the best but expecting the worse and now I couldn't be happier or more confident in the direction the film is going in. And what got me so incredibly jazzed about The Dark Knight was this campaign image for Harvey Dent.

"I believe in Harvey Dent". That line is ripped right from the pages of one of the best Batman graphic novels ever written, The Long Halloween. I believe in Aaron Eckhart; he is going to make a great Harvey Dent. I hate to rip on Billy Dee, but he clearly was never right for the role -- and the character that Tommy Lee gave us was an outright abomination. This picture now resides as my desktop image at work and has officially started the Psych-a-thon that won't end until summer of 2008.

And if that wasn't enough on its own, the Warner Bros. marketing department landed a genius stroke a week ago after the original campaign website had been up for about a week. They set up another site with the url http://ibelieveinharveydenttoo.com/ that appeared to be hacked by the Joker. Harvey's face was colored over and given cartoonish red lips and black eye circles. And over the course of the next couple of days -- with cooperation from eager fanboys -- the image disentegrated pixel by pixel to reveal the first official picture of the Joker as played by Heath Ledger. The Joker's look was exactly what I was expecting/not expecting and simply going off that one picture it's clear to see that Nolan wants his film to earn every bit of its Dark Knight title. Keyword being dark. The Joker image has since been taken down and replaced with bunch of hahahas, but he promises to return in December (!) All in all very cool viral marketing, and they didn't even have to induce citywide panic in a major metropolitan area.

I believe in Christian Bale. I believe in Aaron Eckhart. I believe in Heath Ledger. I believe in Christopher Nolan. I believe in The Dark Knight.

Diamond woes

Well, the Reds just lost again to the terrible Washington Nationals. Of course with that loss we are now only mere percentage points ahead of the Nats for the worst record in the league, so I guess we are terrible as well. However, I still don't think we are as bad as we have played; I know we are better than this, but the team is seemingly trying to prove me wrong. We are losing in increasingly creative ways and we can not seem to pull everything together at once to put together any sort of winning streak or set of good games.

The main culprit is obviously the bullpen. As Marty said a few weeks ago after yet another 8th inning collapse against Houston, "this bullpen is awful." They are so bad that they could not give up another run for the rest of the season and people would still be talking about how bad they are. Todd Coffey should be sprinting away from the ballpark instead of to the mound when his name gets called and Mike Stanton is clearly just out there trying to break a major league record for games appeared in and leads blown. David Weathers, the closer by default, has actually been pretty solid in save situations but when you give up 41 runs in the eighth inning (worst in the Majors) the guy never has a chance to see the ball. Krivsky needs to blow up this mess and send some of these guys packing.

I never thought I'd be saying this, but Kyle Lohse is making me hope for a speedy recovery for Eric Milton. Between April and May he has been like two different pitchers. Tonight's seven run atrocity marks his 6th straight loss and third straight completely abysmal outing. He is clueless and totally ineffective out there. He could throw the ball underhanded and get more guys out than what he's doing currently. Since his first bad game against the Cards about a month ago he has been flying down an oil-covered Everest slope on jet-powered skis. I can't believe I actually rostered him on my fantasy team at one point.

Bottom line is that we need to start winning games quick before we are out of this thing and the Dunn trade rumors start circulating. Not to mention that Junior and Brandon have been red-hot and we are just wasting it. One way or another we are surely bound to see Homer make his debut sooner than later.

In other baseball news, how pathetic are the people who actually bother to show up to Braves games? Leave it to these people, some of the worst fans in baseball, to boo Tom Glavine. The guy is only a Hall of Famer and one of the marquee players who contributed to your 14 consecutive division titles and put your franchise on the map. Fucking morons.

GIMME A 3-WAY PARLAY ON THE FALCONS, THE REDSKINS, AND VICK'S PIT OVER PORTIS' ROTTWEILER
After years of rooting for Vick to lead Atlanta to a Super Bowl, now I'm rooting for him to go to jail. When the prosecution comes out and indicts Vick for connection to this dogfighting mess (which it looks like is a near certainty), I hope the Virginia State Attorney and Roger Goodell tag-team and come down hard on him. It's great that the Commissioner is taking a stand against the thugs and criminals that get the privilege to masquerade as role models and millionaires, but Chris Henry and Adam (don't know no Pacman, just a kid named Adam) Jones are small potatoes compared to Vick. What a chilling message to send to any future pro athletes/soldiers out there: it doesn't matter if you have the fattest contract or that you are one of the league's most marketable stars; if you fuck up majorly, you are out of here. I hope if/when that time comes that Vick doesn't get away with this and Goodell sticks to his guns.

