Song of this day

I've got a real post that hopefully will be up later tonight.  The past week was pretty busy, so I'm trying to get my shit together this weekend.  Anyways, Brutus covered this song back in `03, and today I remembered how to play it again.  Enjoy the album version.

You will not be missed, Jay Mariotti.

For Roger Ebert's take on Jay Mariotti, click here.

The Trib reports on Ebert's letter.

Jay Mariotti: A Tribute.

Rosenthal informs us of Telander's perspective. 

Any thoughts, Ozzie?

What about the readers?

Jay the Joke.

Song of this day

So...on or off with the light, then?

Brian's Novel

Maddux back to LA?

This would be huge; the Dodgers can put Maddux back in the win column on a regular basis.  A more diplomatic response to this article would be that Maddux can really help the Dodgers get into the playoffs now that Penny's hurt and there's a slot open in the rotation.  But screw that.  The Professor's ERA sits at 3.99, and his record is a shitty 6-9.  He's had eleven no-decisions with the Maxi-Pads, most of which were either quality starts with no run support or games where he left with the lead only to have a shoddy bullpen fuck it up.  He lost 1-0 against the Phillies and Jamie Moyer this weekend.  Maddux's only mistake--a seventh inning home run to Pat Burrell.  

I'm pumped mostly because he went 6-3 with the Dodgers two years ago after the Cuckin' Fubs traded him for Cesar "I suck at life" Izturis.  Yeah, there aren't enough games left for him to even get nine starts but if he can get four more wins, his streak of seasons with double digit wins will extend to 21--a streak Cy Young doesn't hold, a record no one will ever touch.  Two more wins will place him ahead of Clemens on the all-time wins list, and I don't think Mad Dog would have been capable of winning two games with the Pads.  This time around with LA, he'll have Manny Ramirez backing him up, providing a concept the Padres' offense can't seem to grasp: run support.  I just wish I'd brought my Dodgers hat up to Minnesota with me.

Grammar on The Office

Subjective Case vs. Objective Case: The battle of whoever against whomever.

A party divided against itself can and will stand

My downstairs neighbors are having a party right now.  They have three guests--I saw the entire party on my way upstairs upon returning from the grocery store--but the stereo is cranked to accommodate a hundred.  The bass thumps loud enough that my living room shakes.

Here's why I'm not bothered by this party:  

I don't have to be up early tomorrow, and I got a long, undisturbed nap in today after a short night sleep.  It's still pretty early, too.  Plus, I know this isn't going to be a frequent thing with these neighbors.  They're a married couple with at least one kid.  Dude works in the Theater Department at MSU, Chick's Mankato PD.  I have a feeling they were able to pawn off their kid(s) to a friend or relative for the night so they could party.  I have no problem with this.  They've been so quite since I've moved here, I thought they may have gone away for a few weeks.

Another reason I'm okay with this party is because they're playing great music.  I've heard Abbey Road, St. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, and Houses of the Holy so far--all in their entirety.  Amazing.

The final reason I'm liking this party is the stereo.  Holy shit, these people have an incredible sound system.  The balance, the clarity, the oomph--all of these reasons make me want to go down there and ask them the brand name of their stereo and speakers.  But I really don't want to talk to them.  I talk to my neighbor upstairs, and the guy freaks the hell out of me.  

It's because of when we walk down the stairs together on those uncomfortable we-just-left-our-apartments-at-the-same-time-and-neither-of-us-has-a-valid-reason-to go-back-inside-in-order-to-avoid-the-impending-awkwardness type of descents.  Last time this happened (yeah, it's happened more than once) he pointed to a recent delivery of books I had ordered from Amazon (for school) sitting on the the stairs and asked, "Is this going to be a regular thing for you?"  Like me receiving packages bothered him, or something.

What!?!  Is that a problem, Chet?  I can't order shit online and have it delivered to this apartment?  That's why I don't want to talk to the people downstairs.  Who knows what ass-backward thing they might say.  Plus, I really don't want to have to say hello to them every time our paths cross.  I'm going to be in this place less than two years, so it's just not worth it.  I'm just liking the fact that I can listen to their music collection on their stereo, and we don't have to be in the same room.  If they put on something that sucks, however, I may have to alter this post.

Dicks like Jesus

If you haven't seen Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay, go to your video store.  You'll laugh until you fart.  If that kind of movie isn't to your liking, then...well, I guess we don't know each other as well as I thought we did.  

NB See

Thing I hate about the Olympics:  who really cares about swimming?  Seriously.  I'm putting it out there.  We're supposed to get excited about this for two minutes every four years?  I'm not seeing how I'm benefiting from this.  Call me selfish, or whatever.  But fuck you, Swimming.

The Heat

Mongolian Grill, you lit a fire in my belly and put a bounce in my step.  Half asleep and hung-over, I didn’t think I’d make it through the TA workshop this morning.  When it finally ended, there was the matter of helping BER move.  Which wasn’t too bad since there were so many people helping out—and some CSU workers, equipped with a sturdy dolly, moved the real big stuff.  When we finished the work, we ate.  And it was an uneven mix of intensity and magic. 