"Hey Ma, check out my cape!"

I've always had an overactive subconscious resulting in some pretty radical and vivid dreams, but my latest rash of nighttime adventures have been particulary impressive. For the last month or so I have been having some extremely wicked superhero dreams. Even before I saw Spider-Man 3 I was web-slinging around urban cityscapes and not too long ago I had a totally sweet experience as Batman, escaping a Mob ambush in an abandoned warehouse with my trusty grappling gun. The latter was an especially intriguing dream; rather than simply watching a "dream-movie" I was directly interacting in an environment with definable dimensions. Add to those two with a great ride on the Silver Surfer's board and a turn as Green Lantern, flying and utilizing my power ring to good extent.

So with all these slumbering superhero experiences I have been wondering lately (certainly for not the first time) about what powers I would give myself if I was a caped and masked protector of truth, justice, and the American way. And rather than just appoint myself the second coming of Batman or Spidey I decided to pick and choose powers from a variety of comics greats. So please bear witness to the birth of the superhuman "Dunce Cap Marvel"!

My heroic attributes would include:

• Bruce Wayne's brooding intellect and mental fortitude. What criminal's machinations or diabolical plot could escape my grim notice? I would have the sharpest detective mind in the world and an unwavering will to achieve any goal I set for myself.
• Wolverine's heightened senses and healing factor. With my animal-like skills I could alert myself to any approaching threat or ferret out any previously-undiscovered clues. And who wouldn't want to slow the aging process and reverse major bodily harm?
• Nightcrawler's superior agility and ability to teleport himself (minus the blue skin and freaky appearance). Plusses that are very fitting for me are his German heritage and devout Roman Catholicism. BAMF!
• The Spirit's quick wit and levity in the face of danger and almost certain death. It takes incredible balls to be able to crack jokes and let loose with the insults when you're kicking ass and dodging bullets.
• The Green Lantern's backup: what could be worse than being a superhero who has painted himself into a corner, trapped by your arch-nemesis and facing certain doom? Good thing you can put out an emergency call to the Green Lantern Corps. It certainly can't hurt to have 7,200 of your closest friends armed with the most powerful weapon in the universe having your back and ready to tag in.
• The Incredible Hulk's origin story. I can't imagine a worse comic book character but you do have to give props to a guy who took a huge dose of gamma radiation full on and survived and thrived when 99.9% of the population would have simply gotten cancer and died.
• Last but certainly not least I would take two things from Spider-Man. Whenever that radioactive spider bit him it must have imbued Peter Parker with some sort of insane skill-set that prevented vertigo and acrophobia and allowed him to pull crazy Gs while swinging through the Big Apple. I have got to have that. Secondly, I would take his girlfriends. Honestly how does a dork like Parker pull ass from the likes of Gwen Stacy, Mary Jane Watson, Betty Brant, and Black Cat!? It might not be a superpower per se, but I will take that ability any day of the week and before any of the others I've listed here; especially when Betty is embodied by none other than the amazingly hot Elizabeth Banks.

"Who knows what evil lies in the hearts of men? The Dunce Cap Marvel knows!" BAMF!

To spoil or not to spoil?

So the question goes...as a diehard fanboy waiting for hyped flicks like The Golden Compass and The Dark Knight should I expose myself to all of the released information available to my resources or simply wait and see? As I see it, this is the biggest problem question for fanboys and one I have wrestled with for a wide variety of features that have been released in the last few years.

This all started with The Prequels (first of all, I love that the term prequels will always be associated with the Star Wars movies). Every fanboy worth his salt, including myself, leapt at every oppurtunity to know what the new Star Wars movies would involve. To my credit, after spoiling myself out for the first two, I went into Revenge of the Sith as spoiler-free as I could. This meant I knew about the Anakin-Dooku beheading and had seen General Grievous on a 12-pack of Mountain Dew: I swear to the Force that's all I knew.

Going into The Dark Knight I wanted to know just about everything: who was cast, the look of the characters, basic plot points, set pictures, etc. I am now rescinding that desire. I want to know nothing. Especially after the terrible shit I've seen in the last week or two. Heath Ledger as the Joker looks terrible, the Rachel Dawes-Katie Holmes-Maggie Gyllenhaal mess is just that, I'm not fond of the new Batsuit storyline, and Eric Roberts is a huge WTF!? casting. I no longer want to know anything about this movie, because I have been so disappointed with what I've seen. Hopefully Chris Nolan once again blows away my expectations, but I'm saving myself to see if that happens rather than expecting it.

So as of right now, I am done with spoilers for the moment. I know just about everything about the plot of Spider-Man 3 but beyond that I am keeping shit to myself. No more Golden Compass looks or news on Transformers. If you want it, find it out for yourself. Let's all just hope that Indiana Jones and the ____ turns out as good as we all think it won't.

The Sporting News

Well, after a long winter's wait and an exciting Spring Training for the Reds in Sarasota, baseball season if finally here. I could not be happier. I sprung for mlb.tv so I could watch Cincy games on my computer (listening to the game against the Bucs as I type; Dunn just hit a two-run homer off the centerfielder's glove!). It's been nice coming home after work to baseball, especially when I get home team broadcasts. Listening to Marty and all the UDF/Frisch's/Skyline commercials makes me yearn for a visit back to the Queen City soon. I hope to make it there for about 5-6 games at Great American this summer, including in August for my birthday when the Braves make the trip up.

I'm thrilled about this season; I think the Reds have a great oppurtunity to make it to postseason play and do some exciting things. Moving Junior to right was the right decision, Dunn has looked better at the plate, and the pitching is getting off to a hot start. Bronson and Harang should improve on their win totals of last year and I was very impressed with Matt Belisle last night. The bullpen should be a helluva lot better too. Should be a good race to the playoffs in the NL Central and I say it comes down to us and the Brew Crew. As long as the Cubs are exposed as the frauds I have prophesized they are all preseason.

So a couple of weeks ago there was a huge fracas about Pete coming out and saying that he bet on the Reds every night. Not a big deal, I repeat, not a big deal. I wish everyone would just let him alone. I don't care that he bet on them, least of all every night. If anything it shows his competitiveness and desire to win every game they played. Sure it was wrong and sure he probably deserves to never be involved in managing or baseball operations again, but I wish everyone would let it all go and let him in Cooperstown already. Obviously I'm biased with my sports hero worship here, but come on. Let it go.

And a few quick singles:

• I'm a big fan of the new look unis for the Reds. The sleeveless, black look was just not really working for this club. I like the traditional red and white style. And welcome back Mr. Redlegs!


• How disgusting is it that Florida won the basketball national championship again!? That is back-to-back-to-back championships now for them. Is it too much to ask that UF fail at everything they attempt? Florida should be limited to excelling at mullets and jean shorts. That big game in Jacksonville this year is just going to be that much bigger now.


• I would hate to be a Chicago sports fan. Bears management seems to be trying to run the organization into the ground and once again Mark Prior and Kerry Wood are nowhere to be found.


• As always, here's hoping that Barry Bonds shreds his elbow or both his knees simultaneously explode.

Back, but not in black

THAT FICKLE MISTRESS
It's a real beautiful day in April when it fucking snows. Honestly, last week I was wearing shorts here and now it looks like two weeks of garbage weather flirting around the 35-45 range with rain every day? I don't have a problem with Massachusetts winters, but this shit is completely uncalled for. Especially when it's in the 70s and two days later...

CLEARLY NOT IRISH
...it's fucking snowing 8 inches. Yeah, St. Patrick's Day in Boston officialy blew this year. Originally my cousins were coming in to celebrate like last year. They had to cancel this go around; no big deal. I had buddies coming in from Chicago and Georgia to replace them. After a "No Snow" winter who would have thought 6+ inches would have dumped on us deep into the month of March. Of course, American airports followed the trend of ineptness and no one got in or out of Boston. I said sayonara to my buddies and curled into a ball. In addition, my phone broke and I missed out on every piece of tin whistle/fiddle/uilleann pipe music there was in metro Boston. But I did get really drunk.

GEORGIA ON MY MIND
A few weeks ago I did visit Atlanta after a long absence from the town. I returned to find that nothing had changed and the place still sucks. Although it was nice to see cute blonde Southern girls in short skirts, including one of my very own. It was a vacation I sorely needed. Georgia was okay; I have missed the availability of Chick-Fil-A but couldn't have cared less about the smell of the dogwoods and the half inch of pollen covering the ground.

A true American hero

Today on cnn.com I watched a news story. For once, an honest to God news story, and not the latest update on Paris and Britney or some other fluff piece that CNN seems so content to be putting out these days. The story told about how a man in Egypt, a kid really, decided how he wasn't really comfortable with the status quo and thought he would speak up about it. He is now sitting in a jail cell for the next four years.