If you’ve never eaten at Mongolian Grill, you must know this:  it’s where dignity and self respect go to get bitch-slapped twice.  First, there are the portions.  MG provides you with the option of a small, medium, or large size bowl; and no matter which size you choose, the bowls don’t come equipped with lids.  Which means you aren’t restricted from piling noodles, veggies, and meat well beyond the plane of the bowl’s rim when working your way through the buffet-style assembly line of raw ingredients.  Anyway you stack it, you’re going to get a ton of food.  Now someone might say that you don’t have to pile it so high, that you don’t have to eat all of it, or that you can take home what you can’t finish. 

I would respond to this person by saying I do need to pile it this high; I want to get my money’s worth.  I would say I do need to finish it because the thought of wasting food conjures images of starving Chinese babies—a total fucking bummer when you’re eating tasty food.  And in response to the take-home option, I ask you to consider the following:  doesn’t a huge bowl of food sitting in front of you feel like a challenge that no one thinks you can conquer?  Especially the food itself.  Doesn’t it seem as though your meal taunts and tries to intimidate you?  It starts to say things like, You’ll never finish me.  You can’t commit to seeing the simplest task through to the end; how do you expect to consume every bit of me? 

And that’s when I realize the food has a point.  I haven’t finished unpacking all my stuff since moving to this new apartment.  I worry about my thesis:  are these pages I’ve written eventually going to take the shape of a novel, or should I continue to write short stories as a contingency plan?  And my comps: I haven’t even decided which prose writers I’ll be discussing, let alone which poets I’ll read!  And what the hell is prose poem, anyways?  An unformatted poem?  So I went into the meal with every intention of destroying it.  And I would have, too, had it not been for the second bitch-slap to decency that occurs at MG. 

When you’re done piling mounds of soft noodles on an already packed bowl of food, the assembly line ends with a fine selection of sauces to season your meal.  Above the sneeze guard, the folks at MG have provided a chart to assist you in seasoning the food to a particular taste.  For those who like mild foods, they suggest combining sweet and sour, sesame oil, a Mongolian BBQ sauce, and other mild or sweet tasting sauces.  For dip-shits who can’t taste anything unless there’s enough heat on their food to put down a small bear, MG offers a guide to suit their tastes as well. 

What I failed to realize when combing Mongolian Fire Oil with Jalapeños and pepper oil was that MG suggested complementing the heat with some of the milder sauces.  Whether it’s to enhance the flavor of the heat or counteract the spicy sensation, I was too tired, hungry, and hung-over to notice the message—the warning—that the sweet and hot elements need to be combined.  Another mistake I made was looking at the ladle quantities for the large bowl.  I had been loading up a medium bowl, ladling enough Fire Oil over my noodles to end that small bear.  First bite and my sweat glands were off to the races.  My nose dripped at a hare’s pace.  The pepper flakes declared war on the remaining alcohol in my stomach.  As I stated earlier, I didn’t finish (almost, though).  And it wasn’t because the seams of my stomach were about to burst.  No.  I couldn’t handle the heat and still feel comfortable being around other people in a small booth.  I felt disgusting.  I knew that since I drank and didn’t get enough sleep the night before, combined with the mammoth bowl of MG I had just eaten, I would go home and crash.  I would fall asleep and wake up at eight o’clock, screwing up my whole sleep cycle.  I would develop a routine of naps that wouldn’t allow me to function during normal daylight hours. 

But that’s not at all what happened.  The MG had conquered the toxins in my gut; the turning point—the Invasion of Normandy—of the war being the peppers’ alliance with my sweat glands—the allied forces stepping in—saved me.  The food ate up the alcohol in my stomach and caused my body to sweat out anything else that might have been contributing to my hangover.  I didn’t go home and sleep.  I finished organizing my apartment, breaking down wrecked boxes, and stacking books on my shelves.  I cleaned out my car, throwing out unnecessary papers, garbage, and other clutter.  I washed all my dirty clothes and stored away everything that needed to go in the closet.  I scraped the gunk from my guitar’s fret board, polished its neck and body, then restrung it.  I worked on some writing and completed my assignments for the TA workshop tomorrow.  I got a lot done on what I assumed would be an unproductive, wasted day. 

I attribute my productivity to Mongolian Grill. 

Thank you, fine eatery.  You really had my back today.  I was so pleased with the job you did that I ate your leftovers for dinner. 

Still really spicy.

Song of this day

What happens in Ireland...

...ends up on YouTube.  

Alcohol can make people do some strange things.  Joe, this might be the strangest.  Way to keep the white-guys-can't-dance stereotype alive.

All things must return

Missed for its novelty, or did people actually like this beer?  If it tastes anything like PBR, then there you go; we have our answer.  With all the corporate mergers and major brewers brewing each others beer, I'm surprised they don't all taste the same.  Regardless. 

Beer.

"...I've always been a dreamer"

In order, the top five superpowers I would like to possess:

5. The ability to dance
4. Super speed
3. Telekinesis
2. Perfect Pitch
1. Teleportation