Abdul Kareem Nabeel Suleiman grew up in Alexandria and attended the Islamic school system there his whole life. On his blog he describes himself as a "down to earth Law student" looking forward to opening his own human rights law firm dedicated to helping all people against discrimination and violence, especially women. Wow, nice guy with some pretty humanitarian goals right? Not according to the Egyptian government. He criticized radical Islam and his religious teachers on his blog and was punished by being expelled from school and arrested and jailed by Egyptian authorities. His crimes? Inciting hatred towards Islam (3 years in jail) and insulting the Egyptian president (1 year in jail). Not to mention that his own parents disowned him and his father asked that he be executed if he did not repent or recant his writings.

I grew up loving America and her values and the men and women who have spent their lives pursuing and defending her freedoms. However, I am very guilty of taking these freedoms for granted, especially the freedom of speech. I think we all do. Nothing against our boys in Iraq and Afganistan but I think this kid from Egypt deserves our support just as equally. As far as I am concerned, the freedom and ability to speak and dissent without fear of reproach is the most sacred right we own. For any human being anywhere to be punished for expressing themselves is a great crime against humanity.

But why is he an American hero? I think this because he is brave enough to support his views for change and tolerance upon pain of death. I feel that he can remind us of who we are, what we are made of. When is the last time Americans were made to feel revolutionary, to feel that they were responsible for real change in the world? If there's a way to win the war in the Middle East it has to be by supporting these people who stand up for change and democracy in their regimes and social orders. Military victory will not completely solve the problem. As Americans, we need to be champions of justice and human rights for every corner of the globe, not just from Seattle to San Diego to Bangor to Key West. We need to be proud of our role as moral compass to the world and work to promote human values everywhere, especially in nations who would call us their allies. I implore you Dear Readers: do everything you can to support Kareem and his cause. Visit the site, educate yourselves, write your local representatives and the Egyptian officials. Do what you can and help work toward world democracy and tolerance. This isn't something that only affects the people of Egypt and the Middle East. This is an American issue and Kareem is an American hero.

The Cinefile: 2006 Wrap Up

What a year, what a year! I somehow feel that 2006 will go down as a good year in the short, short history of cinema; there were so many good movies this year it seemed almost anything had a shot to be nominated for Best Picture. Unfortunately, I didn't get to watch the Oscars for the third year running (no TV this time) but believe me when I tell you that I followed them as closely as I could via oscar.com. I probably refreshed that page 1000 times last night.

And before I go any further I just want to say: Marty, Marty, Marty...I am so happy for you! I can only imagine what it must have been like to finally hear your name called and to raise that golden statue after such a long and amazing career in the "pictures". Maybe winning an Oscar doesn't necessarily reflect what you have given us for so many years; for God's sake I hope you know you were beyond Oscars before the Eighties, but know how important is was to you and to us fans of yours. You have made kids like me realize that working in film is not only a viable way to make a living, but that it's possible to be GREAT at it. You help build dreams and that is a beautiful thing; if I had my way, you would have 5 or 6 Oscars. Please don't ever stop, don't Ever STOP.

I have to say that Oscar night left me pretty happy. I wish that Peter O'Toole would have finally won that acting award he so deserves, but Forrest Whitaker is a phenomenal alternative. Seeing Scorcese win made me eternally happy and Alan Arkin coming out of nowhere to win over Eddie Murphy was a huge bonus. Some other Oscar thoughts:

- I'm sorry, maybe it makes me weird or perverted, but Helen Mirren is a beautiful, beautiful woman. If I reach the age of 60 (God be good) and my wife looks that good I will be more than thankful.

- Hey Reese...congratulations on making my power rankings.

- I don't really understand why everyone was making such a big deal about the black actors and actresses nominated. I could see why it was big when Denzel and Halle won a few years ago, but all I see now is great performers being rewarded for their achievements. Between this and the Super Bowl, I think the media needs to give the American populace a little credit.

- I somehow get the feeling that Leo is going to be the new Peter O'Toole. A lot of nominations, but for some reason no one feels fit to give him the win.

- I hate to say it, but I guess American Idol works.

- These are my guys. MY GUYS! Well, actually go ahead and take out Coppola and put in Jim Cameron and then we'll be good. Still, what a great picture. The best of their generation.

2006 was a good movie year. I hope it continues and we have a good one coming for 2007 (even though I doubt that with shit like Ghost Rider and The Number 23). No matter that a lot of critics have decried that this will be the worst movie year in ages, I think we have a lot of promise. For God's sake, you have to optimistic about a year that includes a new 'Spider-Man' movie! These were my favorites from last year, Academy Awards or not:

My favorites from 2006:

• The Departed
• Pan's Labyrinth
• Little Miss Sunshine
• Casino Royale
• The Prestige
• United 93
• Dead Man's Shoes (2004)
• The Proposition (2005)
• Brick (2005)

Beer Water Ink

THOUGHTS, QUESTIONS, & DISCOVERIES DURING MY SATURDAY ERRANDS
- Tad Williams is the writer for the new Aquaman series that starts in March. The trend of NY Times Bestselling authors and mainstream comics is continuing. Also, is Thomas Jane supposed to be the basis for the look of Steve Niles' Cal McDonald character? ( it would appear after later research that, yes, he is)

- I am deep in the swoon of baseball fever. Spring Training is here and we are gearing up for fantasy baseball at work. My outlook for the Reds is high; they have so much competition in a good division but I honestly think the pitching staff will perform like no one is expecting them to and carry them to the playoffs. I am so excited to see Homer Bailey pitch!

- After winter temperatures in the teens and wind chills in the single digits, a sunny 35 degree day with a slight breeze feels like summer. I'm walking down the waterfront in just a pair of jeans and a hooded pullover and I couldn't be more comfortable. I can't imagine why so many people bitch about the cold; half of the time it's all just in your head.

- Is suicide still a sin against God if a single bullet in the head is your only option against being attacked by a horde of flesh-eating zombies and coming back as one of them?

- My last few months here have made me realize how much I missed living by the sea. Watching boats come and go from harbor, the rays of sunlight glancing off the water, the horizon that seemingly stretches to infinity and nowhere, the salt breeze filling your nostrils. Even the annoying flocks of dirty seagulls have been welcoming. How did I stay away from the ocean for so long?

How I spent my long weekend or why non-rev travel can ruin your day

Hello Dearest Readers. Sorry I've been away so long; February has been a beast of a month and it has taken a lot out of me in the past weeks. The Big D keeps threatening to beat me down and I have been stressed out by about 97 things this side of next Tuesday. In order to take a little break from my life and the aching miasma that is my brain I decided to take a couple of vacation days, add them to the holiday weekend (thanks George, Abe...sorry Mr. Harrison), and go visit lada in her palmetto paradise. CUE THE HAZARD CARD!

I spent the better part of Saturday and Sunday in Logan Airport (not again!) bumped, stuck, passed over, and left behind. It was a complete clusterfuck. I don't know if it was the fault of Midwestern storms, JetBlue, or the terrorists, but everything was a mess and I never had a shot of getting out of Boston until Tuesday at the earliest. I waved my no-longer relaxing, now-a-complete failure of a vacation goodbye and came home and cracked a beer. I ended up just staying home on Tuesday and Wednesday anyway, partly because I need to use the vacation days before April and mostly because I was strung out and wanted to sleep in.

OTHER RANDOM DELIGHTS
I thought this vid was fabulously entertaining and good for a laugh. lada wasn't as enthralled; she must not be of the Lean/Python epic nonsense set.



This guy is wicked awesome. I breezily thought about doing something like this a few years ago. Not to say that I came up with the idea independently; I probably had seen something like this that resurfaced from my subconscious. Regardless, I don't have the discipline or unyielding ambition for something like this. I hope I'm able to watch it all the way to its ending.

My porn star name is Inky Hardy (childhood pet + current street name). That gave me a laugh. What's yours?

Firestarter

AS IF IDIOTS WITH MOONINITE LITE BRITES WEREN'T ENOUGH
I am beginning to think that I have some latent powers of destruction that are now blossoming within me as I go about life unknowingly. That, or I brought one helluva batch of bad luck to the North Shore when I moved here. Anyway, these little minor disasters keep popping up around here.

It started the night before Thanksgiving when a chemical plant in nearby Danvers exploded and flattened an entire residential area. I had been living here literally for only a couple of months when this happened. It didn't make national news headlines since miraculously no one was killed (not sensational enough for the media, I guess) but trust me: this was and still is the talk of the town up here. The place looked like a bomb went off, and it certainly sounded like it too. It woke me up at 3 in the morning and had everyone in my house convinced that a plane had crashed in Salem. It also badly damaged the neighboring marina, which brings us to yesterday.

Last night, somehow unbeknownst to me, an entire fucking marina burnt to the ground not a block away from my house on the other side of the House of Seven Gables. I didn't even know that this place was there, it is so tucked away. Thank God the firefighters got there right away and contained the blaze extremely effectively so it didn't spread to my apartment or worse, the Gables (Heaven forbid!). And no one was hurt either. I cannot stress to you enough how close this place is to where I am standing right now typing this. I am completely baffled as to how I missed out on the action; I got home right when they were in the thick of fighting the fire, but I simply walked inside and made dinner. I didn't notice any sirens or blue lights or leaping orange flames at all. So much for my wonderful powers of observation; my Spidey-sense must have been turned off for the evening. I will have to check out the site tomorrow morning on my way to work.

Moral of the story: All I know is, if I'm the owner of the marina up in Marblehead, I'm thinking it's probably a good time to take out some extra insurance.

I am Mr. Matheson's bastard son

NIGHTMARE AT 20,000 FEET
A few weeks ago I went to Minnesota to go to my parents' house for the week since I didn't get a chance to go home for Christmas. Of course I was glad to be able to go and spend time with my folks, but that unfortunately involved flying there and back. I get pretty nervous during air travel and being thousands of miles above the Earth, which isn’t really all that surprising -- being that I get nervous or frightened about a hell of a lot of things, both practical and nonsensical.

However, the thing with flying is that I used to love it. I mean absolutely LOVED it. And I’ve flown a lot of hours in my lifetime too; my dad used to work for a prominent airline that had to declare bankruptcy, so we flew all around the world for no cost when I was a kid. I’ve flown in jumbo jets, prop planes, and float planes. I’ve flown into about every major airport, across the length of the country, and over the world’s two greatest oceans. Short flights, long flights, clear weather, lightning storms, and turbulence: I’ve done it all. I also have an early memory of going up in a hot air balloon, although that may just be a concoction of my mind.

So why the fear of flying? I honestly don't know where it comes from. From what I can tell, it seems to have started roughly six years ago. And I know what you're thinking, but I don't think it has anything directly to do with 9/11. I flew to Chicago not long after that happened and don't remember being freaked out. I think it has more to do with my mental state as I have gotten more and more anxious and prone to panic attacks over the years. Or maybe it has to do with mellowing with age, and becoming more cognizant of my own mortality.

Regardless of whatever it is though, the minute I step on board and take my seat my mind is racing and I am sweating profusely. By the time we touch down at the destination my khakis will be soaked from rubbing my wet palms on my thighs for two hours straight. Flying also makes me the most devout man on the planet. From taxiing to the runway to throughout the entire takeoff and climb, I am offering up about a thousand variants of prayers to the Almighty for safe passage. Once airborne and at cruising altitude, I start inventing a multitude of disaster scenarios. The reasons for the plane's soon-to-be-crash range from the practical (engine failure) to the impractical (the wings simply shearing off) to the political (terrorists) to the fantastical (gremlins) to even the comedic (the pilots suffering from food poisoning and the flight attendant not being versed in the proper emergency fellatio protocol).

So to distract myself from this kind of thinking I have to come up with ways to trick my mind into a lull. An engrossing book is a must. Sometimes a shot or two at the airport bar can steel the nerves, but typically just makes me edgier so I generally avoid any alcohol before and during the flight. I do math and tell myself that flight attendants do this as a job. This last time, I took my laptop for the first time and watched movies, which helped greatly. You would think sleeping would be perfect; however, this is almost always the worst strategy. Even when I sit in first class it's impossible to get comfortable enough to achieve anything other than a restless half-sleep. And the slightest bump of turbulence wrenches me out of my fever dreams to choke on my own breath. These are my coping strategies for this particularly phobia; I muster up a quiet dignity and suffer through it as best I can. And you can bet your ass that as soon as we reach the gate I'm throwing up a few hallelujahs in thanks to the Old Man.

THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN
Candidates for the future Mrs. Dunce Cap Marvel beware. I am possibly the worst domestic mind of our generation. A few days ago I did laundry for the first time at the new apartment. The new sweater I just bought at Eddie Bauer last week is now the newly shrunken sweater I just bought. I fuck up so many new clothes it's not even funny. I am also an abysmal seamster (?), a complete lackwit when it comes to ironing, and quite adept at staining shirts to only further ruin them with bleach. Someday when I am a rich and powerful blogger with a book deal all of my dirty, stained, and buttonless clothes items will go to a lucky individual who will launder and mend them for the cash that I press into his or her palm. But never fear ladies...I can cook, so submit those résumés!

Well, that was the office Christmas party from Hell

Last night my company had its annual office Christmas -- excuse me, "holiday" -- party in Boston. Why hold a "holiday" party after the holidays on a meaningless Friday night in January, I don't know. I wasn't originally going to go because I've been feeling moody and antisocial lately, but I figured since I'm down to eating bologna sandwiches and Ramen for the next two weeks I would at least show up for the free food, have a couple drinks, and catch the late train home to Salem. Little did I know...

The thing was held at this Dave & Buster's rip-off right next to Fenway Park complete with open bar, buffet, and six bowling lanes reserved for our company. It started out decently: a couple of cold beverages, some food, awkward conversation with co-workers. And then what will be known as the "Splenectomy" happened. Most people were more intested in the bar than the bowling and somewhere during the night, the management decided to sell our unused private lanes to the bowling public. However, we had booked and paid for the lanes for the night, whether we were putting them to use or not. Upon discovering this in attempting to start a game, several people took issue with the management, including a spouse of an office employee. This guy, who could easily pass for Tim Burton and whose name was -- no kidding here -- Spleen Ect, in a fit of rage, threw down a full drink and wound up in his best Bronson Arroyo impression, slamming his bowling shoes to the floor one by one. Needless to say, he was promptly escorted off the premises by a couple of hulking gorillas. As a result of this our open bar was prematurely shut down a full 30 minutes before our original time.

So now a large group of people want to hit up another bar in a different part of town to rectify the lacking alcohol situation. We end up at this most clubbiest of all clubs located on the basement level on a Marriott hotel. Strobe lights, dance music, pulsating bodies in the dark -- not my kind of place. What makes the experience somewhat enjoyable is that one of the members of our party is an absolute baller who spends a lot of money there and knows everyone. We arrive to find we have an entire VIP room sectioned off for us, complete with the requisite cordon and private security guard. It was like something out of Entourage. Not something I'd like to make a habit of, but a definite experience.

Now the place is closing down for the night, it's past two in the morning, I've missed my scheduled midnight "talk" with my ex-girlfriend, and HOW THE HELL AM I GOING TO GET HOME TONIGHT!? The problem does become resolved but not before a trip to Malden, a party full of rowdy Kenyans, a brief encounter with local law enforcement, some very aggravating and bleary-eyed designated driving, and a long, cold walk over the Essex Bridge from Beverly to Salem. I got home at approximately a quarter to six this morning. Yippee.

When Augie Doggie turns into Cujo

Today the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists moved the minute hand of the Doomsday Clock to 11:55 -- two minutes closer to the end of the world. The reasons for humanity's hastening destruction are the usual suspects: terrorism, nuclear standoffs, global warming, the bird flu, and Pat Robertson. However, there is a far more terrible threat to the citizens of Earth that should be added to America's docket of fear. This brutal enemy has lived side by side with humans since the Middle Ages and came to America along with our colonial precedessors. Of course this lurking menace I am speaking of is the pit bull.

It seems every time I look up someone new has been mauled by a pit bull. I had originally started this post a couple of weeks ago, but had tabled it until I saw that yesterday another little girl was killed by her neighbor's dog. This comes a week after a toddler was killed by her uncle's pit bull in the UK, and two weeks after a teenage boy in backwoods Tennessee was attacked and mauled by a pack of wild pit bulls before his neighbor chased them off. The week before Christmas a pair of pits in the Boston area jumped into a family's livestock paddock, killing their miniature horse and severly wounding their other horse.

I don't know exactly what the solution is, but something certainly needs to be done to curtail a disturbing trend that is on the rise nationwide. The libertarian in me rails against passing laws that make owning pits illegal, such as the one that exists in Great Britain and in many states across the country. The Georgia legislature was considering such a bill before I left and I was originally all for it, but reading social scientist/columist Malcolm Gladwell's thoughts on the topic changed my mind.

Yes, pit bulls and similar breeds can be extraordinary vicious and aggressive dogs, but so can other dogs like German Shepherds and Golden Retrievers. The French woman who had the face transplant was mauled by a Lab, which is seen as a loving family pet. There is even a documented case of a fatality involving a Pomeranian. I am very mistrustful of an animal that was specifically bred to bait bulls and bears, but I certainly realize that not every pit is a cold-blooded killer.

The real problem starts with the owner, and in just about every fatal attack case I have looked at the dog's owner was incredibly irresponsible and ill-suited to have the dog. And it certainly doesn't help to have idiots like Joey Porter (his pit bulls killed a horse), Latrell Sprewell (his pit bull tore his daughter's face off and he still refused to have it put down), and multitudes of rappers sporting pit bulls as status symbols, as if the dogs were jewelry. Whatever the answer, something does have to be done. The pit bull population is growing along with America's fascination with the breed and the issue is not going to just go away.

A place to call my own

HOME SWEET SALEM
Big day today…not only is this the one year anniversary of the start of this blog, but today I moved into my new apartment. Naturally, I celebrated with a $5 bottle of Brut champagne. It’s incredible that in the span of a year my life has changed so much. Not only has this blog taken on a life of its own that I never would have suspected, but I have entirely uprooted myself, moving to an opposite corner of the country in the pursuit of creative inspiration and a better state of mind.

And even though I have no furnishings and am surrounded by only my necessities (the Bible and the Qur’an, my Star Wars movies, reference books on folklore and mythology, histories of the colonial Americas, my notebooks, and my volumes of Lovecraft and Poe), I could not be more thrilled. I finally have an entire place of my own, complete with a kitchen and a bathroom I am not required to share. It isn’t perfect: the floors are uneven, there is no closet space to speak of, the bathroom tile is splattered with white paint, the pipes are loud, the extra room is painted a garish rosy pink, and the washer and dryer are situated in a root cellar that is more suited to the height of a hobbit than that of a man a few inches north of six feet.

But what can one expect from a house that was built in the early part of the 19th century? There may not be a right angle to be found in the carpentry and the little door that hides the brick oven is a little creepy, but the whole house lives and breathes HISTORY. The essence of it is frighteningly tangible and I just know if I listen closely enough I will be able to hear the lingering voices of the past. I am so excited to be here that I find myself wondering if sleep will be scarce tonight.

New year, new digs, and a lot of miscellaneous nonsense

BITTER BOBBY LEARNS A LIFE LESSON
What a difference a week makes. On Christmas Eve I'm stranded in the airport, alone for yet another holiday, and determined to be the most dejected and put upon human being in the history of the planet over the course of the next seven days. At the end of said week, I have scored not only a big bonus for working late during the holidays but the sweetest apartment I could have possibly imagined. Our Golden Books moral of the day? Don't dwell on the bad times lest you miss out on the good ones around the bend.

So, yes, I did land the apartment. Starting the 15th of this month I will live in the first floor of a house that sits directly across from the House of Seven Gables and four houses from the ocean. I live on a one-way street towards the quiet end of Salem's waterfront. If I didn't have the arm strength of a wet spaghetti noodle I could throw a stone to Pickering Wharf. Most of the houses in my neighborhood were built in the 19th century and I am surrounded by quaint little shops and restaurants, including the first commercial candy store in the United States (which makes the most exquisite turtles...so much for my New Year's diet). No excuse for not getting work done now; I have found my writer's nook.

THE BEST DAY EVER
As good as I have felt the last couple days, I would kill to be in Ian Johnson's shoes. Boise State orchestrates one of the best college football finishes ever to upset a major program, this kid runs in the final 2 point conversion to win the game, and then rushes over to ask his cheerleader girlfriend's hand in marriage. Not to mention that he is the nation's leader in touchdowns scored. Congrats Mr. Johnson and thanks for the amazing story. If only you played for Georgia*.

LLAMAS, WOOKIEES, AND A SHITLOAD OF FLOWERS
As good as the Fiesta Bowl turned out to be, I still would have preferred to make the trip to Pasadena for the Rose Bowl. I couldn't hate the two teams playing in the game much more, but it would have been worth the trip just for the parade. George Lucas as the Grand Marshal of the Rose Parade!? The city of Theed and the forest moon of Endor --complete with the requisite Ewoks-- built entirely out of flowers!? Stormtroopers marching down Main Street in military formation!? Chewbacca waving to the crowd while the brass of the 'Imperial March' fills the air!? I don't know if my little geek heart could stand it all...

I JUST LOVE YOUTUBE
It's amazing what just a little quick editing can do. These recut movie "trailers" seem to be all the rage online these days and I have to say that I am a big fan. Enjoy.

Shining


Scary Mary


Office Space


Ten Things I Hate About Commandments


Planes, Trains, & Automobiles


*I am still furious at myself that I missed the UGA v. Virginia Tech game. I somehow thought that the Peach Bowl was on New Year's Day and went shopping in Boston instead. I still could have made it but I barely missed the 8:30pm Beverly train as it pulled away from North Station. The next train didn't get me home until about 11pm and I walked into the sports bar to see the last 5 seconds of regulation tick off the clock. [sigh] At least we won...